The Lying Game #4: Hide and Seek

by Shepard, Sara

  Hours later, Emma woke with a start, her throat burning. It was 3 A.M., which Becky used to call the witching hour. Becky had been a night owl, and without fail, Emma would hear her pacing their apartment at 3 A.M. on the dot.

  A tear-shaped night-light on Madeline’s wall cast an eerie blue glow across the floor. The house was silent except for Mr. Vega’s snores, which were audible from down the hall. Emma wanted to close her eyes and fall back asleep, but it felt like her mouth had been stuffed with cotton.

  She pushed back the covers as carefully and quietly as she could. Earlier, while they’d watched TV and gossiped, Mr. Vega had stuck his head in, looking enraged. “Where are your physics books?” he’d seethed. Madeline had jumped nearly a mile. “Um, we’re taking a break,” she’d said. After that, they’d turned the TV off and barely spoken. Emma hoped Madeline wouldn’t have to pay for that when Emma left in the morning.

  The hallway bathroom was right next to Mr. and Mrs. Vega’s room, so Emma decided to head to the kitchen instead. The stairs creaked beneath her weight. She froze for a moment, sure Mr. Vega would come screaming for her. Just keep going, she told herself, staring straight ahead and creeping toward the kitchen. You aren’t doing anything wrong.

  At the end of the hall, a curved wooden vase held skinny brown branches blooming with yellow flowers. An antique silver platter sat on a coffee table in a small sitting room. Emma crossed a Navajo-style carpet and rounded the corner into the kitchen, which still smelled faintly of spices from dinner. Just as her bare feet hit the cold tile, she saw something and gasped. Thayer stood at the black granite island. He was staring at her.

  Emma jumped back. “Oh!”

  “What are you doing here?” Thayer whispered. He’d been in his room with the door shut tight when Emma had arrived earlier.

  He was wearing navy boxers and no shirt, and even the darkness couldn’t cloak his muscular shoulders and stomach. She averted her gaze fast. “Um, Mads and I are having a sleepover.”

  My pulse ratcheted up. What I wouldn’t give for a few more minutes—alone—with Thayer Vega and those shoulders.

  Thayer’s golden brown eyes traveled over Emma’s flimsy tank top. “That’s cool.”

  As hard as it was to watch Thayer look at Emma like that, a part of me wanted my twin to be even closer. I wanted Thayer to pull Emma to his chest so I could remember what it felt like to have his arms around me.

  Then he stepped toward Emma. “It’s been a long time since you slept over,” he said, his voice rough around the edges.

  Emma swallowed. Thayer was standing so close, she could smell his deodorant and the mint of his toothpaste. He glanced at the clock on the oven. “Three A.M.,” he said in a low voice. “That was our old meeting time, remember? Is that why you came?”

  “I—” Emma said haltingly. She wanted to tell Thayer no, but something was stopping her. It was like he was a magnet, yanking her toward him. “I just needed a night away from my dad.”

  Suddenly, his arm was around her waist, and his lips were just inches away.

  “Thayer,” Emma said, turning her head.

  “Sutton,” Thayer breathed into her ear.

  “I-I’m with Ethan now,” Emma blurted. She stepped away from him. “I should go.”

  Thayer held up his hands. “So go.”

  Emma knew she should leave. She really did. But something kept her there, staring at him for a moment too long. His hazel eyes drew her in. She could practically taste how much he wanted her.

  “I—” she whispered, but the rest of the sentence evaporated on her tongue.

  Don’t, I begged silently. Please. Give me a few more seconds. But then I felt the heartbreakingly familiar snap as she fled back upstairs to Madeline’s room, dragging me behind her, away from the boy I still so desperately loved.

  26

  CALL THE DOCTOR

  Thursday afternoon, Emma steered Sutton’s car into a parking space in the visitor lot of the University of Arizona Hospital and Medical Center. Sweat instantly prickled her temple, but whether it was from the blazing sun overhead or the fact that she was about to break into Mr. Mercer’s office, she wasn’t quite sure.

  A doctor dressed in sea-green scrubs emerged from the front door, talking on her cell phone and fidgeting with the stethoscope around her neck. As she passed Emma, she gave her a small smile. Emma ducked her head and didn’t smile in return, feeling like a spy.

