The more Emma thought about it, the more she could believe she had a long-lost twin. For one thing, there were certain times in life where she felt accompanied, as if someone was watching her. Sometimes she woke up in the morning after having crazy dreams about a girl who looked like her . . . but she knew it wasn’t her. The dreams were always vivid: riding on a sun-dappled Appaloosa at someone’s farm, dragging a dark-haired doll across a patio. Besides, if Becky was irresponsible enough to forget Emma at the Circle K, maybe she’d done the same thing with another baby. Perhaps all those duplicate pairs of shoes Manic Becky bought weren’t for Emma at all, but for Emma’s twin sister, a girl Becky had already abandoned.

Perhaps Emma was right, I thought. Perhaps they’d been for me.

Emma moved the mouse over the girls standing next to Sutton in the photo. MADELINE VEGA, said a small pop-up tag. Madeline had sleek black hair, huge brown eyes, a willowy build, and a gap between her front teeth, just like Madonna. Her head tilted suggestively to one side. There was a fake—or perhaps real?—tattoo of a rose on the inside of her wrist, and her bloodred dress plunged provocatively to her breast bone.

The girl next to Madeline was a redhead named Charlotte Chamberlain. She had pink, pale skin and pretty green eyes, and wore a black silk dress that tugged over her broad shoulders. Two blondes with similar wide eyes and upturned noses stood on either end of the group. Their names were Lilianna and Gabriella Fiorello; in the caption Sutton had nicknamed them THE TWITTER TWINS.

I looked over Emma’s shoulder. I recognized the girls in the photos. I understood we used to be close. But they were like books I’d read two summers ago; I knew I’d liked them, but I couldn’t tell you now what they’d been about.

Emma scrolled down the page. Most of the Facebook profile was public. Sutton Mercer was going to be a senior this year, just like Emma. She attended a school called Hollier High. Her interests were tennis, shopping at La Encantada Mall, and the Papaya Quench full body wrap at Canyon Ranch. Under LIKES AND DISLIKES, she’d written, I love Gucci more than Pucci, but not as much as Juicy. Emma frowned at the line.

Yeah, I had no idea what it meant, either.

Next, Emma clicked on the photo page and peered at a picture of a bunch of girls in tennis polos, skirts, and sneakers. A plaque that said HOLLIER TENNIS TEAM rested at their feet. Emma rolled the mouse over the girls’ names until she found Sutton’s. She stood third from the left, her hair pulled back tautly into a smooth ponytail. Emma moved the mouse to the dark-haired Indian girl to the right. A tag over her head said NISHA BANERJEE. There was a saccharine, kiss-ass smile on her face.

I stared hard at her, a spotty, snapping sensation coursing through my weightless body. I knew I didn’t like Nisha, but I didn’t know why.

Next Emma looked at a shot of Sutton and Charlotte standing on the tennis courts next to a tall, handsome, graying man. There was no tag over his face, but the caption said, Me, C, and Mr. Chamberlain at Arizona Tennis Classic. After that was a shot of Sutton with her arms around a handsome, sweet-looking, blond-haired guy wearing a Hollier soccer jersey. Love ya, G! she’d written. Someone named Garrett had replied in the comments window: I love u too, Sutton.

Aw, Emma thought.

My heart warmed, too.

The last picture Emma clicked on was a shot of Sutton sitting around a patio table with two attractive, older adults and a dirty-blond, square-jawed girl named Laurel Mercer. Sutton’s adoptive sister, presumably. Everyone was grinning and holding slushy drinks in a toast. I heart the fam, the caption proclaimed.

Emma lingered on the photo for a long time, her chest aching. All of her daydreams about a Mom Star, Dad Star, and Emma Star family looked pretty much like this: an attractive, happy family, a nice house, a good life. If she cut her own head out of a snapshot and pasted it on Sutton’s body, the picture would look no different. Yet her story was as opposite from this as could be.

There were a few YouTube clips on the Facebook page, and Emma clicked on the first one. Sutton stood on what looked like a lush green golf course with Madeline and Charlotte. Everyone knelt down and vigorously shook canisters in their hands. Slowly, silently, they spray-painted designs on a large rock. WE MISS YOU, T, Madeline’s message said. Sutton’s message said NISHA WAS HERE.

“Where’s Laurel?” Charlotte asked.

“A thousand bucks says she’s too scared,” Sutton murmured on the screen. Her voice was so familiar it made Emma’s throat catch.

Emma clicked on the other videos. There was one of Sutton and her friends skydiving, another of them bungee jumping. A whole bunch of videos showed one of the girls walking around the corner unaware, and the rest of them ambushing her and making her scream. The last video was titled “Cross my heart, hope to die.” It opened with Madeline pirouetting into a pool at night. As soon as she hit the water, she started to flail. “Help!” she screamed, her dark hair plastered against her face. “I think I broke my leg! I . . . can’t . . . move!”

The camera wobbled. “Mads?” Charlotte cried out.

“Shit,” someone else said.

“Help!” Madeline continued to flail.

“Wait a minute,” Sutton’s voice called haltingly. “Did she say it?”

The camera zinged to Charlotte, frozen midstep. She held a red-and-white life preserver in her hands. “What?” she asked dazedly.

“Did she say it?” Sutton said again.

