Emma leaned forward, hoping she would elaborate on Thayer Vega. “And what’s with Charlotte’s mother?” Mrs. Mercer said instead, wrinkling her nose. “Every time I open the paper, she’s in another dress, christening a boat on Lake Havasu with a bottle of champagne.”

Mr. Mercer stabbed a bite of steak. “Mrs. Chamberlain’s dresses are very . . . interesting.”

“You mean inappropriate?” Mrs. Mercer pressed her hand to her mouth. “Sorry, girls. It’s not nice to talk about people. Right, James?”

“Indeed,” Mr. Mercer murmured. Then his gaze settled laser beam–like on Emma. An alarmed expression flashed across his face. Emma tilted her head nervously. Her heart began to pound. He was suddenly staring at her like he knew.

Then he looked away. Emma sliced the baked potato open and mashed the starchy insides, just as she’d done since she was a little kid. “Maybe Madeline and Charlotte get in trouble because their parents are, like, preoccupied with other things.”

Mrs. Mercer leaned back in her chair. “Well! How astute of you, Oprah.”

Emma shrugged nonchalantly. It was practically the first lesson in Foster Children Psychology 101—most kids acted out when they weren’t getting enough attention or nurturing. They had no parents to help them with homework or attend their sports games or encourage them to enter science fairs. No one read them bedtime stories, or gave them kisses every night, or sat down with them at nice family dinners.

Something suddenly occurred to her. In a way, this was the first real family dinner she’d had in, well, ever. Even with Becky, most meals were either in the car after hitting the drive-through or on trays in front of the TV. Or else Emma ate a bowl of cereal alone while Becky delivered an hour-long soliloquy to an empty apartment courtyard.

Jealousy rippled through her once more, but she quickly brushed it aside and thought again of the note. Sutton’s dead. Emma would never have a family dinner with her sister.

Everyone was silent for a while, forks clanking against plates, spoons scraping against serving dishes. Mr. Mercer’s beeper went off; he checked it and slid it back in its holster. Emma caught him staring at her a few more times. Finally he pressed his palms to the table. “Okay, this is driving me nuts. When did you get that scar on your chin?”

Emma’s heart shot to her throat. Everyone turned and looked at her. “Uh, what scar?”

“There.” He pointed across the table. “I’ve never seen that before.”

Laurel squinted. “Oh yeah. Weird!”

Mrs. Mercer frowned.

Emma touched her chin. She’d gotten the scar when she’d fallen off the Hamburglar at McDonald’s Playland. She’d blacked out for a couple of seconds, and when she came to, she’d expected to see Becky standing over her comfortingly. Instead Becky was nowhere in sight. Emma finally found her on the other side of Playland, crying her eyes out while rocking back and forth on a Fry Guy ride, her knees jackknifed up so that her feet fit in the little stirrups. When Becky saw the blood gushing from Emma’s chin, it just made her cry harder.

Emma couldn’t very well tell Mr. Mercer that. She lifted her water glass to her lips. “It’s been there for a while. I guess you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

“Is that because you’re some girl named Emma?” Sutton’s mom quipped.

Emma nearly choked on her water. There was a wry, almost devious smile on Sutton’s mom’s face. “And how is Emma today, by the way?” Mr. Mercer added with a wink.

Mrs. Mercer gazed at Emma, waiting for her answer. She was kidding, wasn’t she? Emma was no longer sure. She wasn’t sure about anything. “Uh, Emma’s a little disoriented,” she said quietly.

Little did my family know how true that answer really was.

Chapter 13

THE BODY ON THE GROUND

An hour and a half later, Emma walked down the front path from Sutton’s house and made a right turn toward the big park at the end of the development. After some thought, she’d decided to take Mrs. Mercer’s advice and practice her tennis swing. Maybe she’d miraculously improve and kick Nisha’s perky, tennis-skirted ass tomorrow—or, at the very least, she wouldn’t do a face-plant while trying for a drop shot.

Her BlackBerry, nestled in the tennis bag along with Sutton’s iPhone, beeped. ALEX, said the Caller ID.

“So you are alive!” Alex cried when Emma answered. “You were supposed to check in with me last night! I thought you fell into the canyon!”

Emma laughed grimly. “No, I’m still here.”

“So?” Alex said. “How is it? Is your sister awesome? Have you bonded?”

“Uh . . .” Emma sidestepped a Razor Scooter a kid had abandoned on the sidewalk. It was hard to believe she’d only been here for a day. “She’s great. We’re having a great time.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound forced. On instinct she looked behind her, sure someone was listening.

“So are you going to stay there for a while? Are you going to move in with her? Are you just dying?”

Emma swallowed hard, the menacing SUTTON’S DEAD note flashing through her mind for the billionth time. Something like that. “We’ll see.”

“I’m so thrilled for you!” The phone cut out for a second. “Ugh, I’ve got another call,” Alex said. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? You’ll have to tell me everything!”

