“I still can’t believe people think she did this on purpose,” Madeline said, her hazel eyes wide. She shook her head. “She was fine on Sunday, right?”
Sunday had been the night they’d orchestrated a fake séance to prank a girl named Celeste Echols. It had been the first Lying Game prank Nisha had ever participated in—though she’d been the victim of a few
in her time. She’d definitely seemed to enjoy being a part of the production.
“I know. It just doesn’t make any sense. She’s such a good swimmer,” Laurel whispered tearfully. “I mean, she was.”
“What do you think, Sutton?” Gabby asked. Emma looked up sharply. As always, the Twitter Twins’ wardrobes were in perfect contrast. Gabby wore a simple sheath dress and pearl studs in her ears, her
lipstick a carefully lined red. Lili, on the other hand, wore what looked like a black thrift-store tutu and a pair of knee-high combat boots, a small veil pinned into her hair.
“Yeah, it seemed like you guys were getting close lately. Did she seem sad?” Lili asked.
“Does it really matter?” Emma said, her voice breaking. “She’s gone. The ‘why’ doesn’t change that.”
The girls fell silent. Across the lawn, Emma watched as the funeral officiant leaned over to talk to Dr. Banerjee, who hadn’t moved from his seat, a faraway look on his face. Emma had seen the doctor several
weeks before, when he had treated her mother. He’d been patient and kind, even when Becky had been violent. Now his worst nightmare was coming true—and so soon on the heels of his wife’s death.
“Excuse me,” she told her friends, and walked around the now-empty chairs toward where he sat.
People nodded at her as she passed. Coach Maggie stood with a group of tennis players, looking shocked and heartbroken. Clara was with them, tears running down her cheeks.
The officiant hugged Dr. Banerjee one last time, then joined the crowd, leaving him alone. Emma hesitated. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for his loss and that Nisha had become a good friend to her.
But more than that, she wanted to find out what he thought about Nisha’s death—and where his daughter had been before she died.
Before she could decide what to say, someone else sat down next to Dr. Banerjee. Her body tensed as she recognized Detective Quinlan in ceremonial dress blues, his hat in his hands. Quinlan was hardly a fan
of Sutton Mercer—he had a file three inches thick on Sutton’s Lying Game exploits, and he had arrested Emma for shoplifting two months earlier. She instinctively ducked behind a headstone a few feet away.
Quinlan’s voice was a low, sympathetic rumble. Leaning back against the cool marble, Emma strained her ears to hear what he was saying. She caught “so sorry” and “tragic” and was about to back away from
the two men when the word “autopsy” drifted to her.
Dr. Banerjee shook his head violently at whatever Quinlan had just said.
“Look, Sanjay.” Quinlan’s voice was patient but firm. “There weren’t any signs of a struggle. No defensive wounds, no bruises, no handprints. It was just an accident.”
“No.” Dr. Banerjee’s hands remained folded neatly in his lap, but his muscles were tight across his face. “Nisha has been swimming since she was two. She would have had to have tripped and hit her head
for it to be an accident. But no bruises? No concussion?” He paused, his mouth writhing for a moment before he could speak again. “My daughter was murdered.”
Quinlan hesitated, his lips downturned beneath his mustache. “There’s more,” he said softly. “I hate to tell you like this. But the examiner found extremely high amounts of diazepam in her bloodstream.
That’s . . .”
“Valium. Yes, I am a doctor,” Nisha’s father snapped. His knuckles went white as he squeezed his fingers together harder. “She doesn’t have a prescription for Valium.”
Quinlan sighed, rubbing his stubbled jaw. “I know. We checked her records.”
“Then what are you . . .”
“I know it’s hard to hear. But Nisha had a very bad year.” Quinlan looked uncomfortable. He turned his hat over and over in his hands. “I don’t want to sound like I’m accusing her of anything. But
Sanjay, teens try new things and don’t always know their limits.”
Dr. Banerjee’s voice was hard. “Her room was all torn up, Shane. Someone went through and ripped the place to bits. Someone was looking for something.”
Quinlan shrugged. “There was no sign of forced entry, and we didn’t find anybody’s fingerprints in there. Only yours and hers. Nisha must have done that herself. Sometimes people do strange things when
they’re in an altered state.”
Dr. Banerjee sat very still for a long moment, looking down at his hands. His glasses were askew on his nose, and it gave him a slightly manic look. Quinlan looked awkwardly around. For a moment Emma almost
felt sorry for him.