Sara Shepard - The Lying Game

I was pretty sure it could be. I thought about the memory I’d just had. The broad-shouldered figure pulling me out of the trunk. The shock of red hair when she stepped into the light. Whoever had strangled Emma was indeed someone inside the house: one of my very best friends.

As soon as Laurel pulled into the Mercers’ driveway on Saturday morning, Emma shot out of the car, flung open the door, and started up the stairs. She almost knocked over Mrs. Mercer, who was crossing the foyer with a pile of laundry in her arms. “Sutton?”

“I just . . .” Emma muttered, then trailed off. She reached Sutton’s bedroom, slammed the door shut, and locked it fast. The first thing she saw was a large stack of pink envelopes sitting on Sutton’s bed. RSVP said the one on top. Emma stared at an unfamiliar girl’s name written in pink pen at the top of the card. Can’t wait! the girl had added. She turned it over. SUTTON MERCER’S BIRTHDAY BASH, FRIDAY SEPT 10. GIFT OPTIONAL, FABULOUSNESS REQUIRED. There were at least fifty RSVP cards in the pile.

Emma collapsed on the bed, jostling a few of the RSVP cards to the floor. Her head felt like it had been crushed in a vise. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the strangler press up against her, that voice in her ear.

Keep being Sutton, or you’re next.

She’d lain awake all night in Charlotte’s bedroom, armed with the new information and petrified from the assault in the kitchen. The home screen of The Hills had played over and over. Someone had killed Sutton—and it was one of her very best friends.

How could one of my best friends or my sister do such a thing? But then I thought about how nasty I’d been to all of them that night at the hot springs. What if I was like that all the time? What if, sometimes, I was worse ?

Emma flopped down on the bed and stared at the pink paper lantern that hung by the window, trying to think things through. The killer must have taken the video down from the site because she knew Emma would show it to the cops immediately. The killer also knew, obviously, that Emma wasn’t Sutton. Emma tried to piece together the timing of everything. Had Sutton received the note from Emma, written her back, and then coincidentally died that very night? Had Emma’s arrival been a surprise—but a good surprise—for the killer? After all, there was an Insta-Sutton in Tucson again. No missing girl meant no crazed search, no hunt for a dead body, no crime.

Then Emma’s eyes widened, hitting on an even scarier idea. What if Sutton hadn’t received Emma’s note at all? What if the killer had been the one to lure Emma to Tucson, not Sutton? One of Sutton’s friends could have easily hacked into her Facebook account. She could have seen Emma’s note and sent one back immediately, knowing she had a naive girl to manipulate and put in Sutton’s place.

A tiny spider crawled along the upper corner of Sutton’s bedroom, pulling behind it a thin, gossamer thread. Emma stood, rolled back her shoulders, and marched over to the filing cabinet under her sister’s desk. THE L GAME, it said. Aka the Lying Game.

She held the heavy padlock in her palm. There had to be a way to unlock it. Pulling open Sutton’s drawers, she searched once more for the missing key, feeling for secret compartments built into the back, looking in every single empty jewelry box and CD case, and even spilling a nearly full pack of Camel Lights onto the carpet. Tobacco flaked onto her hands.

“Get it open!” I shouted to her uselessly. Screw feeling protective of my stuff. I was dead, and we both needed to know why.

Then something came to Emma in a flash. Travis. That YouTube video he’d watched about how to open a padlock with a beer can. During the brief time they’d been friendly, Travis had made Emma watch it, too. It hadn’t looked hard.

She leapt up and found an empty Diet Coke can on Sutton’s windowsill. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she drew out the design for the shim that would be used to break the lock and started to cut. In moments, she’d made an M-shaped shim, just like the criminal-in-training had made in the YouTube video. As soon as she wiggled the shim down the left shackle, the ball released and the lock snapped open. Emma couldn’t help but grin. “Thanks, Travis,” she murmured. She never thought she’d say that.

The lock clunked to the floor. The drawer made a grating screech as it opened. Emma peered inside. Sitting in the bottom was a thick spiral-bound notebook. That was all.

Emma pulled it out and held it in her lap. There was nothing written on the front cover—no names or doodles, just a shiny piece of blue card stock. The wire spirals were perfectly coiled and even, without a hint of bending or rust. She turned to the first page. There was Sutton’s handwriting, round and neat and eerily similar to Emma’s own. January 10, she’d written.

Emma sucked in her stomach. Did she really want to read her sister’s diary? When she lived in Carson City, she’d sneaked into a bedroom that belonged to Daria, a pretty, mysterious older foster sister who paid no attention to her. She’d read every page of Daria’s diary, which was mostly about boys and how she thought her legs and arms were too fat. Emma had also searched through the pockets of Daria’s jeans. She’d stolen a pair of headphones out of Daria’s room, purely because they were hers. She’d taken little things every time she went in after that: a rap CD, a black jelly bracelet, a department-store sample of Chanel No. 5. After she’d moved on to another home, Emma felt ashamed about what she’d done. She’d put all of Daria’s pilfered things in a manila envelope, wrote Daria’s name on the top, and sent them back to social services, vowing she’d never do something like that again.

It’s nice that she was being all moral, but I just wanted her to read the damn diary.

Sighing, as though she’d actually heard my thoughts, Emma looked down at the first page again and started to read.

Each entry was short and sweet, more like quick Twitter entries and scattered thoughts. Sometimes Sutton wrote things like Elizabeth & James clogs or B-day party on Mount Lemmon? Sometimes she wrote exclamations like I hate history! or Mom can kiss my ass! The entries that seemed like they might be about something deeper were even more baffling though. C has been so bitchy lately , Sutton had penned on February 10. She just needs to get over it. On March 1: I had an unexpected visitor after school today. He’s such a cute little puppy dog, following me everywhere. On March 9: M outdid herself today. Sometimes I think C is right about her .

Emma leafed through the pages, trying to extrapolate meaning from the entries. There were a lot about L, who she could only assume was Laurel. L came downstairs this morning in an identical outfit to mine. And, Playing an awesome prank on L this afternoon. Maybe she’ll be sorry she wanted in so badly! And then on May 17, L is still ruined over T. Pull yourself together, bitch. He’s just a guy. Emma’s gaze landed on an entry from August 20, just a week and a half ago: If L brings up that night one more time, I’m going to kill her.

What night? Emma wanted to yell. Why was Sutton so ridiculously vague? It was like she was keeping a journal for the CIA.

I was just as frustrated as she was.

Then a small construction-paper square fell out of the notebook and fluttered to the floor. Emma picked it up, gazed at the bold writing on the front, and gasped: THE LYING GAME MEMBERSHIP CARD. Below that was Sutton’s name, the title EXECUTIVE PRESIDENT AND DIVA, and then a date in May more than five years ago.