The Lying Game by Sara Shepard Page B

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 dingdong 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.
    Emma dropped the phone and backed away from the desk, as if it was suddenly covered in toxic mold.
I can’t look through her phone,
she scolded herself silently. Sutton might walk in any minute and see. That wouldn’t be the greatest way to start off the sisterly relationship.
    She picked up her BlackBerry again and sent Sutton a private message on Facebook saying the same thing—maybe Sutton was just downstairs on a different computer and had forgotten her phone? Then she surveyed the rest of the room. Behind the desk was a bulletin board plastered with pictures of Sutton and her friends, the girls Emma had met just hours ago. Some of them looked recent: In a picture of Sutton, Charlotte, Madeline, and Laurel at the monkey house at the Tucson Zoo, Charlotte wore the same blue dress she’d had on at the party tonight. There was one of Sutton, Madeline, Laurel, and a familiar dark-haired boy standing at the edge of a canyon waterfall. Laurel and the guy splashed each other while Sutton and Madeline struck aloof, blasé poses. Other photos looked much older, maybe from junior high. There was a picture of the trio of friends standing over a bowl of cookie dough in someone’s kitchen, trying to shove goopy spoons in one another’s faces. Madeline wore a ballet leotard and was, er,
flatter
than she was now. Charlotte had braces and rounder cheeks. Emma stared at Sutton; it was her identical face, just four years younger.
    Tiptoeing to Sutton’s closet in the corner, Emma wrapped her hand around the knob. Was snooping in Sutton’s closet just as bad as looking through her texts? Deciding it wasn’t, she pulled open the door to reveal a big square room filled with wooden hangers and organized shelves. Sighing wistfully, she reached out and touched all the dresses, blouses, blazers, sweaters, and skirts, pressing some of the soft fabrics to her cheek.
    A couple of games were piled in the back of the closet: Clue and Scattergories and Monopoly. On top of that was a box that said JUNIOR BIRDWATCHER’S KIT . It included a bird book and a pair of binoculars. A tag on the front