The Lying Game. Sara Shepard

      THE

       LYING GAME

      BY

       SARA SHEPARD

      We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.

      —KURT VONNEGUT

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Epigraph

      PROLOGUE

      Chapter 1 - THE DEAD RINGER

      Chapter 2 - THAT’S RIGHT, BLAME THE FOSTER KID

      Chapter 3 - YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE IF YOU READ IT ON FACEBOOK

      Chapter 4 - REUNION INTERRUPTED

      Chapter 5 - SHE IS ME

      Chapter 6 - WHO CAN RESIST A BROODER?

      Chapter 7 - THE BEDROOM EMMA NEVER HAD

      Chapter 8 - COFFEE, MUFFINS, MISTAKEN IDENTITY . . .

      Chapter 9 - IMITATION IS THE HIGHEST FORM OF FLATTERY

      Chapter 10 - EVERY GUY LOVES A FELON

      Chapter 11 - WATCH OUT FOR DEVIL CHILD!

      Chapter 12 - EMMA’S FIRST FAMILY DINNER DYSFUNCTION

      Chapter 13 - THE BODY ON THE GROUND

      Chapter 14 - VINTAGE EMMA

      Chapter 15 - THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

      Chapter 16 - LAST BUS TO VEGAS

      Chapter 17 - NEVER HAVE I EVER

      Chapter 18 - WHO’S LAUGHING NOW?

      Chapter 19 - LEAVING IS NOT AN OPTION

      Chapter 20 - DEAR DIARY, TODAY I DIED

      Chapter 21 - UNREQUITED SPYING

      Chapter 22 - DIRTY SECRETS

      Chapter 23 - SOMEONE WAS A VERY, VERY BAD GIRL . . .

      Chapter 24 - DOESN’T EVERY GIRL THINK HER SISTER WANTS TO KILL HER?

      Chapter 25 - A LATE ADDITION TO THE GUEST LIST

      Chapter 26 - A FACE FROM THE PAST

      Chapter 27 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NOW DIE

      Chapter 28 - SEDUCTION AND MURDER ALWAYS GO HAND IN HAND

      Chapter 29 - THE GREAT ESCAPE

      Chapter 30 - SOMEONE KNOWS . . .

      Chapter 31 - NOT FUNNY, BITCHES

      Chapter 32 - THE BITTER TRUTH

      Chapter 33 - LOOK OUT, SUTTON’S BACK

      EPILOGUE

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Also by Sara Shepard

      Copyright

       About the Publisher

      PROLOGUE

      I woke up in a dingy claw-foot bathtub in an unfamiliar pink-tiled bathroom. A stack of Maxims sat next to the toilet, green toothpaste globbed in the sink, and white drips streaked the mirror. The window showed a dark sky and a full moon. What day of the week was it? Where was I? A frat house at the U of A? Someone’s apartment? I could barely remember that my name was Sutton Mercer, or that I lived in the foothills of Tucson, Arizona. I had no idea where my purse was, and I didn’t have a clue where I’d parked my car. Actually, what kind of car did I drive? Had someone slipped me something?

      “Emma?” a guy’s voice called from another room. “You home?”

      “I’m busy!” called a voice close by.

      A tall, thin girl opened the bathroom door, her tangled dark hair hanging in her face. “Hey!” I leapt to my feet. “Someone’s in here already!” My body felt tingly, as if it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, it seemed like I was flickering on and off, like I was under a strobe light. Freaky. Someone definitely slipped me something.

      The girl didn’t seem to hear me. She stumbled forward, her face covered in shadows.

      “Hello?” I cried, climbing out of the tub. She didn’t look over. “Are you deaf?” Nothing. She pumped a bottle of lavender-scented lotion and rubbed it on her arms.

      The door flung open again, and a snub-nosed, unshaven teenage guy burst in. “Oh.” His gaze flew to the girl’s tight-fitting T-shirt, which said NEW YORK NEW YORK ROLLER COASTER on the front. “I didn’t know you were in here, Emma.”

      “That’s maybe why the door was closed?” Emma pushed him out and slammed it shut. She turned back to the mirror. I stood right behind her. “Hey!” I cried again.

      Finally, she looked up. My eyes darted to the mirror to meet her gaze. But when I looked into the glass, I screamed.

      Because Emma looked exactly like me.

      And I wasn’t there.

      Emma turned and walked out of the bathroom, and I followed as if something was yanking me along behind her. Who was this girl? Why did we look the same? Why was I invisible? And why couldn’t I remember, well, anything? The wrong memories snapped into aching, nostalgic focus—the glittering sunset over the Catalinas, the smell of the lemon trees in my backyard in the morning, the feel of cashmere slippers on my toes. But other things, the most important things, had become muffled and fuzzy, as if I’d lived my whole life underwater. I saw vague shapes, but I couldn’t make out what they were. I couldn’t remember what I’d done for any summer vacations, who my first kiss had been with, or what it felt like to feel the sun on my face or dance to my favorite song. What was my favorite song? And even worse, every second that passed, things got fuzzier and fuzzier. Like they were disappearing.

      Like I was disappearing.

      But then I concentrated really hard and I heard a muffled scream. And suddenly it was like I was somewhere else. I felt pain shooting through my body, before a final, sleepy sensation of my muscles surrendering. As my eyes slowly closed, I saw a blurry, shadowy figure standing over me.

      “Oh my God,” I whispered.

      No wonder Emma didn’t see me. No wonder I wasn’t in the mirror. I wasn’t really here.

      I was dead.

      Chapter 1

       THE DEAD RINGER

      Emma Paxton carried her canvas tote and a glass of iced tea out the back door of her new foster family’s home on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Cars swished and grumbled on the nearby expressway, and the air smelled heavily of exhaust and the local water treatment plant. The only decorations in the backyard were dusty free weights, a rusted bug zapper, and kitschy terra-cotta statues.

      It was a far cry from my backyard in Tucson, which was desert-landscaped to perfection and had a wooden swing set I used to pretend was a castle. Like I said, it was weird and random which details I still remembered and which ones had evaporated away. For the last hour, I’d been following Emma trying to make sense of her life and willing myself to remember my own. Not like I had a choice. Everywhere she went, I went. I wasn’t entirely sure how I knew these things about Emma, either—they just appeared in my head as I watched her, like a text message popping up in an inbox. I knew the details of her life