Two Truths and a Lie: A Lying Game Novel

CHAPTER 2

A BOY NAMED TROUBLE

“Sutton?” Mrs. Mercer’s voice floated upstairs. “Break fast!”

Emma’s eyes slowly opened. It was Saturday morning, and she was lying in Sutton’s bed, which was a zillion times more luxurious than any bed she’d ever slept on in her foster homes. She would have thought the plush mattress, thousand-thread-count sheets, down pillows, and satin comforter could ensure a perfect eight hours of sleep every night, but she’d slept fitfully ever since she arrived here. Last night, she’d woken up every thirty minutes to make sure Sutton’s window was still locked. Each time she stood at the window ledge, looking out on the perfectly manicured lawn that Thayer had scurried across just hours before, the same thoughts ran through her head, over and over. What if she hadn’t screamed? What if the vase hadn’t broken? What if Mr. and Mrs. Mercer hadn’t barged into Sutton’s room when they had? Would Thayer have threatened Emma to her face at last? Would he have told her to stop snooping, or else . . . ?

Long-lost Twin Encounters Crazed, Possibly Murderous Runaway, Emma thought to herself. During her years as a foster kid, she’d gotten into the habit of titling her daily activities with a punchy headline as training for becoming an investigative journalist. She’d recorded the headlines in a notebook and named her newspaper The Daily Emma. Since moving to Tucson and taking over Sutton’s life, her adventures really were newsworthy—not that she could tell anyone about them.

She rolled over, the events from last night flooding into her brain once more. Could Thayer be Sutton’s killer? His behavior certainly wasn’t dispelling her suspicions.

“Sutton?” Mrs. Mercer called again.

The sugary smell of maple syrup and waffles wafted up to Sutton’s bedroom, and Emma’s stomach rumbled with hunger. “Coming!” she yelled back.

With a groggy yawn, Emma climbed from the bed and pulled an Arizona Cardinals sweatshirt from the top drawer of Sutton’s white wooden dresser. She yanked the $34.99 price tag from the collar and slid it over her neck.

The shirt was probably a present from Cardinals überfan Garrett, who’d been Sutton’s boyfriend when she died—now her ex-boyfriend after Emma turned down his naked and willing body at Sutton’s eighteenth birthday party. There were some things sisters weren’t meant to share.

Uh, yeah—like each other’s lives. But I guess it was a little too late for that.

Sutton’s iPhone buzzed, and Emma checked the screen. A small photo of Ethan Landry appeared in the upper right-hand corner, which made Emma’s heart do a flip. ARE YOU OKAY? he wrote. I HEARD THERE WERE COPS AT YOUR HOUSE LAST NIGHT AFTER I LEFT. WHAT HAPPENED?

Emma shut her eyes and tapped her fingers on the keys.

LONG STORY. THAYER BROKE IN. SUPER SCARY. MAYBE HE’S A SUSPECT. MEET UP LATER AT THE USUAL PLACE?

AREN’T YOU GROUNDED? Ethan wrote back.

Emma ran her tongue over her teeth. She’d forgotten that the Mercers had grounded her for stealing the purse from Clique last week. They’d only let her go to Homecoming because she’d done well in school—a first for Sutton, apparently. I’LL FIGURE OUT A WAY TO GET OUT, she typed back. SEE YOU AFTER DINNER.

Damn right she’d figure out a way. Other than my murderer, Ethan was the only person who knew who Emma really was, and the two of them had joined forces to try to identify Sutton’s killer. He’d definitely want to know about Thayer.

But that wasn’t the only reason Emma wanted to see Ethan. After the hubbub of last night, she’d almost forgotten that they’d reconciled . . . and kissed. She was dying to see him and take things to the next level. Ethan was the first real almost-boyfriend Emma had ever had—she’d always been too shy and moved around too much to make an impression on guys—and she wanted it to work out.

I was hoping that it would work out, too. At least one of us should find love.

Emma descended the stairs for breakfast, pausing for a moment to stare at the family photographs in the Mercers’ hallway. Black-framed photos showed Laurel and Sutton with their arms wrapped around each other at Disneyland, sporting matching neon pink–trimmed ski goggles on a ski trip, and making a sand castle on a beautiful white-sand beach. A more recent one showed Sutton and her dad in front of a British racing-green Volvo, Sutton holding up the key gleefully.