And then she hung up. Emma held the warm phone to her ear for a few seconds more, the guilt gushing inside her like a broken fire hydrant. She’d never lied to Alex before, especially about something so momentous. Not that she really had a choice.

A snapping noise made Emma freeze. Was that . . . a footstep? She slowly turned around, the silence ringing in her ears. The night had grown dark and still. A red security system light blinked from the dash of an SUV at the curb. Something moved by the front wheel, and Emma leapt back. A sand-colored lizard skittered from underneath the car and raced around a large wheeled trash bin.

She ran her hands down the length of her face, trying to calm down. The park loomed at the end of the street, a large expanse of well-manicured grass, playgrounds, and ball fields. She jogged the rest of the way, the tennis bag jostling against her hip. A couple of sweaty, shirtless guys were packing up their gear on the basketball court. Two joggers stretched by a large green trash receptacle.

A silver parking meter–style machine stood outside the chain-link entrance to the tennis courts. SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS FOR THIRTY MINUTES, said a small sign on the post. Emma glanced around nervously. The basketball players had left abruptly, taking most of the noise with them. Wind swished in her ears. There was another tiny sound to her left, like someone swallowing. “Hello?” Emma called softly. No answer.

Get a grip, she told herself. Squaring her shoulders, she shoved a couple of quarters into the narrow slots of the meter. Floodlights snapped on overhead, so blinding that Emma winced and shielded her eyes. She opened the chain-link door and looked out onto the blue-green courts. And then . . . she saw it. A guy splayed face-up in the middle of the court, his arms and legs stretched out in an X.

Emma screamed. The guy shot up, which made Emma scream even louder and toss the racket toward his head. It clanged against the court and landed near the net. The guy squinted hard at her face.

“Sutton?” he said after a moment.

“Oh!” Emma said. Ethan.

Ethan scooped up the tennis racket and walked over to her. He wore a black T-shirt, blue gym shorts, and gray New Balance sneakers. “I am so glad it’s you,” Emma said.

Ethan wrinkled his nose. “Do you always hurl tennis rackets at people you’re happy to see?”

Emma took the racket from him. “Sorry. You scared me. I thought you were . . .” She trailed off. My sister’s killer. An evil note-writing stalker.

“The bogeyman?” Ethan filled in.

Emma nodded. “Something like that.”

The jogging couple ran past. A low-rider car trundled by on the street, letting out a honk to the tune of The Godfather theme. Emma looked at Ethan again. “What were you doing lying in the dark?”

“Stargazing.” Ethan gestured toward the sky. “I come here almost every night. It’s a great place for it because it’s so dark here. Until you came along, that is.” He leaned against a stone-covered water fountain just outside the courts. “What are you doing here? Spying on me?”

Emma blushed. “No. I wanted to practice tennis. My game has gone from an A to a D-minus over the summer.”

“Hoping to show Nisha who’s boss?”

Emma jolted up. How did he know that?

Ethan grinned, as if reading her mind. “Your rivalry is legendary. Even I’ve heard about it.”

Emma inspected Ethan’s sharp cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and muscular shoulders. In German class, Ethan had stared out the window the whole time, not speaking to anyone. He was the only person Frau Fenstermacher hadn’t picked on. In the hall, he’d walked by himself, big Bose headphones clapped over his ears. Girls shot him appreciative glances as he passed, but he gave each of them shy shrugs and continued on.

“So do you want a practice partner?” Ethan interrupted her thoughts.

Emma cocked her head. “You mean . . . tennis?”

“No, croquet.” He smiled and gestured toward the parking lot. “I have a racket in my car. But if you don’t want to . . .”

“I’d love to.” Emma smiled. Nerves snapped and danced beneath her skin. “Thanks.”

“Okay.” Ethan’s expression was sheepish, maybe even a little nervous. They turned and both tried to walk through the chain-link exit at the same time. They collided into each other, Emma’s side hitting Ethan’s hip.

“Oops,” Emma laughed. They both stepped back at the same time. Then Emma moved forward through the exit once more. So did Ethan. They bumped again. Emma stepped on Ethan’s foot. “Sorry,” Emma said, quickly jerking away.

“I was just . . .” Ethan stepped out of the way once more, extending his arm in an after-you gesture. Emma’s cheeks burned.

Finally they each managed to step through the gate, and Ethan retrieved his tennis racket from the car. They hit the ball back and forth for a while. After a half hour had passed, Emma could feel her swing getting stronger and her footwork no longer resembling that of a headless chicken. “Wanna take a break?” Ethan called from the other side of the court.

Emma nodded. They collapsed on the bench at the sidelines. Ethan removed a bottle of Fiji water and a package of dark chocolate M&Ms from his messenger bag. “You don’t seem so rusty.”

Emma took a long drink from the water bottle, careful not to let water dribble messily down her chin. “Yeah, I do. But thanks for helping me out. It was really sweet.”

“No problem.” Ethan shrugged.

The fluorescent lights buzzed above their heads. Ethan rolled a tennis ball under his foot. “So why didn’t you want to come to the party with me yesterday?” she asked after a moment.