  Could she really do this? Sneak into Mr. Mercer’s office and look through his stuff? Even though Emma and Ethan had agreed it was the best thing, she’d wrestled with the prospect. She might have shoplifted, participated in Lying Game pranks, and even ransacked Laurel’s and Thayer’s rooms all in the name of hunting down Sutton’s killer, but something about going through Sutton’s father’s office felt way more dangerous. Maybe because it was a hospital, a place with tons of video cameras and security. It would be so easy for Mr. Mercer to find out what she had done.

  Steeling herself, Emma swallowed hard and strode toward the elevator bank, pressing 3 with her index finger. That was where Mr. Mercer worked—she’d seen it on his business cards.

  Orthopedics was to the right of the elevators, and Emma strolled there as casually as she could. The place looked like any other hospital she’d ever been in: greenish walls, tall windows, and linoleum floors. The eerie smell of antiseptic and sickness hung heavy in the air, and there were drawings on the walls done by patients from the children’s wing, most of them colorful, oblong dragons or sad-eyed dogs.

  I scanned the halls, too, waiting to find something familiar, some object that would spark my memory. Had my dad brought me here after he killed me? I couldn’t help but picture him carrying my body through the corridors and down to the hospital’s incinerator.

  Emma turned a corner and entered the surgery waiting room. A receptionist in a feather headband regarded her warily from behind the front desk. “Excuse me, miss? Can I help you?”

  Emma froze. The woman’s eyes scanned her without a hint of recognition, which was probably a good thing. “Yes, actually, I’m here to see Dr. Mercer. I’m a patient of his.” She tried to look distraught, like she had a serious problem that merited Mr. Mercer fitting her in at the end of the day.

  The receptionist narrowed her eyes. “Dr. Mercer isn’t in today. He’s at a conference.”

  Shit. Emma realized she should have planned her cover better—of course the receptionist knew where Sutton’s dad was. Suddenly, though, a small man in a hospital gown and with white bedhead hair wandered down the hall. Clutching a bag of potato chips, he peered around the room as though looking for someone.

  “Grover?!” he called. “Grover, are you here?” Then, grumbling, he continued down the hall, sliding in his socked feet across the linoleum like he was ice-skating.

  The receptionist stood and moved away from her post. “Mr. Hamilton!” she called. “Now how did you get all the way out here?” She rested her hand gently on his bare arm and led him through a bank of doors.

  Emma seized the opportunity and took off down another long hallway marked OFFICES. She eyed the room numbers hungrily. 311. 309. 307. Bingo.

  Be unlocked. Please, be unlocked. Emma pushed the silver handle down and used her elbow to shove the door open and shut behind her in one fluid motion. She was in.

  Mr. Mercer’s office was a perfect square and smaller than she’d imagined. A single window looked out to a man-made pond and garden. Four framed diplomas—all of them from schools in California—hung on the white walls, and a calendar with a photo of Drake romping in snow at some rustic cabin hung next to the wood desk. A leather chair was pushed back, like Mr. Mercer had abruptly shoved away from his desk and bolted from the office.

  Emma heard footsteps and instinctively threw herself against the door. Do not come in! Her heart thudded in her ears until the footsteps receded.

  Then she looked at the desk itself. It had three drawers, plus a file cabinet. An appointment book sat atop a blot
ter, and a Mac laptop was positioned near the lamp. Slowly and carefully, she opened the top drawer, not quite sure what she was looking for. A bloody knife? A bra belonging to his paramour? A signed confession? But all the drawer contained was a prescription pad, a bunch of pens, and a pocket guide of medications and symptoms.

  In the next drawer she found a mountain of paper clips, yellow highlighters, and a solar calculator. Manila folders packed with medical records sat on top of notepads marked with pharmaceutical drug names. She yanked open the third drawer to find an opened box of ballpoint pens and a checkbook. She flipped to the back where the log was kept. Score. Mr. Mercer was one of those types who still balanced his checkbook by hand instead of online. She scanned his messy handwriting, which had documented checks for a gas bill, the mortgage, several hundred dollars to a Tucson catering company called Let’s Bake Bread!, a Visa payment, Internet, and cable. Then there was a check for two hundred dollars paid to someone named Raven Jannings.

