The Lying Game

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My house, not that I could recall much of it. The creak of the porch swing I used to sit on and read magazines. The smell of the lavender room spray my mom drenched the place with. I could distinctly remember the sound of our doorbell, two high-pitched, tweet-like dings, and that the front door would sometimes stick a bit before opening. But other than that . . .

The foyer was cool and silent. Long shadows dripped down the wall, and the tall wooden grandfather clock ticked in the corner. The floorboards creaked beneath Emma’s feet as she took a tentative step onto the striped carpet runner that led straight to the staircase. She reached out to flip on a nearby light switch, then hesitated and pulled back. She kept expecting alarms to sound, a cage to drop over her head, and people to jump out and shout, “Intruder!”

Grasping the banister, Emma tiptoed up the stairs in the darkness. Maybe Sutton was upstairs. Maybe she just fell asleep, and this was all a big misunderstanding. This night could be salvaged. She could still have the fairy-tale reunion she’d imagined.

A brown wicker hamper stuffed with dirty towels sat just outside a white-tiled bathroom at the top of the landing. Two night-lights glowed near the baseboard, casting yellowish columns of light up the wall. Dog tags jingled from behind a closed door at the end of the hall.

Emma turned and gazed at a bedroom door. Pictures of supermodels on a Parisian catwalk and James Blake and Andy Roddick playing at Wimbledon hung at eye level, and a pink-glitter placard that said SUTTON swung from the knob. Bingo. Emma pushed gently at the door. It gave way easily and soundlessly.

The room was fragrant with notes of mint, lily of the valley, and fabric softener. Moonlight streamed through the window and spilled across a perfectly made four-poster bed. A giraffe-print rug sat to its left, and an egg chair in the corner was strewn with T-shirts, bikini tops, and a few balled-up pairs of sports socks. On the windowsills were candles in big glass jars, blue, green, and brown wine bottles with flowers protruding from their mouths, and a bunch of empty Valrhona French chocolate wrappers. Every available surface was covered with pillows—there were at least ten on the bed, three on the chair, and even a couple of others strewn around on the floor. A long, white-wood desk held a sleeping MacBook Air laptop and a printer. A single card that said SUTTON’S EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY BASH! FABULOUSNESS REQUIRED! was propped up next to the mouse. A filing cabinet beneath the desk had a big pink padlock on the handle and a sticker that said THE L GAME. Was that like The L Word?

But there was one crucial thing missing, Emma thought. Sutton.

Of course I was missing. I gazed around the quiet room along with Emma, hoping it might spark a memory—or a clue. Was there a reason the window that faced the backyard was halfway open? Had I deliberately left a copy of Teen Vogue open to an article about Fashion Week in London? I couldn’t remember reading that issue, let alone why I’d stopped at that page. I couldn’t remember any of the items in this room, all the things that used to be mine.

Emma checked her phone again. No new messages. She wanted to look around the house, but what if she bumped into something . . . or someone? She reached for her phone and composed a new text to Sutton’s number: I’M IN YOUR BEDROOM NOW. WHEREVER YOU ARE, TEXT ME BACK TO LET ME KNOW YOU’RE OKAY. I’M WORRIED.

She pressed SEND. A split second later, a muffled ding-dong emanated from across the room, which made Emma jump. She moved in the direction of the sound, a silver clutch bag next to the computer. She unzipped it. Inside was an iPhone in a pink case and a blue Kate Spade wallet. Emma pulled out the phone and gasped. The text she’d just written glowed on the screen.

She immediately began to scroll through the day’s texts. There was the last one Emma had sent. Above that, at 8:20, was a text from Laurel Mercer, Sutton’s sister: THANKS FOR NOTHING, BITCH.