“I guess she decided to skip.” Emma shrugged. It wasn’t like Laurel to cut class without the other Lying Game girls, but a lot of things had been weird lately.

“I wish I’d gone with her.” Mads sighed as her mug collapsed yet again. “I can’t stand much more of this.”

Charlotte put her bowl down, reaching over to pat Madeline on the back.

“Here’s something to look forward to,” Charlotte said, smiling. “My mom decided we’re going to Barbados for Christmas. And of course Daddy’s on board. He’s been on his best behavior ever since Mom found a naughty text on his phone. Anyway, I refused to go unless I could take friends. So pack your bags, bitches, because we’re heading to the land of rum and Rihanna.”

Madeline’s jaw fell open. “Are you kidding me?”

“Do I ever joke about vacations?” Charlotte winked. “In a few short weeks we’ll be lying on the beach, drinking out of coconuts, and watching boys on surfboards.”

“Oh my God.” Madeline gave an uncharacteristic squeal, her eyes bright. “I am so in!”

Charlotte looked at Emma expectantly. “Sutton? What about you?”

Emma could barely process Charlotte’s invitation. The only “beach” she had ever been to was a fake one at a water park outside Vegas, with screaming children and a lazy river that was probably full of pee. Images of white-sand beaches and brilliant blue water immediately danced through her mind. But then she hesitated. “I’ll have to ask Mom and Dad,” she said.

That seemed confirmation enough for Charlotte. “Oh, you’ll convince them. You always do.” She laughed in excitement, launching into a description of the private house her parents had rented, the beach bars that served piña coladas every afternoon, and the celebrities who would be going incognito. “Rob Pattinson for sure, he’s always there,” Char was saying, but Emma wasn’t really listening.

The truth was, she’d been looking forward to celebrating the holidays with the Mercers. She’d never had much of a real Christmas before. A few of her foster families had tried to celebrate the holidays but never really made Emma feel welcome or included. There were usually some impersonal presents from a charity drive—three years in a row, she had received cheap desk sets from well-meaning donors—and maybe a dry turkey dinner.

Emma was sure that Christmas with the Mercers would be different. She didn’t care about presents, but she couldn’t wait to see the living room bright with tinsel, fragrant with the smell of a tree. She imagined Laurel playing carols on the baby grand; Mr. Mercer singing along, totally off-key; Mrs. Mercer wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and a Santa hat as she baked sugar cookies. They would hang stockings and ornaments and drink eggnog by the fire—even though it probably wouldn’t get below fifty degrees in Arizona. She knew it was hokey, but she didn’t care. She’d never had a hokey Christmas to get tired of.

Plus, Ethan was here, not in Barbados. And she’d always wanted to corner a boy under the mistletoe.

At that moment the door to the pottery studio flew open, slamming against the bookcase behind it. Charlotte’s bowl slipped from her hand and shattered on the ground. The school’s front office manager, a kindly woman named Peggy, stood in the doorway. Her normally neat graying hair was coming loose from its bun. She glanced wildly around until she caught sight of Mrs. Gilliam, then strode quickly across the room to whisper something in her ear. Mrs. Gilliam’s owl-like eyes fell on Emma.

“Sutton, you’re needed in the office.” Mrs. Gilliam was clearly trying to be calm, but she’d gone pale. Her bangles jangled discordantly as she gestured in Emma’s direction. “I’ll clean up your station; don’t worry about that. You just go.”

Emma’s heart sank with dread. “What’s going on?” she managed to ask through her choked throat.

Peggy spoke up this time, her nasal voice hushed. “Your parents are here to see you. Something has happened.”

Laurel, Emma and I thought at once. Something had happened to Laurel. That explained why she hadn’t been in class.

Emma was on her feet without fully realizing it, tearing through the door and out into the hallway. “Walk, don’t run, Miss Mercer,” Peggy called out behind her, but Emma took off at breakneck speed, past the SAY NO TO DRUGS! and WILDCAT PRIDE posters, her shoes sliding dangerously on the scuffed linoleum. She turned a corner and hip-checked a recycling bin, sending it rolling across the floor, but didn’t stop.

Just as she was about to turn into the front office, she ran full-on into someone—someone who smelled familiar, like freshly mown grass, mint gum, and hospital. It was Mr. Mercer.

“Thank God,” he mumbled, his eyes racing over her features like he was checking each and every one of them. He pulled her in and hugged her tight. “You’re okay.”

He was still wearing a lab coat and hospital ID; he’d obviously come straight from work. For a moment Emma just stood there, rigid in his arms, her heart still racing. How had the murderer attacked this time? Did Laurel’s death look like a suicide, like Nisha’s?

Then a shaky voice spoke up from behind Mr. Mercer. “Sutton, what’s going on?”

Emma broke away to peer over his shoulder. Behind him, Mrs. Mercer stood, her eyes swollen with tears. And next to her was Laurel.

“Oh my God,” Emma exclaimed, flying at Laurel and hugging her tight.

For once, I was grateful for Emma’s tendency to show more emotion than I ever would. She needed to hug Laurel enough for the both of us.