  Emma didn’t think much of it—she could be a massage therapist or one of those people who do deluxe men’s shaves. But then she flipped the page to find another check, this time for five hundred dollars, made out to Raven again. And then another, and then another. They were always varying amounts, always round numbers, and always on a Monday.

  Pulling Sutton’s phone from her pocket, Emma googled Raven Jannings. But nothing came up besides Google’s suggestion to redirect her search to Raven-Symoné.

  The black phone on Mr. Mercer’s desk rang, and Emma jumped. The caller ID flashed on the screen. Super 8 Motel, it said, showing a local Tucson number. Emma wrinkled her nose. What kind of surgery patient stayed in a seedy highway motel?

  The call ended. Emma waited a moment, staring at the small triangle at the corner of Mr. Mercer’s phone. She’d worked at the front desk of a Vegas motel once, and they’d had a phone just like this one—the triangle lit up green when a voicemail was left.

  The phone rang again, and the same number appeared on the caller ID. Emma stared at the receiver. Something was telling her to pick it up.

  Me, maybe? I was screaming it as loud as I could.

  Cautiously, Emma lifted the phone. “Hello?” she answered, her voice unsteady.

  Ragged breathing sounded on the other end.

  “Hello?” Emma asked again. “Is anyone there?”

  More breathing. “Uh, wrong number,” a woman’s voice said. She hung up fast.

  Emma’s heart pounded, a new idea taking form in her mind. Was that her? Mr. Mercer’s mistress? And was her name Raven?

  My mind swirled. Was my father seriously having an affair with someone named Raven? Gross! And did they rendezvous at a Super 8? Maybe he figured no one would run into him there—my mom clearly wouldn’t be caught dead at a seedy motel. The whole thing made me feel like I was covered in ants.

  Emma slammed the phone down just as the door handle to Mr. Mercer’s office turned. Shit. She dropped beneath the desk, crouching into a tiny ball in the space where the chair normally went, and pulled the chair in close to mask her. Please, please don’t be him, she thought frantically.

  A female voice started to hum softly. Emma’s fist slowly unclenched. A heavy stack of papers thudded on the desk above her head, followed by the sound of something being dropped into a tin box. Emma held her breath as the woman shuffled around the office, her footsteps muffled by the industrial carpeting.

  When the door clicked closed again, Emma heaved a huge sigh and crawled out from beneath the desk on shaky legs. She shoved the checkbook back into the top drawer, then pushed the chair back a few feet, just as Mr. Mercer had left it. She was just out the door and around the corner when she heard a voice behind her.

  “Dr. Mercer!”

  Cautiously, Emma peeked back around the corner and saw a nurse in pink scrubs handing a file to a doctor just out of view. “Thanks very much,” a familiar voice said. Emma’s blood ran cold. It was Mr. Mercer. Why was he back so early from the conference?

  She watched in horror as Mr. Mercer strolled to his office, files in hand, and shut the door behind him. Her heart was rocketing so fast she could barely breathe. She had just been in there. She had just missed him.

  It was like divine intervention. I’d say I had something to do with it…only I didn’t.

  Emma bolted into an open elevator and pounded the button for the ground floor. As the doors clanked shut, she leaned against the back wall and tried to catch her breath. That was way too close a call.

  Anger swelled within me as the elevator descended to the ground floor. Emma wasn’t the only one making lists now: I’d started one called Ways My Father Lies. Dutiful husband? Caring father? Ha. I thought about the checks he’d written to Raven, whoever she was. The breathing on the other end, the seedy motel she was staying at. I thought about them meeting there, doing things I didn’t dare consider.

  And then, finally, I thought of my dad operating on his patients, his hands steady, meticulous, and precise. I could only imagine that they had been just as capable as they forced the light from my eyes, and the life from my body.

  27

  THIS MEANS WAR

  When Emma pulled into the Mercers’ driveway a half hour later, she was relieved that Mr. Mercer’s SUV was nowhere in sight. She dreaded coming back, but she dreaded more what might happen if she didn’t. She opened the front door and dumped Sutton’s keys next to a stack of envelopes on the shiny black table in the foyer. Then she padded past the photographs that lined the hallway—Sutton and her father posed on vacations and family outings, always smiling. What a crock. Had he been thinking about Raven the whole time? And what had the checks he’d written her been for? Jewelry? Hotel rooms?