She looked so happy. Carefree. She had a life Emma had always wanted. It was a question that plagued her constantly: Why had Sutton gotten such a wonderful family and friends, while Emma had spent thirteen years in foster homes? Sutton had been adopted into the Mercer family when she was a baby, while Emma had remained with their birth mother, Becky, until she was five. What if their roles had been reversed, and Emma had gotten to live with the Mercers? Would she be dead now? Or would she have lived Sutton’s life differently, appreciated her privileges?

I gazed at the photos, zeroing in on a recent snapshot of the four of us on the front porch. My mom, my dad, Laurel, and I looked like the picture-perfect family, all of us dressed in white tees and blue jeans, the Tucson sun brilliant in the background. I blended so well with them, my blue eyes almost the same as those of my adoptive mother. I hated when Emma assumed that I’d been a huge, ungrateful brat my whole life. Okay, so maybe I hadn’t appreciated my parents as much as I should have. And maybe I’d hurt some people with Lying Game pranks. But did I really deserve to die because of it?

In the kitchen, Mrs. Mercer poured golden batter into a waffle iron. Drake sat patiently beneath her, waiting for the batter to ooze over the sides and drip onto the floor. When Emma appeared in the doorway, Mrs. Mercer glanced up with a pinched, worried expression. The lines around her eyes stood out prominently, and there was just a hint of gray at her temples. The Mercer parents were a little older than most parents she knew, possibly in their late forties or early fifties.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Mercer asked, shutting the top to the waffle iron and dropping the whisk back into the batter.

“Uh, fine,” Emma murmured, even though she would have felt a lot better if she knew where Thayer was.

A loud thwack sounded across the room, and Emma turned to see Laurel sitting at the kitchen table bringing a long silver knife down hard over a ripe, juicy pineapple. Sutton’s sister caught her eye and grinned mockingly, holding out a dripping slice. “Some vitamin C?” she asked coldly. The knife glinted menacingly in her other hand.

If it had been a week or so ago, Emma would have been afraid of that knife—Laurel had been in her top-ten suspect list. But Laurel’s name had been cleared; she’d been at Nisha Banerjee’s sleepover the whole night of Sutton’s murder. There was no way she could have done it.

Emma looked at the pineapple and made a face. “No thanks. Pineapple makes me gag.”

Mr. Mercer, who was standing by the espresso machine, turned around and gave her a surprised look. “I thought you loved pineapple, Sutton.”

A fist inside Emma tightened. Emma hadn’t been able to eat pineapple ever since she was ten, when her then foster mother, Shaina, had won a lifetime supply of canned pineapple after submitting a pineapple upside-down cake recipe to a cooking magazine. Emma had been forced to eat the slippery yellow chunks at every meal for six months. Of course it would be Sutton’s favorite fruit.

It was the little details about Sutton, things she couldn’t possibly know, that always tripped her up. Sutton’s dad seemed hyper-aware of her gaffes, too—he was the only one who’d questioned Emma about a tiny scar when she’d first arrived in Tucson, one that her twin didn’t have. And he always seemed to weigh whatever he had to say to her carefully, as though he were holding back, hiding something. It was like he knew something about his daughter was off, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“That was before I found out it was really high in badfor-you carbs,” Emma said quickly, thinking on her feet. It sounded like something Sutton would say.

Steam erupted from the espresso maker on the soap-stone countertop before anyone could respond. Mr. Mercer poured milk into four porcelain mugs printed with pictures of Great Danes much like Drake and then turned to Emma. “The police found Thayer last night. Picked him up trying to hitchhike on the on-ramp to Route 10.”

“He’s been arrested for unlawful entry,” Mrs. Mercer added, adding a stack of waffles to a plate. “But that’s not all. Apparently, he had a knife on him—a concealed weapon.”

Emma flinched. One wrong move last night and Thayer might have slashed her.

“Quinlan says he resisted arrest,” Mr. Mercer went on. “It sounds like he’s really in trouble. They’re holding him at the precinct for questioning about some other things, too. Like where he’s been all this time and why he’d worried his family for so long.”

Emma kept her expression neutral, but relief coursed through her body. At least Thayer was in jail, not roaming Tucson. She was safe—for now. With Thayer behind bars, she had time to get to the bottom of his mysterious relationship with Sutton . . . and to figure out if she really needed to be afraid of him.

“Can we visit him in jail?” Laurel asked as she stuffed the spiky stem of the pineapple into the garbage.