“Um, good to see you, too?” Laurel tried to joke, though she was clearly shaken. She took a step back and twisted a lock of hair nervously around her finger.

A single hot tear cut down Emma’s cheek. “I just thought . . . I was worried that you . . . you weren’t in class . . .” She looked up at Mr. Mercer, frowning. “What’s going on, Dad?”

“Let’s step outside,” he said softly, taking Emma by the elbow and leading her toward the door. Laurel and Mrs. Mercer followed.

They exited by the student parking lot. A small strip of lawn stretched out between the building and the sidewalk, a beat-up picnic table carved with graffiti of ages past chained to a handicapped parking sign. A few feet away, Sutton’s beloved Volvo glittered in the sun. Mr. Mercer guided everyone gently toward the table, gesturing for them to sit down.

The chasm of dread in Emma’s chest opened wider as her grandfather sat slowly next to her. He inhaled deeply, and then, finally, he met her eyes. What she saw there stopped her ragged breath in her throat. She knew what he would say a heartbeat before she heard it.

“The police found a body in Sabino Canyon,” he said. “They think it’s your sister.”

Emma’s hands clenched against her thighs. A panicked feeling clawed inside her chest, more and more frantic, until she couldn’t push it down any longer. She opened her mouth and let out an anguished sob.

The sunny afternoon fragmented into a thousand pieces, like a mirror breaking before my eyes. My parents and my sisters fell away from my vision. And just like that, I was back in the canyon, on the last night of my life.

7

A HAND IN THE DARK

Becky’s footsteps fade away into the velvet darkness, until there’s no sound in the canyon but the wind echoing mournfully through the trees. This late, even the crickets are silent. The moon looks ghostly, shining through tattered clouds and casting strange shadows all over the clearing, warped and grotesque. Far below me, the lights of Tucson sprawl at my feet. I feel more alone than I’ve ever felt in my life.

The breeze is sharp on my damp cheeks, and I rest my hands over my face for a long moment, hiding from the world like I did when I was a kid. Between the darkness and all the crying I’ve done tonight, my eyes are starting to feel strained. The pressure of my palms soothes me, shutting out my surroundings—but it can’t shut out the memories that keep flashing through my brain. The fight with Thayer, after I’d spent so long looking forward to seeing him. The accident, the terrible crunching sound of Thayer’s leg snapping as my own car plowed into him, driven by someone I couldn’t see. My father, coming to tell me that I was his granddaughter, that my biological mother is his daughter Becky. And then Becky herself—my sad, tormented birth mom—telling me that somewhere out there, I have a twin sister.

I think of my old dream, where my reflection would step out of the mirror and we’d play together. I would always wake up feeling peaceful and somehow sad. I never wanted to leave her, this other girl who looked like me and yet wasn’t. A part of me has always known, I realize now. A part of me has always missed her.

Anger spikes through me. I lean down and pick up a handful of rocks, throwing them as hard as I can out over the side of the canyon. The muscles in my shoulder flex and burn with the effort. I’m mad at Becky. I’m mad at my grandparents. Because they couldn’t work out their own problems, I’ve been kept from my twin. I’ve been denied the one person who might have understood me, who might have made me feel less alone. It hurts, even more than the years of wondering why my birth mother abandoned me, why my parents loved Laurel more. It hurts because without this missing piece, I will never feel complete.

“Selfish!” I shriek, releasing another stone into the night air. “You’re . . . all . . . just . . . selfish!” My voice echoes around the canyon, bouncing back at me fainter and fainter until it’s gone. Then my hands are empty. I stand there for a moment, my breath heaving, my fingers clenched. I could pick up more rocks. I could throw them all night.

But suddenly I think of Becky’s ravaged face, thin and tear-streaked, its faint resemblance to my own unmistakable. I remember the stricken look on my grandfather’s face as I screamed at him earlier tonight. And the rage begins to seep out of me, like water from a sponge.

I am a long way from forgiving them. But maybe, just maybe, they’ve already punished themselves enough for their mistakes. They’ve already suffered more than I would wish on any of them.

Something snaps in the bushes. I stop and listen, my heart pounding, but whatever it is goes silent. Some nocturnal creature on its way home, probably. Turning away from the cityscape, I sit on the bench again, exhausted. I should start heading back down to the parking lot, and across the street to Nisha’s so I can make someone drive me home. But I don’t want to see any of my friends right now. They’re always waiting for me to show the slightest sign of weakness. The only person I’d let see me when I’m vulnerable like this is Thayer.

I pull out my phone and scroll to Thayer’s number—I have no service out here, but I just want to look at his picture. It’s my favorite photo of him, gazing out over Wasson Peak. Thayer normally smirks for the camera, and even though I love that signature cocky smile of his, I managed to take this picture before he realized it. This thoughtful, serious side of Thayer—this is who he is when he’s with me.

I sigh, looking at the picture and blinking back tears. I love Thayer. When we’re not fighting, we’re perfect together. We make each other stronger. The only thing that’s keeping us apart is the secrets we’ve been hiding, the lies we’ve been telling. Thayer was the one who wanted to keep our relationship a secret. And I agreed. I didn’t want to hurt Garrett or Laurel or Madeline.