  Or was it hush money to keep Raven quiet about what he’d done to me?

  “Sutton?” Mrs. Mercer called from the kitchen. “Is that you?”

  Emma stopped in the hall, trapped, as Mrs. Mercer emerged from around the corner. Emma ducked her head, feeling like everything she’d just found out was written all over her face.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said, her voice way higher than usual.

  Mrs. Mercer’s hair was piled on top of her head with bobby pins holding up the pieces near her ears. Other than a streak of blush on her high cheekbones, her face was free of makeup. She’d changed from work clothes into black jogging pants and a fitted zip-up sweatshirt with an Adidas logo on the chest. Tiny pearl studs still dotted her earlobes. She’s so beautiful, Emma thought sadly. And such a good mom. Why would anyone want to cheat on her?

  That was the question I kept asking myself, over and over.

  “Are you okay, sweetie? Dad says you’ve been studying hard with the girls all week,” Mrs. Mercer said, the smile melting from her face. “You look pale. The stomach bug didn’t come back, did it?”

  Emma’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. “Oh, I’m fine. I just have this German test tomorrow. It’s going to be really tough. And so much of my grade is riding on it.” She tapped a fingernail against the railing. “I just need to lock myself in my room tonight and study. Do you mind if I eat upstairs, just this once?”

  A smile spread across Mrs. Mercer’s face. “Of course I don’t mind. You know how proud your father and I are of your test scores so far this term.”

  Emma fiddled with the strap on her bag. The Mercers had made such a big deal about Emma’s high test scores, lifting her grounding for shoplifting from Clique to attend Homecoming. Mr. Mercer, in fact, was the one who convinced Mrs. Mercer that their daughter should be rewarded for her hard work. But it had all been an act. Mr. Mercer knew the girl getting the test scores wasn’t his daughter. He was probably just rewarding her for going along with being Sutton.

  “I’ll be in my room.” Emma raced up the stairs two at a time. She shut Sutton’s door behind her and collapsed onto the bed, listening to the front door open and slam, open and slam. First Laurel came in, then Mr. Mercer. High, happy voices sounded downstairs. To Emma, they were like nails on a chalkboard.
All she could think about was that phone call from the roadside motel, the breathing on the other end.

  When a loud knock sounded on Sutton’s door, Emma shot up. Before she could say a word, the knob turned with a click, and the door creaked open.

  “Sutton?”

  Emma took in Mr. Mercer’s face. His dark eyebrows lifted. Drake stood behind him, smelling of some kind of sickly sweet dog shampoo.

  “You’re back.” Mr. Mercer held a plate of pasta slathered in tomato sauce. “I heard you were eating up here.” He stood in the doorway. “Studying hard?”

  Emma watched him. Surely he knew she wasn’t really studying. But he was playing it cool, a smile on his face, a proud look in his eyes. “Uh-huh,” she mumbled.

  Mr. Mercer nodded. “It’s amazing how you’ve improved since school started. A whole new Sutton.”

  Emma stared at Sutton’s quilt, resisting the urge to be sick. I’m a whole new Sutton because you killed the original, she thought bitterly. Are you happy that I’m doing exactly what you want? Are you glad you can continue your little affair in peace, you horrible murderer?

  All at once, she couldn’t deal with him being in here another second. She jumped up from the bed, grabbed the plate and silverware, and turned her back. “Thanks, Dad,” she said, spitting out the words. Then she kicked the door closed on him, and turned the lock with an audible click.

  That’s right, Sis, I thought. Get him out of there.

  Once she was sure Mr. Mercer had returned downstairs, she grabbed Sutton’s laptop and googled local Super 8 Motels. The second number listed looked familiar—she could have sworn it was the one that showed up on the caller ID in Mr. Mercer’s office. Taking a deep breath, she dialed.

  Someone answered on the third ring. “How may I help you?” It was a bored voice. The TV blared in the background.

  Emma took a breath. “Can you connect me to Raven Jannings’s room?” she asked in a barely audible whisper.