Emma grabbed a spare toilet paper roll from the shelf and threw it across the room. It bounced off the tiled wall and fell into the tub. Then she sank to the woolly mat on the bathroom floor. The room was enormous, with a mini sauna and a vanity containing enough cosmetics to outfit Sephora. Photographs of Charlotte and the rest of the crowd were plastered all over the walls, some of them in frames, some of them pinned up with tacks, others crammed into the corners of the mirrors. Madeline stood in fifth position over the toilet. A shirtless Garrett grinned at her from next to the shower stall.
Most of the pictures were of Sutton. She stared, smiled, smirked, and blew kisses from every angle. She curtsied and cackled, spun with her arms outstretched, and Vogue-posed in fancy dresses, the missing silver locket dangling around her neck. Emma suddenly despised the sight of her sister. She glowered at the photo closest to her, a candid of Sutton, Charlotte, and Madeline standing in front of In-N-Out burger, shoving Double Doubles into their open mouths. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed an eyeliner pencil from the sink and drew a pig’s nose over Sutton’s face. After a moment, she added devil horns and a tail. There. It made her feel a tiny bit better.
She heard the girls snicker in the bedroom. Emma stood up, glared at her wild-animal expression in the mirror, and splashed cold water on her face. There was only one thing she could do: ruin Sutton’s stupid prank before she could leap out from wherever she was hiding and scream, “Gotcha!” There was no way she was going to let Sutton win.
“Emma . . .” I wished so badly that she could see my flickering body and understand this wasn’t a joke. That I was dead, really and truly. It was one thing when she rolled her eyes at my life and wrinkled her nose at my boyfriend, but I didn’t want her to think I was the kind of person who would use her own long-lost sister that way. I didn’t want to be that kind of person.
And then, all at once, the fluorescent light on the ceiling burnt out.
“Hello?” Emma called. She fumbled for the doorknob but couldn’t find it anywhere. Her foot hit the metal trash can with a clang. Something crashed on the other side of the door. Charlotte screamed.
“Sutton? Was that you?” Laurel called. An alarm sounded from downstairs. There were footsteps . . . and then a siren. Emma trembled.
All of a sudden, the darkness sparked something in my mind. Spots appeared in front of my eyes. I heard a whooshing sound in my ears. And then I was back in that creek bed behind the resort again, calling Laurel’s name, a hand over my eyes, a knife against my neck. Scream and you’re dead. And just like that, I saw what happened next. . . .
Chapter 18
WHO’S LAUGHING NOW?
“Scream and you’re dead,” the voice hisses in my ear, the knife still at my throat. Someone restrains my arms behind my back and ties a scarf so tightly around my eyes that the fabric presses into my eye sockets. Next they pull a gag around my mouth, the cotton digging into my cheeks. Hands shove me forward. Sandy gravel crunches under my feet and brambles scratch my legs. I hear footsteps next to me. Keys jingle.
I am pushed up a small hill. My toe hits a jutting rock, and cold pain streaks up my spine. I cry out, but then someone behind me pinches my arm. “What part of ‘Scream and you’re dead’ don’t you understand?” The blade digs deeper into my skin.
After a minute of walking, we halt abruptly. A sharp beep punctuates the air, a car door unlocking. I hear the hydraulic hiss of a trunk opening wide. “Get in.” Someone shoves me from behind, and I fall forward. My cheek hits what feels like the spare tire at the back. My legs bend awkwardly to fit the space. Thump. The trunk slams shut again, and all is quiet.
I smile to myself in the darkness. Let the next round of the Lying Game begin.
My friends had me going for a couple of minutes, but they can’t fool me for long. I can’t wait until they lift the trunk again, probably hoping to take a picture of me paralyzed with fright. Lame! I’ll scream, scaring them instead. Could you have been any more obvious? “Scream and you’re dead” was my line—I used it on Madeline when I sneaked into her bedroom last spring while pretending to be a burglar. Laurel probably said it, knockoff that she is. They’re going to pay for this though. Maybe in the form of a 150-minute massage at La Paloma tomorrow. I’ll need one to undo all the kinks in my back from squeezing into this tiny space.
Then the engine growls. The car backs up and pivots to the right, shifting me into an even more uncomfortable, Twister-like position. I frown. We’re going somewhere? What’s the point of that? I roll again when the car lurches into drive, banging my knee against the underside of the hood. “Mmmm,” I moan through the gag. Can’t they be a little gentler on me? Keep this up and I’ll be sidelined from tennis this year. I wriggle my hands to see if I can free them to remove the scarf from my eyes, but whoever bound them must have taken an advanced Boy Scout class in knot tying. Probably Laurel again. More than likely Thayer had taught her. The two of them always used to do queer Outward Bound shit like that.
Gravel crackles beneath the tires, then gives way to the smooth, even sound of freshly tarred pavement. The highway. Where are we going? I strain to listen for conversation inside the car, but it’s dead silent. No pounding radio. No high-pitched giggles. Not even a low murmur. I try to move my knee, but it’s wedged against the spare tire. “Mmm!” I call again, louder this time. “Mmm?” I kick the carpeted side of the trunk that borders the backseat. Hopefully I’m kicking someone’s back.
The car doesn’t stop. The tires buh-bump over the concrete highway. The gag around my mouth cuts into my skin. My back aches. My fingers begin to lose feeling from the tight bind. I thrash some more, but it makes no difference. The car keeps going.
And then a nervous thought sears my brain: Maybe this isn’t a prank at all. Maybe I’ve been kidnapped.
Amusement gives way to white-hot fear. I scream as loud as I can. I press my wrists against the rough rope, the scratchy fibers cutting my skin. My friends and I do crazy things to one another, but we know when to stop. We’ve never sent anyone to the hospital. No one ever gets hurt—not physically anyway. I think of that voice in my ear. It had sounded like Charlotte’s attempt at a gruff baritone . . . but maybe it wasn’t. I kick at the back of the trunk. I shift as best I can and kick at the ceiling above me, hoping the trunk will pop open. I kick again and again, the flip-flops sliding off my feet. It feels like we’ve driven far by now, maybe into the desert. No one will know where to find me. No one will even know where to look. “Mmm!” I scream, again and again.