Emma was staying with the Stokeses; one night Alex had slipped out past her curfew for a date with a boy from UNLV. When Alex’s single mom came home early and asked where her daughter was, Emma had stammered
out that Alex was swimming at the rec center. They both laughed about it later. Good thing my mom’s internal clock is all screwed up from working nights, Alex had teased, or she’d have wanted to know why
that pool is open at midnight on a weeknight. From then on, “rec center” was synonymous for “I’ve got your back.”
Emma suddenly missed her old best friend more than ever. Hearing the news of her own death had made her feel horribly alone—as though she were a living ghost, invisible to the people around her. But here was
Alex, clear as day, telling her she was on her side.
“I think I need to lie down for a little while,” Emma said cautiously. “May I be excused?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Mercer was still watching her with concern evident on her face. “Do you need anything, sweetheart?”
“No, I’m all right.” Emma gave a wan smile. “Just tired.” She stood up and carefully pushed her chair in against the table. She could feel their eyes follow her out the kitchen door.
It was all she could do to keep from taking the stairs three at a time. She forced herself to walk slowly, passing the gallery wall of family photos that ran up the stairwell. She knew the pictures by heart
now, every smile, every outfit, the patterns on the wrapping paper in birthday and Christmas photos. It was a highlight reel of Sutton’s life, not hers—and yet after so much pretending, sometimes it was
hard to remember that.
When she got to Sutton’s room, Emma rummaged at the bottom of the biggest desk drawer, where she’d hidden the old BlackBerry she’d brought with her from Vegas. Sure enough, Alex had messaged her. WHAT THE
HELL IS GOING ON? ARE YOU OK?
Emma winced, wishing Alex were in front of her right that minute so she could throw her arms around her with relief. She hit the button to reply.
I CAN’T EXPLAIN RIGHT NOW. DON’T CONTACT ME AGAIN—IT’S DANGEROUS. THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING. LOVE YOU ALWAYS.
Her heart was sick at the knowledge that she was about to cut off one of the few people in the world who really knew her, but she forced herself to hit SEND, then powered down the BlackBerry. In Sutton’s
underwear drawer she found a box of tampons—her go-to hiding place from her foster kid days. No one ever thought to look in someone else’s tampon box. She shoved the phone inside and stuck it in the back of
the drawer.
There. Hopefully Alex would keep a low profile until this was all over and Emma could explain. The last thing she needed was for her best friend to end up on the murderer’s hit list—or get Emma herself
thrown in jail.
But I couldn’t help wishing Emma had broken the BlackBerry and thrown away the pieces. After all, they’d found the Greyhound locker. Nothing was safe, not anymore. Emma needed to hurry up and prove that
Garrett killed me—before he pinned it on her.
12
DOWN THE DRAIN(PIPE)
“It’s like she was lying to her journal,” Emma said, sprawled on her stomach across Sutton’s luxurious bed. With no other clues, she had turned back to Sutton’s cryptic diary for answers. But it was just
as confusing as all the other times she’d read it—even with Ethan’s help trying to interpret it. It was around ten that night, and they’d been on the phone for almost an hour, sifting through the various
entries with no luck.
“July 20—C is being a real c-word if you know what I mean. She needs to get over it.” Emma turned the page. “July 21—Yum yum yum, got G Burberry Sport for our 1 mo. anniversary and he smells so good.
Nothing about Garrett’s temper or the fights they had or the fact that she was still sneaking around with Thayer. She had all these secrets, and she didn’t even admit them to herself.” She snapped the book
shut in frustration.
“It makes sense, though.” On the other end of the line she could hear a soft crunching sound. She pictured Ethan with his legs up on the railing of the porch, a bowl of salted popcorn in his lap, wearing
the blue flannel shirt that always smelled like vanilla. She couldn’t help the little shiver of pleasure that trilled along her spine at the image. “Her friends were always looking for ways to get her. She
wouldn’t want to give them anything that they could use to prank her.”
Emma sighed, rolling over on her back and flipping through the book for the hundredth time. What would it have been like if their situations had been reversed—if Sutton had been forced to figure out who Emma
was through her journals? Her twin would probably be as annoyed as Emma was now—after all, none of her cutesy fake headlines or lists had any real information in them. Emma had always been careful not to put
in too many details or names. In a foster home you never knew who was going to get into your stuff.