Never Have I Ever: A Lying Game Novel. Sara Shepard
a loud scrape, she pushed her chair away from the table. “I’ll be back,” she said, fumbling through the French doors toward the bathroom.
She entered an empty lounge filled with mirrors, plush, cognac-colored leather couches, and a wooden basket containing Nexxus hair spray, Tampax, and little bottles of Purell. Perfume lingered in the air, and classical music played through the stereo speakers.
Emma collapsed 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 killer 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 all of this, no matter how uncomfortable, was necessary to find her sister’s killer.
The door swished open, and the sounds of the dining room rushed in. Emma whipped around as a blonde, college-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 small 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. All kinds of possibilities flashed through Emma’s mind. A small, 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 pulled out a tiny rolled-up scroll 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 frantically 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.
CSI, TUCSON
Ethan Landry opened the chain-link gate to the public tennis court and let himself in. Emma watched him stroll 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 collar 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 coin-operated 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.
Emma handed the silver charm to Ethan. “Someone left it for Sutton at the country club. There was a note attached.” A chill ran down her spine as she relayed what the note had said.
A motorcycle rumbled in the distance. Ethan turned the charm over in his hands. “I don’t know anything about a train, Emma.”
Emma’s heart tugged when Ethan called her by her real name. It was such a relief. But it also felt dangerous. The killer had told her to tell no one. And she’d broken the rule.
“But it sounds like whoever gave it to you was part of the prank,” Ethan went on, “or a victim of it.”
Emma nodded.
They were silent for a moment, listening to the sounds of a lone basketball bouncing on the far court. Then Emma reached in her pocket. “I have something to show you.” She passed her iPhone to him, her stomach flipping over as their fingers accidentally brushed. Ethan was cute—really cute.
I had to admit Ethan was cute, too—in that disheveled, brooding, mystery-boy way. It was fun to watch my sister’s crush develop. It made me feel closer to her, like it was something we would’ve obsessed over together if I were still alive.
Emma cleared her throat as Ethan scrolled through the page she’d loaded. “It’s a list of everyone in Sutton’s life,” she explained, the words tumbling quickly out of her mouth. “I’ve gone through everything—Sutton’s Facebook, her phone, her emails. And now I’m almost positive I’ve got the date of her death narrowed down to August thirty-first.”
Ethan turned toward her. “How can you be sure?”
Emma took a quick breath. “Check this out.” She tapped the Facebook icon. “I wrote to Sutton at ten-thirty the night of the thirty-first.” She moved the screen over so Ethan could read her note: This will sound crazy, but I think we’re related. You’re not by any chance adopted, are you? “And then Sutton responded at twelve-fifty-six, here.” Emma scrolled down the message page and showed what Sutton had written back: OMG. I can’t believe this. Yes, I was totally adopted …
An unreadable expression flickered across Ethan’s face. “Then how can you think she died on the thirty-first if she was writing you messages on Facebook?”
“I was the only person Sutton wrote or talked to that night.” Emma scrolled through Sutton’s call log from the thirty-first. The last answered call was from Lilianna Fiorello, one of Sutton’s friends, at 4:32 P.M. Then at 8:39, MISSED CALL, LAUREL. Three more missed calls at 10:32, 10:45, and 10:59 from Madeline. Emma flipped ahead to the next day’s log. The missed calls began again the following morning: 9:01, Madeline; 9:20, Garrett; 10:36, Laurel.
“Maybe she was busy and didn’t pick up her phone,” Ethan suggested. He took back the phone and clicked to Sutton’s Facebook page, scrolling through her Wall posts.
Emma grasped Sutton’s locket. “I’ve looked through Sutton’s entire call log back to December. Practically every call she gets, she answers. And if she doesn’t answer it, she calls whoever it was back later.”
“Then what about this post she wrote on the thirty-first?” Ethan asked, pointing to the screen. “Couldn’t this mean she was avoiding everyone?” The last post Sutton had ever written was a few hours before Emma’s note: Ever think about running away? Sometimes I do.
Emma shook her head vehemently. “Nothing fazed my sister. Not even being strangled.” Just saying the words my sister connected her to Sutton in a deep, powerful way. At first, Emma had wondered if Sutton really had run away—maybe sticking her long-lost twin sister in her place had been part of an elaborate prank. But once someone nearly strangled Emma in Charlotte’s house, she became convinced Sutton’s death was for real.
“Ethan, think