Mr. Mercer looked horrified. “Absolutely not.” He pointed at both his daughters. “I don’t want either of you visiting him. I know he was your friend, Laurel, but think about all the fights he got into on the soccer field. And if half those rumors about alcohol and drugs are true, then he’s a walking pharmacy. And what was he doing carrying a knife? Trouble follows that kid wherever he goes. I don’t want you mixed up with someone like that.”

Laurel opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Mercer quickly interrupted. “Set the table, will you, sweetie?” There was a wobbly quality to her voice, as if she were trying to smooth everything over and sweep the mess under the rug.

Mrs. Mercer set a heaping mound of Belgian waffles on the kitchen table and filled everyone’s glass with orange juice. Mr. Mercer strolled over from the coffee machine and sat down at his regular seat. He sliced a piece of waffle and popped it into his mouth. His eyes were on Emma the whole time. “So. Is there a reason Thayer snuck into your bedroom?” he asked.

Nerves darted through Emma’s insides. Because he might have killed your real daughter? Because he wanted to make sure I wasn’t going around telling people about it?

“You weren’t expecting him, were you?” Mr. Mercer continued, his voice sharpening.

Emma lowered her eyes and grabbed for a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s. “If I was expecting him, I wouldn’t have screamed.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Last night.”

Mr. Mercer sighed exaggeratedly. “Before that.”

These were questions Emma couldn’t answer. She looked around at the table. All three Mercers were staring at her, waiting for her response. Mr. Mercer looked irritated. Mrs. Mercer was nervous. And Laurel’s face was a murderous bright red.

“June,” Emma blurted. It was the month that all the flyers in the police station and Facebook pages said Thayer went missing. “Just like everyone else.”

Mr. Mercer sighed heavily, like he didn’t believe her. But before he could say anything else, Mrs. Mercer cleared her throat. “Let’s not worry about Thayer Vega anymore,” she chirped. “He’s in jail—that’s what matters.”

Mr. Mercer’s brow wrinkled. “But—”

“Let’s talk about happy things instead, like your birthday party,” Mrs. Mercer interrupted. She touched her husband’s arm. “It’s only a few weeks away. Almost all the plans are complete.” Even Emma knew about the plans for Mr. Mercer’s birthday party. Mrs. Mercer had been planning the festivities at the Loews Ventana Canyon resort for weeks. Her party to-do lists were scattered around the house on bright yellow Post-its.

Mr. Mercer’s face was still a stony grimace. “I told you I didn’t want a party.”

Mrs. Mercer scoffed. “Everyone wants a party.”

“Grandma’s coming, right?” Laurel asked after swallow ing a slug of orange juice.

Mrs. Mercer nodded. “And you girls know you’re welcome to invite your friends,” she said. “I’ve already sent invitations to the Chamberlains and Mr. and Mrs. Vega. And I just ordered the cake from Gianni’s, that gourmet baker who did the cake for Mr. Chamberlain’s party,” Mrs. Mercer went on. “Apparently they’re the best. It’s carrot with a cream cheese frosting. Your favorite!”

Her voice lifted higher and higher. After Teenage Murder

Suspect Breaks Into Home, Dutiful Wife Tries to Lighten Mood with Talk of Dessert, Emma thought with a smirk.

“May I be excused?” Laurel asked, even though a whole waffle remained on her plate.

“Sure,” Mrs. Mercer said distractedly, her eyes still on her husband’s face.

Emma jumped up, too. “I have German homework,” she said. “Might as well get an early start on it.” This was something Sutton clearly wouldn’t say, but she was eager for the escape. She carried her dish to the sink and kept her head pointedly down as Laurel brushed past. Laurel muttered something under her breath. Emma was almost positive it was bitch.

When she passed by the table again, on her way toward the hall, she felt Mr. Mercer’s eyes on her. He was giving her such a suspicious stare that a sharp pain shot through Emma’s stomach. Suddenly, her mind flashed back to the look Mr. Mercer and Thayer had exchanged the previous night. Was it just her imagination, or did something big happen between them? Did they have some sort of . . . history together? Did Mr. Mercer know something about Thayer—something potentially dangerous—that he wasn’t letting on about?

I had to agree—my dad definitely knew something about Thayer. As I followed Emma up the stairs, I caught a glimpse of the mountains outside the window, and two puzzle pieces connected for a brief moment in my mind. I saw spidery branches casting shadows across the packed earth while sticky, late summer air clung to my bare legs. I saw Thayer keeping pace at my side, sliding his arm through mine as we navigated a rocky path in the twilight. I saw him opening his mouth to speak, but the memory scattered before I could hear what he’d been about to say.