“I-I don’t think so,” Charlotte squeaked. She clamped her lips together and dropped the life preserver on the deck. “Very funny. We know you’re faking, Mads,” she yelled, annoyed. “Such a bad actress,” she said under her breath.

Madeline stopped splashing. “Fine,” she panted, paddling for the ladder. “But I had you going for a minute. Char looked like she was going to pee her pants.” Everyone cackled.

Whoa, Emma thought. So this was what they did for fun?

I was a little freaked, too.

Emma searched the rest of the Facebook profile for any references to the weird strangling video Travis had found, but there wasn’t a single mention. The only semi-spooky thing she found was a scan of a black-and-white flyer that said MISSING SINCE JUNE 17, a boy’s face grinning back at her. THAYER VEGA, it said in block letters under the photo. Emma clicked back to the names on Sutton’s profile picture. Madeline’s last name was Vega, too.

Finally, she clicked on Sutton’s Wall. Sutton had written a post just a few hours before: Ever wish you could run away? Sometimes I do. Emma frowned. Why would Sutton want to run away? It looked like she had everything.

I had no idea, but that post told me tons. If I’d written it only a few hours before, it meant I hadn’t been dead for long. Did anyone even know I’d been killed? I looked at the rest of my Wall that was visible on the screen. No RIP, Sutton notes or plans for a Sutton Mercer memorial. Maybe no one knew then. Maybe no one had found me? Was I lying in a field somewhere, my necklace still at my throat? I gazed down at my shimmering body. Even though no one else could see me, every so often I could just make out a tiny flicker of myself—a hand here, an elbow there, a pair of terry-cloth shorts and yellow FitFlops. I didn’t see any blood. My skin wasn’t blue.

Just as Emma was about to close up the computer, some more posts on Sutton’s Wall caught her eye. Can’t wait for your b-day party! Charlotte had written. It’s going to be sick! Emma’s birthday was coming up, too. She checked Sutton’s Info tab. The birthday listed was September 10, the same as Emma’s.

Her heart pounded. That was some coincidence.

I felt scared and hopeful and confused, too. Maybe it was real. Maybe we were twins.

After a moment, Emma opened a new window and logged into her own Facebook page. It looked paltry and pathetic next to Sutton’s—her profile picture was a blurry close-up of herself and Socktopus, and she only had five friends: Alex, an old foster sister named Tracy, Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, and two of the cast members from CSI. Then she found Sutton’s page again and clicked on the button that said SEND SUTTON A MESSAGE. When the window appeared, she typed: This will sound crazy, but I think we’re related. We look exactly the same, and we have the same birthday. I live in Nevada, not too far from you. You’re not by any chance adopted, are you? Write back or call if you want to talk.

MESSAGE SENT! the screen announced. Emma stared around the quiet room, the small fan on the desk blowing warmish air in her face. After the possibly life-altering thing that had just happened, she expected the world to have miraculously and drastically transformed—a leprechaun to dance through the open window, Clarice’s kitschy terra-cotta patio sculptures to come to life and start a conga line, something. But there was still the long, jagged crack in the plaster in the ceiling and the blotchy, M-shaped stain on the carpet near the closet.

The little clock in the corner of the laptop screen clicked from 10:12 to 10:13 P.M. She refreshed her Facebook page. She peeked out a slit in the dusty blinds at the night sky and found the Mom, Dad, and Emma stars. Her heart rollicked in her chest. What had she done? She reached for her phone and dialed Alex’s number, but Alex didn’t pick up. YOU THERE? she texted Alex, but there was no response.

The traffic on the highway grew sparse and whispery. Emma let out a long sigh, thinking of what came next. Maybe she could move back to Henderson, live in Alex’s spare room, and pay rent to Alex’s mom. She’d work full-time—perhaps night shifts at the twenty-four-hour Target near Alex’s house—and somehow finish high school, too. Maybe she could even intern at the local newspaper on the weekends. . . .

Bzzzzzzz.

Emma’s eyes popped open. Out the window, the moon had climbed high in the sky. The clock on the side table said 12:56 A.M. She’d dozed off.

Bzzzzzzz.

Her phone was flashing. She stared at it for a long moment, as if she was afraid it might leap up and bite her.

There was an envelope icon on the screen. Her heart churned faster and faster. Trembling, she clicked OPEN. Emma had to read the Facebook message four times before the words really sunk in.

OMG. I can’t believe this. Yes, I was totally adopted. But I never knew you existed until now. Can u meet me at the hiking base of Sabino Canyon in Tucson 2morro at 6 PM? Attached is my cell number. Don’t tell anyone who you are until we talk—it’s dangerous! See you soon!

Love, Sutton (your twin)

Of course, there was one problem with that note: I didn’t write it.

Chapter 4

REUNION INTERRUPTED

Late the following afternoon, Emma staggered off a Greyhound bus, her green duffel in tow. Heat radiated off the parking lot in waves; the air was so stifling that she felt like she’d just stepped into the barrel of a giant hair dryer. To her right were small adobe homes and a purple-stucco yoga studio for men called hOMbre. To her left was a large, crumbling building called the Hotel Congress, which looked haunted. Posters for upcoming concerts plastered the front windows. A couple of hipsters loitered on the street, smoking cigarettes. Beyond that was what looked like a shop for dominatrix hookers; whip-wielding mannequins in catsuits, fishnet stockings, and thigh-high boots filled the front windows.