Emma went downstairs to grab a bag of pretzels and some Diet Cokes from the kitchen. She stopped in the living room, where Drake was curled up happily atop a sofa he definitely wasn’t allowed on. His tail flopped lazily against the cushions as she stroked his neck. For the first time in ages, she felt as if she was where she belonged.
“Hey.” Nisha’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She came over and rested a hand on Drake’s ear. “I love this dog,” she said, scratching him. “My dad’s allergic, so we’ve never been allowed to have one. I’d probably get something little that I could put clothes on, though.”
“You could wear matching tennis outfits and carry it in your duffel,” Emma said. They both laughed at the image.
“So did you and Ethan talk about … you know?” Nisha asked.
Emma flushed and craned her neck to look up and down the hall. Mrs. Mercer was in the backyard gardening, and Mr. Mercer was out playing golf. She pulled the key card from her pocket and handed it back to Nisha.
“Yeah, he explained everything to me. It’s not a great story—things haven’t really been easy for him.” She blinked uncomfortably. “I’m sorry I unloaded all of that on you, and I’d really appreciate it if you could, you know, keep it to yourself.” She lowered her gaze. “But thank you for checking on me,” she added. “You’ve been a really good friend.”
Nisha opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, then closed it again. They stood looking at each other, secrets still hanging in the air. Then another burst of laughter came from Laurel’s room.
“I guess we’d better get back to work,” Emma said.
Nisha looked down, suddenly shy. “Sutton—thanks for letting me do this with you guys. I’m really excited about it.”
Emma hooked her arm through her friend’s and straightened her shoulders. “No, thank you. For the idea, and for all your help with my mom. Now, let’s go put on a show.”
“Let’s punk this bitch,” Nisha agreed. And arm in arm, my twin sister and my former archrival went upstairs.
30
THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT
A car door slammed in the darkness, and a middle-aged woman wearing a shiny gold turban stepped into the clearing. The sun had just slipped behind the mountains. Sabino Canyon was alive with sounds: Crickets and birds sang in the undergrowth, while farther away a chorus of coyotes started their nocturnal howls. An early owl swooped overhead.
Along with the turban, the woman had on a long purple velvet cloak and dramatic blue eyeshadow that swept up to her thinly plucked brows. Enormous gemstones glittered on each of her fat fingers. She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “This is the séance?” she asked, blowing twin tusks of smoke out through her nose.
“Great, you made it,” Madeline said, walking over to the strange woman and shaking her hand. She’d told the other girls that she had a last-minute surprise for them, but Emma hadn’t imagined it would be this good. “Ladies, this is Madame Darkling. She’s a, um, real medium.”
The other girls barely concealed their grins. Madame Darkling looked as if she’d just come from central casting for a phone-a-psychic infomercial. Emma could see a grubby gray tennis shoe poking out from under her robes.
“Perfect,” said Charlotte. She rummaged in her shoulder bag and pulled out a manila folder, which was labeled GHOST WHISPERER PRANK in deceptively cheerful pink marker. “Here’s the intel on our subject,” she explained, handing it to the psychic. “We did a little research. Her grandmother was a pretty well-known writer. She died last year, but Celeste was close with her. Might be a good angle.”
Madame Darkling rifled through the pages. A photograph of Celeste’s grandmother, a plump old woman with rust-colored hair and too much rouge, fluttered to the ground.
“Jeanette Echols? Sure, I know her stuff. Piece of cake,” the medium said, leaning over to retrieve the photograph. She stubbed out her cigarette in the dirt before carefully picking up the butt and whisking it into a pocket hidden somewhere in her cloak. Laurel and Emma exchanged glances, stifling their giggles.
“Where’d you find her?” Charlotte whispered to Madeline as Madame Darkling helped herself to the carrots and dip they’d been munching on while they set up.
“Craigslist, of course,” Madeline said. “The venue of all lost souls.”
“She just stuck a finger in the hummus, you guys,” Laurel said under her breath.