A particular one lingered in both our minds: Thayer Vega, Madeline’s estranged brother, who’d skipped town last spring. As did Laurel, meaning they were all cleared. There were some things Emma and I had figured out: My friends all had alibis for the night I died. If I wanted to find out what had happened to me, I would have to rely on Emma … and hope that she caught my killer before my killer caught her. It was like getting a few random screen-grabs from a ninety-minute movie and trying to make sense of the entire plot. Every once in a while I would get a sudden flash of lucidity and a whole scene would snap into brilliant clarity, but the moments before and after it? Complete blanks. There were whole chunks of my life that had been wiped clean from my mind, and I was left wondering who I’d been, what I’d done, and who I’d pissed off so much that they’d murdered me and then tricked my sister into assuming my identity. The worst part? I didn’t even remember who killed me. Over the past month she had perfected my mannerisms, answered to my name, and worn my clothes, all with the aim of being me until my murderer was exposed. She even laughed the same way I did-loud, staccato, and a bit sarcastic. Her heavy-lidded eyes sparkled with my favorite silver MAC shadow. Her legs were curled beneath her on the plush white sofa in the exact same way I used to sit. Her legs were curled beneath her on the plush friends. That night, I watched as my twin sister sat among my friends. Bizarre, right? I didn’t think the afterlife would be like this either. Everywhere she went, I went, like we were still sharing the same womb. I’d died a month ago and was now perched somewhere between the land of the living and the great beyond, watching my life continue, but with Emma as the star. My BFFs were talking to my long-lost twin, Emma, who’d taken my place. The girl my best friends were laughing with, the girl they thought was me … wasn’t. My iPhone had dozens of photos of past sleepovers that looked exactly like it: a shot of my best friend, Madeline, holding up a picture of a model with fringe bangs and asking if the look would flatter her heart-shaped face one of my other besties, Charlotte, sucking in her cheeks to apply the new shade of blush she’d bought at Sephora one of my adoptive sister, Laurel, snickering at a D-list celeb in Us Weekly and plenty of photos of me, Sutton Mercer, looking like the glamorous, powerful “It girl” I was.īut on this particular night, something was different …Īnd five out of the six girls didn’t even know it. If anyone had peeked through my window, they would have thought it was just a normal slumber party, a festive night that involved popcorn, manicures, and six gorgeous girls from the most exclusive clique at Holl ier High giving each other makeovers, sharing juicy gossip, and plotting their next prank for the Lying Game.
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