Mr. Vega gazed at their half-drunk glasses on the table. His nostrils twitched, as if he could smel the alcohol. The smile remained on his face, but it had a false edge that made Emma uneasy. He reminded her of Cliff, the foster father who sold used cars in a dusty lot near the Utah border and could swing from volatile dad to smarmy, asskissing salesman in four seconds flat. Mr. Vega was silent a moment longer. Then he leaned forward and squeezed the top of Madeline’s bare arm. She flinched slightly.
“Order anything you want, girls,” he said in a low voice.
“It’s on me.” He turned with military precision and started toward the brick-arched doorway to the golf course.
“Thanks, Daddy!” Madeline cal ed after him, her voice trembling just slightly.
“That’s sweet,” Charlotte murmured hesitantly after he left, glancing sideways at Madeline.
“Yeah.” Laurel traced her pointer finger around the scal oped edge of her plate, not making eye contact with Madeline.
Everyone looked like they wanted to say more, but no one did . . . or dared. Madeline’s family was rife with secrets. Her brother, Thayer, had run away before Emma arrived in Tucson. Emma kept seeing his missing-person poster everywhere.
For just a moment, she felt a pang of nostalgia for her old life, her safe life—a feeling she’d never thought she’d have about her foster-care days. She’d come to Tucson thinking she’d find everything she’d always wished for: a sister, a family to make her whole. Instead, she’d found a family that was broken without even realizing it, a dead twin whose life seemed more complicated by the minute, and potential murderers lurking around every corner.
A flush rose on Emma’s skin, the unspoken tension suddenly too much for her. With a loud scrape, she pushed her chair away from the table. “I’l be back,” she said, fumbling through the French doors toward the bathroom. She entered an empty lounge fil ed with mirrors, plush, cognac-colored leather couches, and a wooden basket containing Nexxus hair spray, Tampax, and little bottles of Purel . Perfume lingered in the air, and classical music played through the stereo speakers.
Emma col apsed in a chair at one of the vanities and inspected her reflection in the mirror. Her oval face, framed by wavy sienna hair, and eyes that looked periwinkle in some lights, ocean-blue in others, stared back at her. They were the very same features as the girl whose image smiled happily from the family portraits in the Mercers’
foyer, the same girl whose clothes felt scratchy against Emma’s skin, as if her body sensed Emma didn’t belong in them.
And around Emma’s neck was Sutton’s silver locket—
the same locket the kil er used to strangle Emma in Charlotte’s kitchen, the one Emma was sure Sutton had been wearing when she was murdered. Every time she touched the smooth silver surface or saw it glinting in the mirror, it reminded her that al of this, no matter how uncomfortable, was necessary to find her sister’s kil er. The door swished open, and the sounds of the dining room rushed in. Emma whipped around as a blonde, col ege-age girl in a pink polo with the country club’s logo on the boob crossed the Navajo-carpeted floor. “Uh, are you Sutton Mercer?”
Emma nodded.
The girl reached into the pocket of her khakis. “Someone left this for you.” She proffered a Tiffany-blue ring-sized box. A smal tag on the top read FOR SUTTON.
Emma stared, a little afraid to touch it. “Who’s it from?”
The girl shrugged. “A messenger dropped it off at the front desk just now. Your friends said you were in here.”
Emma took it hesitantly, and the girl turned and walked out the door. The lid lifted easily, revealing a velvet jewelry box. Al kinds of possibilities flashed through Emma’s mind. A smal , hopeful part of her wondered if it was from Ethan. Or, more awkwardly, maybe it was from Garrett, trying to win her back.
The box opened with a creak. Inside was a gleaming silver charm in the shape of a locomotive engine. Emma ran her fingers over it. A shard of paper poked up from the velvet pouch inside the lid. She pul ed out a tiny rol ed-up scrol to find a note written in block letters.
THE OTHERS MIGHT NOT WANT TO REMEMBER THE TRAIN
PRANK, BUT I’LL BE SEIZED BY THE MEMORY ALWAYS. THANKS!
Emma jammed the note back into the box and shut it. Train prank. Last night, in Laurel’s bedroom, she’d frantical y skimmed through at least fifty Lying Game pranks. None of them had to do with a train.
The train charm etched itself in my mind and suddenly, a faint glimmer came to me. A train’s whistle shrieking in the distance. A scream, and then whirling lights. Was it . . . were we . . . ?
But as quickly as it arrived, the memory sped away.
Chapter 2
CSI, Tucson
Ethan Landry opened the chain-link gate to the public tennis court and let himself in. Emma watched him strol toward her, his shoulders slumped and his hands in his pockets. Even though it was after ten, there was enough moonlight overhead to see his perfectly distressed jeans, scuffed Converse, and messy dark hair that curled sweetly over the col ar of a navy flannel shirt. An untied shoelace dragged across the court behind him.
“Mind if I leave the lights off?” Ethan gestured to the coinoperated meter that turned on giant floodlights for night play.
Emma nodded, feeling her insides leap. Being in the dark with Ethan didn’t sound so shabby.
“So what’s this train prank?” he asked, referring to the text Emma had sent hours earlier when she asked him to join her at the courts. It had become a meeting place for them, somewhere that felt uniquely theirs.