The Lying Game

Page 10

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. . . .
Chapter 9
IMITATION IS THE HIGHEST FORM OF FLATTERY
“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.
Laurel fiddles with the strap on her bikini top. She’s wearing what I call her slut-kini; the top’s straps are so thin and the triangles so small that she’s practically giving all of us a free peepshow. “It’s not quite the same,” she argues. “Your locket is bigger, see? And mine isn’t even a locket. It doesn’t open.”
Charlotte squints at my neck, then at Laurel’s. “She’s right, Sutton.”
“Yeah, they’re different enough,” Madeline agrees.
I want to fling molten-hot water into their faces. How dare my friends fuss over my sister’s complete lack of originality? It’s bad enough Laurel tagged along with us. It’s bad enough that my friends let her into our club just because they feel sorry for her after Thayer’s disappearance. And it’s really bad enough that my parents—especially my dad—dote on her at home, meanwhile treating me like I’m a bomb about to detonate.
Before I know what I’m doing, my hand wraps around the locket and I yank the chain from Laurel’s neck. Then I fling it into the woods. There’s a tiny plink of metal bouncing off one of the rocks, and then a nearly inaudible rustling sound as the necklace lands in the thick brush.
Laurel blinks hard. “W-Why did you do that?”
“That’s what you get for copying me.”
Tears fill her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” She lets out a tortured wail, climbs out of the hot springs, catapults over the rocks, and runs into the woods.
No one moves for a few long beats. Steam swirls around my friends’ faces, but it suddenly seems foreboding instead of sexy. I groan and climb out of the water, too, feeling a stab of guilt.
“Laurel!” I call into the woods. No answer. I jam my feet into my flip-flops, pull on a T-shirt and a pair of terry-cloth shorts, and start in the direction she went.
The solar lights that line the path end a few yards past the springs, giving way to eerie darkness. I take a few tentative steps into a thicket of mesquite trees, my arms outstretched in front of me. “Laurel?” I hear a flutter close by, then a snap. “Laurel?” I take another few steps, pushing through tall desert grass. Tiny cactus spines prick my skin.
More footsteps. A sob. “Laurel, come on,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll buy you a new necklace.” One that doesn’t look exactly like mine, I want to add.
After passing a few more trees, I emerge into an empty clearing—a long-dried-out creek bed. Hot, stale air hangs heavily around my face. Twisted shadows spill across the cracked earth. Cicadas croak noisily in the bushes. “Laurel?” I cry. I can’t see the resort lights through the trees anymore. I’m not even sure where the resort is. Then, I hear a footstep. “Hello?” I call out, suddenly alert. Something blinks at me from the savanna grass. I hear a whisper, followed by a faraway giggle. And then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Something cold and sharp presses up against my neck.
My whole body stiffens. Strong hands grab me and pin my arms back. Something presses against my throat, cutting off my breathing, digging into my skin. Pain shoots through me. It’s a knife. “Scream and you die,” a voice rasps in my ear.
And then . . . darkness.
Chapter 10
EVERY GUY LOVES A FELON
I snapped back to Laurel’s car, where Emma sat stiffly in the passenger seat as she backed out of the driveway.
Sutton’s dead, she thought. Sutton’s DEAD. It was impossible to comprehend. Dead . . . where? How? Did it have to do with that snuff video? Had someone actually strangled her?
A tight ball filled her stomach. Her eyes watered with tears. Even though she’d never met her sister, even though she’d found out about her existence only two days earlier, it was an earth-shattering loss. Discovering she had a twin was like hitting the jackpot, something Emma had never dared to dream of. All the hope she’d bottled up for years had reached a crescendo these past two days. And now . . .
Think about how I felt. I’d stared hard at the note when Emma opened it. Actually seeing SUTTON’S DEAD written there on the paper in black and white made it undeniable. I was really dead. Gone. And I had been murdered—my jumbled memories had been right. The darkness. The flailing. The knife at my throat. Now whoever had done this wanted a sister I’d never met to take my place so no one else would ever find out the truth. As if it was that easy! If only I had a say in this. I didn’t want to hand my life over to someone else.