But maybe, just maybe, it had been something I hadn’t wanted to hear.

CHAPTER 3

EVERYONE LOVES A POET

Later that evening, Emma made her way to the local park. Even though it was dusk, there were still lots of people jogging on the dirt paths that wound up toward the mountains, cooking burgers on the public grills, and roughhousing with their dogs on the grass. A radio was playing a Bruno Mars song, and a bunch of kids were splashing each other with water from a fountain.

Just seeing that park made me ache. It was only a few blocks away from my house, and even though I couldn’t remember specifics, I knew I’d spent lots of time here. What I wouldn’t give to dip my fingers into the cool water of that fountain or bite into a juicy burger hot off the grill—even if it did go straight to my thighs.

There was still a basketball game raging, but all of the tennis courts were dark. Emma walked to the very last one and pushed open the creaky gate. She could just make out a figure lying on the ground near the net. Her heart swelled. It was Ethan.

“Hello?” Emma whispered.

Ethan jumped to his feet and walked toward her, his stride even and calm. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his worn Levi’s. A tissue-thin T-shirt clung to his strong arms. “Hey,” he said. Even in the dark she could tell he was grinning. “Did you sneak out?”

Emma shook her head. “I didn’t have to. The Mercers lifted my punishment—I guess all the homework I’ve been doing changed their minds. But Mr. Mercer asked me a million questions about where I was going.” She glanced over her shoulder at the dark trees beyond. “It’s a wonder he didn’t follow me. Then again, I guess I should be grateful. Nobody’s ever cared enough to know where I was at all times.” She laughed halfheartedly.

“Not even Becky?” Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Emma gazed out at the twisted trees beyond the court. “Becky left me at a convenience store once, remember? She wasn’t exactly a model parent.” She felt guilty for trashing her mother. She had some good memories of Becky—like the time she had let Emma dress up in a silky slip and play Snow White around their hotel room, or the many nights Becky had set up treasure hunts for her—but they’d never make up for how she had abandoned Emma when she needed her most.

“Well, I’m glad you made it,” Ethan said, changing the subject.

“Me too,” Emma answered.

She met his eyes for a brief moment. There was a long pause, and they both looked down. Emma kicked a loose tennis ball near the net. Ethan jingled change in his pockets. Then he reached out and took her hand. She caught the scent of his spicy aftershave as he leaned in close. “Lights on or off?” he asked. The tennis courts had manual lights—seventy-five cents for every thirty minutes.

“Off,” Emma answered, excitement flooding her body.

Ethan tugged her down until they were both lying on the cement. The ground was still warm from the day’s heat, and it smelled vaguely of tar and rubber sneakers. Above them, a silvery moon shone. An owl flapped to a high tree branch.

“I can’t believe Thayer broke into your house,” Ethan said after a beat, holding her close. “Are you okay?”

Emma rested her cheek against his chest, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I’m better now.”

“So did Thayer sneak in to see Sutton?”

Emma pulled back and sighed. “I guess so. Unless . . . ”

“Unless what?”

“Unless Thayer knows who I really am and came to remind me to stay in line.” Just saying the words aloud made Emma shiver.

Ethan hugged his knees to his chest. “You think Thayer killed Sutton?”

“It’s definitely possible. He’s the only one of her friends we haven’t been able to investigate. What do you think was going on between Sutton and Thayer before he ran away?” Emma placed her palm flat on the asphalt, feeling its heat. She needed to touch something solid, something she understood.

An expression of regret crossed Ethan’s face. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I wish I did, but they weren’t my crowd.”

“A couple of people hinted that he might’ve been fooling around with Sutton,” Emma said. One of them was Garrett, Sutton’s ex—he’d more or less accused Sutton of it at Homecoming on Friday. And Nisha Banerjee had pretty much spelled out how Sutton had stolen Laurel’s crush. Then there were the icy glances Laurel had been shooting Emma ever since Thayer had turned up in Sutton’s bedroom, and the cryptic thing she’d said. You just make his life worse. What was that about?

“Then again, other people have made it sound like Sutton did something that caused Thayer to leave town,” Emma said slowly.

