Читать книгу The Lying Game - Сара Шепард - Страница 7

Chapter 2

THAT’S RIGHT, BLAME THE FOSTER KID

Emma grabbed the phone from Travis’s hands and started the clip over, staring hard at the image. As the person reached out and began to choke the blindfolded girl, fear streaked through Emma’s stomach. When the anonymous hand pulled off the blindfold, Emma’s identical face appeared on the screen. Emma had the same thick, wavy, chestnut-brown hair as the girl in the movie. The same round chin. The same pink lips kids used to tease Emma about, saying they were puffy as though she’d had an allergic reaction. She shuddered.

I watched the video again in horror, too. The locket glinting in the light caused a tiny shard of a memory to surface: I remembered lifting the lid of my baby box, pulling out the locket from under a half-chewed teething giraffe, a lacy receiving blanket, and a pair of knit booties, and putting it around my neck. The video itself brought back nothing though. I didn’t know if it had happened in my backyard . . . or three states away. I wished I could slap my post-death memory across the face.

But the video had to be how I died, right? Especially from that quick flashback I’d had when I’d awakened in Emma’s bathroom: that face close to mine, my heart beating hard, my murderer standing above me. But I had no idea how this whole death thing worked: Had I popped into Emma’s world the moment after I’d taken my last breath, or was it days—months—later? And how did the video get posted online? Had my family seen it? My friends? Was this some kind of twisted ransom note?

Emma finally glanced up from the screen. “Where did you find this?” she asked Travis.

“Guess someone didn’t know she was a star on the Internet, huh?” Travis snatched the phone from her hands.

Clarice raked her fingers through her hair. She kept glancing from the video screen to Emma’s face. “Is this what you do for fun?” she asked Emma in a hoarse voice.

“She probably does it to get high.” Travis paced around the patio like a prowling lion. “I knew some girls at school last year who were, like, obsessed with it. One of them almost died.”

Clarice clapped her hand over her mouth. “What’s wrong with you?”

Emma’s eyes darted from Travis to Clarice. “Wait, no. That’s not me. The girl in this video is someone else.”

Travis rolled his eyes. “Someone who looks exactly like you?” he deadpanned. “Let me guess. A long-lost sister? An evil twin?”

There was a low rumbling of thunder in the distance. The breeze smelled like wet pavement, a telltale sign that a storm was close. A long-lost sister. The idea ignited in Emma’s mind like a Fourth of July sparkler. It was possible. She’d asked Social Services once if Becky had had any other kids she’d abandoned along the way, but they said they didn’t know.

A thought burned in my mind, too: I was adopted. That much I remembered. It was common knowledge in my family; my parents had never tried to hide it. They’d told me my adoption had been a last-minute scramble and they’d never met my birth mother. Could it be possible? It explained why I was literally stuck to this girl who looked just like me, following her around as if our souls had been tethered together.

Clarice tapped her long nails on the table. “I don’t tolerate lying or stealing in this house, Emma.”

Emma felt like she’d just been kicked in the stomach. “That’s not me in the video,” she protested. “And I didn’t steal from you. I swear.”

Emma reached for her canvas bag on the patio table. All she had to do was call Eddie, her manager at the roller coaster. He’d vouch for her hours today. But Travis got to her bag first, knocking it over so all of its contents spilled out onto the pavement.

“Oops!” he cried gleefully.

Emma watched helplessly as her tattered copy of The Sun Also Rises landed on a dusty anthill. A crumpled ticket for a free all-you-can-eat BBQ buffet at MGM Grand got caught in the breeze and drifted toward Travis’s free weights. Her BlackBerry and a tube of cherry-flavored ChapStick skittered to a stop next to a terra-cotta turtle. Last but not least, there was a suspicious-looking wad of bills held together with a thick purple rubber band. The wad thudded to the patio, bounced once, and landed in front of Clarice’s chunky heels.

Emma was too stunned to speak. Clarice snatched the money and licked her pointer finger to count it. “Two hundred,” she said when she was finished. She held up a twenty with blue scribble in the upper left-hand corner. Even in the fading light, Emma could see a big looped B, presumably for Bruce Willis. “What did you do with the other fifty?”

A neighbor’s wind chimes tinkled in the distance. Emma’s insides were frozen. “I-I have no idea how that got in my bag.”

Behind her, Travis snickered. “Busted.” He was leaning casually against the stucco wall, just to the left of the big round thermometer. He crossed his arms over his chest, and his top lip was curled in a sneer.

The hair on the back of Emma’s neck rose. All at once, she understood what was going on. Her lips started to twitch, just like they always did when she was about to lose it. “You did this!” She pointed a finger at Travis. “You set me up!”

Travis smirked. Something inside Emma broke loose. Screw keeping the peace. Screw adapting to whatever the foster family needed her to be. She shot for him, grabbing Travis by his meaty neck.

“Emma!” Clarice shrieked, pulling her off her son. Emma staggered backward, bumping against one of the patio chairs.

Clarice spun Emma around so that they were face-to-face. “What’s gotten into you?”

Emma didn’t answer. She glowered at Travis again. He had flattened himself against the wall, his arms in front of him protectively, but there was a thrilled glow in his eyes.

Clarice turned away from Emma, sank down in the chair, and rubbed her eyes. Mascara smudged on her fingertips. “This isn’t working,” she said softly after a moment. She raised her head and gazed soberly at Emma. “I thought you were a sweet, nice girl who wouldn’t cause any trouble, Emma, but this is too much for us.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Emma whispered. “I swear.”

Clarice pulled out a nail file and started nervously sawing on her pinkie. “You can stay until your birthday, but after that you’re on your own.”

Emma blinked. “You’re kicking me out?”

Clarice stopped filing. Her face softened. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “But this is the best choice for all of us.”

Emma turned away and stared hard at the ugly block wall at the back of the property.

“I wish things were different.” Clarice pulled the sliding door open and padded back into the house. As soon as she was out of view, Travis peeled himself off the wall and straightened up to full height.

He sauntered casually around Emma, scooped up the tiny nub of the joint that was still under the chair, blew off the bits of dried grass that had stuck to the tip, and dropped it into his enormous pants pocket. “You’re lucky she didn’t press charges,” he said in a slimy voice.

Emma said nothing as he swaggered back into the house. She wanted to leap up and claw his eyes out, but her legs felt like they had been filled with heavy wet clay. Her eyes blurred with tears. This again. Every time a foster family told Emma she had to move on, she invariably thought back to the cold, lonely moment when she’d realized Becky had ditched her for good. Emma had stayed a week at Sasha Morgan’s house while the police tried to track down her mom. She’d put on a brave face, playing Candy Land, watching Dora the Explorer, and making scavenger hunts for Sasha like the ones Becky had masterminded for her. But every night in the glow of Sasha’s Cinderella night-light, Emma struggled to read the parts of Harry Potter she could understand—which weren’t many. She’d barely mastered The Cat in the Hat. She needed her mom to read the big words. She needed her mom to do the voices. Even now, it still hurt.

The patio was silent. The wind blew the hanging spider plants and palm trees sideways. Emma stared blankly at the terra-cotta sculpture of a shapely woman that Travis and his friends liked to dry-hump. So that was that. No more staying here until the end of high school. No more applying to a photojournalism program at USC . . . or even community college. She had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. Unless . . .

Suddenly, the image from the video fluttered through her mind once more. A long-lost sister. Her heart lifted. She had to find her.

If only I could have told her it was too late.