Sara Shepard - The Lying Game

Laurel sniffed and took one step away. Emma slid her finger under the flap on the envelope and pulled out a sheet of lined paper.

Sutton’s dead. Tell no one. Keep playing along . . . or you’re next.

Emma whipped around the yard, but the morning was eerily still. The school bus grumbled to the corner and picked up the little kids. As it pulled away, its squeaky brakes sounded like screams.

“What’s it say?” Laurel leaned over.

Emma quickly crumpled the note in her hand. “Nothing.” Her voice was barely audible.

Laurel’s lip curled in a snarl. Then she opened the passenger door and pointed to the seat. “Just get in.”

Emma did as she was told, dazedly slumping into the seat and staring straight ahead. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid it might explode.

“You’re being so weird,” Laurel said, starting the car. “What’s wrong with you?”

As I watched, spots began to cloud my vision. A rushing sound whooshed in my ears. What’s wrong with you? I heard Laurel say again and again. The words rippled out in waves, growing louder and louder. Suddenly I saw Laurel sitting in a dark grotto. Light danced across her face. The corners of her mouth turned down. Tears dotted her eyes. What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you? The words clanged in my head like a clapper in a bell.

A tiny flare erupted in the darkness of my mind. And then another flare, and then another. It was like a line of falling dominoes, cascading until I had a fully formed scene from my past. A memory.

All at once, I could distinctly remember where and when Laurel had asked, “What’s wrong with you?” before. And that wasn’t the only thing I saw. . . .

“The party has officially started,” I call, strutting out from behind a big boulder where I changed into a silver bikini. My legs are freshly waxed, my face is blemish-free, and my hair glows softly in the lights from the resort. All eyes are on me.

Garrett whistles. “You put the hot in hot springs.”

I grin. “You know it.”

Garrett beckons me closer. He’s submerged in the warm, swirling water of the hot springs at the Clayton resort, a secret spa in the shadows of the mountains. We aren’t technically allowed to be here—the spring is strictly for the wealthiest visitors—but that wasn’t about to stop my friends and me. We always find ways of getting what we want.

“Come on in, dahling,” Madeline calls. She’s already in the hot spring, too. Her hair is swept up on the top of her head in a sloppy bun, her arms are lithe from her million-hours-a-week of Pilates and ballet, and the heat from the water gives her skin a sexy sheen. Mads always looks a little bit better than I do, which always pisses me off. And she’s sitting close to Garrett—a little too close. Not that I’m really worried about anything happening—both Madeline and Garrett know I’d kill them if it did—but I like to have Garrett all to myself.

We’ve only been dating for two months. Everyone thinks I’m dating him because he’s one of the school’s star soccer players, or because he looks devastatingly gorgeous on top of the lifeguard stand at the W Resort pool, or because his family has a beach house in Cabo San Lucas that they visit every spring. But the truth is, I like Garrett because he’s a little . . . damaged. He isn’t like all the other cocky guys around here, living their charmed, uneventful, hermetically sealed suburban lives.

I wedge myself between the two of them, shooting Madeline a cool smile. “You weren’t feeling my boyfriend up under the water, were you, Mads? I know you have some trouble telling guys apart.”

Madeline’s face flushes. Not long ago, shortly after Mads’s brother, Thayer, took off, Mads made out with a dark-haired guy from Ventana Prep at a party in the desert. After a while, she excused herself to refresh her drink, returned to the designated make-out area, and resumed kissing again . . . except this new guy was blond. Madeline didn’t even notice for at least a couple of minutes; I was the only one who’d seen. Sometimes I wonder if Mads is trying really hard to do the Lindsay Lohan thing: pretty girl goes rogue, gets wild, and screws up life.

I pat Madeline’s shoulder, which is warm from the steam. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” I pantomime locking my lips and throwing away the key.

Then I sink down into the hot water. Some girls get into the springs slowly, making little squeals as they expose an inch of flesh to the heat at a time. I like to plunge in all at once. The eye-watering burn gives me a rush.

Charlotte is the next one to emerge from behind the rocks. She’s still wearing a pink terry-cloth cover-up, her hands shielding her pale, pudgy legs. We all cheer hello. Laurel follows right behind Charlotte, giggling hysterically. I sigh and curl my toes under the water. What is Laurel doing here? I didn’t invite her.

Garrett’s cell phone rings. mom, says the Caller ID. “I’d better get that,” he murmurs. He pushes out of the spring, water plopping onto the rocks. “Hello?” he says in a gentle voice, disappearing into the trees.

Madeline rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Garrett’s such a mama’s boy.”

“It’s not like he doesn’t have a good reason,” Charlotte says in a know-it-all voice. She perches on a rock close to the springs. “I mean, when we were togeth—”

“Why don’t you get in with us this time, Char?” I interrupt, wanting to cut Charlotte off before she starts in on another one of her I-know-what’s-best-since-I-dated-your-boyfriend-before-you monologues.

Charlotte pulls her legs away from the water. “I’m fine,” she says prissily.

I giggle. “C’mon. What’s a little lobster-splotchy skin among friends? I bet some guys find heat hives sexy.”

Charlotte twists her mouth and moves her bare foot farther away from the water. “I’m fine right here, Sutton.”

“Suit yourself.” I grab Madeline’s iPhone from a nearby rock. “Picture time! Everyone gather around!”

All of us squeeze into the frame and I snap the flash. “Good, but not great,” I say when I check the result. “Mads, you’re doing your beauty-queen face again.” I frame my face with my hands and give them an all-I-want-is-world-peace smile.

Laurel looks over my shoulder. “I’m not in it at all.” She points out her arm, the only part of her body that made it in the photo.

“I know,” I say. “I planned it that way.”

A heartbroken look crosses Laurel’s face. Madeline and Charlotte shift uncomfortably. After a moment, Charlotte pokes Laurel’s shoulder. “Love the necklace, Laur.”

Laurel brightens a little. “Thanks! I got it today.”

“Very pretty,” Madeline chimes in.

I lean over to see what all the fuss is about. A large silver circle dangles from Laurel’s neck. “Can I see that?” I ask Laurel in the sweetest voice I can muster.

Laurel looks at me nervously, then leans closer.

“Pretty.” I trace my finger over the locket. “Pretty familiar.” I narrow my eyes, lift my hair from my neck, and show her the same necklace around my throat. I’d had it forever, but I’d only started wearing it recently. I’d announced to the group that it was going to be my signature necklace, like how Nicole Richie always wears drapey boho dresses or how Kate Moss does the blazer and micro-denim-shorts thing. Laurel was there when I said it, too. She was also there when I’d added that from then on I was never going to take it off. The only way someone was going to get it from me was if they chopped off my head.