“So what now?” Laurel asked, her eyes on Emma. Her jaw was set determinedly. “We have to find this Emma girl, right? I mean, she’s our sister. Our niece. Our . . . uh, whatever.”

Mrs. Mercer nodded firmly. “We’re going to try to track her down. We would at least like to meet her, make sure she’s safe and happy where she is. Maybe make her a part of our family, if she wants to be.” She tilted her head at Emma questioningly. “Did she tell you anything else, Sutton? Where Emma might be, or what her last name was?”

Emma bit hard on the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from escaping. It was so unfair—they wanted to look for her, wanted to make her safe, and she was right in front of them, in as much danger as she’d ever been in. “No,” she whispered. “Becky didn’t tell me anything else.”

Mr. Mercer sighed, then leaned over to kiss the top of Emma’s head. “Don’t worry,” he said. “One way or another, we’ll find her. And in the meantime—I promise that we’ll be honest with each other from now on.”

For one brief, frantic moment, Emma thought about coming clean. The idea terrified her—they’d be devastated. She would have to tell them that the girl they’d raised as their own daughter was dead—and that she’d helped to cover it up. But it would be a relief, too. She would have help in her investigation, maybe even protection. She would be able to let go of the heavy weight that had pressed down upon her since the first morning she’d woken up in Tucson.

But then she thought about the murderer, always watching her—leaving notes on her car, strangling her at Charlotte’s house, dropping lights from the catwalk in the theater at school. She thought about Nisha, calling her over and over, and then, just like that . . . dying. She couldn’t expose her family to that kind of danger. She couldn’t risk it.

Mrs. Mercer cleared her throat. “I know you girls will want to tell your friends, but for the time being, I’d appreciate it if we could keep this information private. Your father and I are still debating the best way to go about searching for Emma, and . . . there’s still a lot for us to talk about.”

Laurel’s jaw stiffened belligerently for a moment, and Emma was sure she was going to argue. But then she took Mrs. Mercer’s hand and squeezed it. “Sure, Mom,” she said, her voice gentle. “We can keep a secret.”

In the hallway, the clock struck the quarter hour.

“We need to go,” Mr. Mercer said softly. “We’ll be late.”

“I have to run to the bathroom,” Emma said, needing a second to compose herself. She grabbed her clutch and hurried down the hall. As soon as she was alone, Emma leaned over the sink. In the mirror, her skin looked milky pale, her blue eyes brighter than usual. I’m doing the right thing, she told herself. No matter what, she needed to keep her family safe.

I was glad Emma was looking out for my family. But as I stared into her face, so achingly like my own, I couldn’t help but wonder: Who would keep Emma safe?

2

A GRAVE MATTER

“It is with much sadness today that we offer up our farewells to Nisha. She was a vibrant, talented girl, and we will miss her.”

The funeral was a graveside service, set among the sycamores and salt cedars of the cemetery. The sun blazed from its late-fall angle in the sky, sending a melancholy sheen over the gray and white tombstones. Emma sat on a folding chair between Madeline Vega and Charlotte Chamberlain, Sutton’s two best friends. Right behind them sat the Twitter Twins, their cell phones in their purses for once. Laurel sat next to them, hiccupping with silent tears. The entire school had turned out, including most of their teachers and Principal Ambrose. Emma caught sight of Ethan standing in the shade of a tree, wearing the black shirt and black tie he’d been in for the news interview.

The officiant, a broad-hipped woman in a white sari, went on. “It is especially cruel to lose someone so young. Nisha was brimming with potential. The temptation to dwell on all she could have done if she had survived is great. We want to lament how she might have changed the world, how she might have gone on to such great heights.”

Behind the woman in the sari sat the coffin, its polished oak gleaming in the sunlight. It was closed; there had been no viewing. The service was shaping up to be a short one. Before the officiant had gotten up to deliver the final eulogy, there’d been a handful of scattered readings from Nisha’s friends, and the Hollier High show choir had sung “Wind Beneath My Wings.” Privately Emma could imagine Nisha snickering at the choice—she hadn’t been a sentimental girl. But there hadn’t been a dry eye in the audience. Charlotte had burst into gasping sobs, mascara running down her cheeks, and Madeline, pale and trembling, balled up her skirt in her fists.

I watched the crowd wistfully. Would I ever have a funeral? What would people say about me then? Would they cry? Watching the casket and the deep hole next to it, a chill went through me—somewhere, my own remains lay hidden, separated violently from my spirit and left to rot. I looked around again, half-hoping to find an ethereal Nisha. But I was the only ghost here as far as I could see.

The officiant had a resonant, musical voice, tinged with the same faint Anglo-Indian accent Dr. Banerjee had. “But I believe we do Nisha a disservice, focusing on what could have been. As we say our good-byes, I ask you not to dwell on what has been lost but to think of what we gained by having Nisha in our lives.”

A small string ensemble played an instrumental arrangement of the Beatles’ “Let It Be” as everyone rose from their chairs and started to mingle.

Charlotte dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a tissue she’d pulled from the depths of her bag. Her long red curls had been pinned up behind her head, but stray coils fell on either side of her round, freckled face. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe she’s dead.”

“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.

“Look,” he finally said in an undertone Emma had to strain to hear. “If there are any people you have a funny feeling about—strange people hanging around the house, boys who seemed too aggressive with her—if she had any enemies, give me their names. I’ll look into it. But right now, I have no evidence, no leads, no clues. Give me something to work with.”