“I heard something about that.” Ethan kicked at a crack in the court with the heel of his sneaker. “But who knows if it’s true? People only started whispering that recently. When Thayer first went missing, everyone assumed he’d just run away to escape his dad. He was always screaming at Thayer during soccer matches and putting a ton of pressure on him.”

Emma winced, remembering something else from the night of the dance. At Homecoming, Emma had noticed purple bruises on Madeline’s arms. She said they’d come from her father. She’d also said he was hard on Thayer, too. The moment had been heart-wrenching, but it also felt special. It was the first time Emma had had a real, honest conversation with one of Sutton’s friends. She craved that connection: Other than her best friend, Alex, who lived in Henderson, Nevada, it had been hard to make many lasting friends because she’d moved around so much.

I had to admit it made me sort of sad that Emma was bonding with my bestie. In some ways, Emma was a better version of me, Sutton 2.0, which really stung. Madeline had never shared her secret about her dad with me—she’d more or less implied that she thought I didn’t care. I’d definitely sensed something was up with Mr. Vega, though. One night, Charlotte, Laurel, and I had sat in Madeline’s bedroom as Mr. Vega flung pots and pans around the kitchen, screaming at Mads and Thayer about God knows what. When Madeline returned to her room, eyes wide and bloodshot, we’d all pretended nothing had happened. If only I’d taken the time to ask Mads if she was okay. She’d probably given me plenty of clues. My twin was turning out to be a better friend to Mads and Char than I’d ever been—and now there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

Ethan leaned back on his elbows, exposing a taut line of tanned stomach muscles. “Thayer could have left for a reason other than his dad or Sutton. I’ve heard people say that he was mixed up in some really dangerous stuff.”

“Like what? Alcohol? Drugs?” Emma asked, recalling what Mr. Mercer had said.

Ethan shrugged. “It was all just vague gossip. I can try to ask around. Now that he’s back, people will definitely be talking about him. It’ll just be a matter of separating rumor from fact.”

Emma flopped down on the hard court. “Have I mentioned how frustrating this is? I have no idea how to find out exactly what happened between Thayer and Sutton without giving away who I really am.”

Ethan linked his fingers through hers. “We’ll figure this out. I promise. We’re so much closer than we were a month ago.”

Gratitude washed over Emma like a wave. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ethan waved his free hand. “Stop that. We’re in this together.” Then he shifted his weight and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper from his back pocket. “Hey . . . so I wanted to ask you . . . Do you have any interest in going to this with me?”

Emma smoothed the creases from the paper. 10TH ANNUAL POETRY SLAM CONTEST, a typewriter font read. The event was in early November. She glanced up at him questioningly.

“I’ve read my poems at Club Congress the last couple of weeks,” Ethan explained. “I just thought it might be nice to have some moral support in the audience for once.”

Emma couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face. “You’re going to let me hear your poetry?” The very first night she’d met Ethan—which was also the very first night she’d been in Tucson—she’d seen him scribbling poems in a notebook. She’d been dying to read his work but was afraid to ask.

“As long as you don’t make fun of it.” Ethan ducked his head.

“Of course I won’t!” Emma clasped his hand. “I’ll absolutely be there.”

Ethan’s eyes shone. “Seriously?”

Emma nodded, moved by how vulnerable he seemed. Her fingertips touched the inside of his palm. Fireflies sparked in the distance, flitting back and forth between cacti and madrone trees. The wind gusted through the dark pieces of Ethan’s hair as he put his arm around Emma’s shoulders. Emma inched closer, her knees brushing against the denim of Ethan’s jeans. She thought of their kiss last night, of how soft his lips had been on hers. It felt selfish to indulge her feelings for Ethan while her sister’s murder remained unsolved, but Ethan was the only thing keeping her sane right now.

And weirdly, watching my sister do something that made her feel so happy made me feel sane, too.

Emma leaned forward and tilted her chin. Ethan moved close. But suddenly, a metallic clinking noise rang out from the other side of the fence. Emma whipped around and squinted. A long-legged figure slithered between two oak trees.

“Hello?” she called, her pulse inching up a notch. “Who’s there?”

Ethan jumped to his feet, jammed a few quarters into the machine, and turned on the lights. They were so bright that Emma had to shade her eyes for a moment. They both scanned the court, the silence deafening. The basketball game had stopped, and there wasn’t even any traffic on the road. How long had it been quiet like this? How loudly had she and Ethan been talking? Had someone heard?