Free True Lies: A Lying Game Novella by Sara Shepard Page B

across the back of the velvet chair in the corner of the room. The queen bed I’d claimed as my own is meticulously made up, satin pillows and thick, luxurious throws artfully draped across its surface. But nothing else lies on the bed—not the four different bikinis I tried and rejected before heading out to meet Garrett, not my vintage Louis Vuitton luggage. Running to the closet, I see that everything that was packed in the luggage is gone, too.
    Panic tickling my stomach, I glance at the safe, which swings open easily. Also empty. I think of my oriental silk jewelry roll. Inside it was my prized locket; I’d taken it off before going to the pool. It’s gone, too.
    “What the hell?” My heart pounds.
    “Um, Sutton,” Garrett calls from the living room. “I think this is for you.”
    He’s holding out a creamy peach-colored envelope with my name on it. “It was on the coffee table,” he says in a puzzled voice.
    I pluck the card from his hands and rip it open. The message is etched in Charlotte’s formal script, in flowing gray ink.
     
    Ms. Sutton Mercer:
    You are cordially commanded
    to the Grand Finale
    of the Lying Game Sudden Death Tournament.
    Come to the amusement park on the edge of the strip.
    RSVP: regrets are not an option.
    Sincerely,
    The Lying Game
     
    Understanding settles over me. This is it. The final challenge.
    Garrett puts a warm hand on my shoulder, peering to check out the note. “What’s that all about?”
    I hide the card from him. “Nothing,” I say dismissively. “But it looks like I’m going to be busy for a bit.”
    “No problem.” Garrett pecks me on the cheek. “I’ll go meet up with the guys.”
    “Don’t worry,” I say, pulling back and looking him in the eyes. “This won’t take long.”
    It’s time to show Baby Sis who the real star of the show was, is, and always will be.

11
    PARKS AND RECREATION
    An hour later, I stand at the edge of the amusement park. The sweet, fried scent of funnel cake wafts through the air. Lights from arcade games flash wildly, and there’s a loud shriek from the fun house. I glance right and left, wondering where the others are. To my right is the open part of the park with all the rides. To the left, blocked off by a big gate, is the rest of the park, which is closed for construction.
    This is it, Sutton, I tell myself. Game on.
    I exhale, nervous, and run my fingers through my hair. I’ve changed into a “borrowed” pair of Mads’s J Brand skinnies and tossed on one of her fleece hoodies, figuring she owes me, seeing as how she and Char are the ones who took my stuff in the first place. But even swathed in several layers, the evening feels cool and I shiver. More than that, I’ve always found amusement parks a little eerie.
    I hear a rustle and whirl around, but I don’t see anyone. The rustling sounds again, and suddenly someone taps my shoulder. I turn around and scream. I’m looking straight at a dead ringer for Bozo. He wears chalky whiteface, a giant red smile lined in greasy black pencil, and tufts of orange “hair” spike out over each ear. No wonder I find amusement parks creepy.
    “Sutton Mercer?” the clown asks, his grin spreading into a wide rictus. His accordion collar bobs as he talks. The pom-pom buttons on the front of his suit are as large as saucers.
    “Yeah,” I say, wary.
    “This is for you.” He plucks a horn from a pocket on the front of his traffic-cone orange jumper and tweaks its rubber honker. A shower of confetti sprays over me as the horn coughs out a little square of folded paper. A note.
    I sidle into the shaft of acid-yellow light cast by an overhead fluorescent lamp and eagerly unfold the missive. It’s a full-color map of the park along with a note, again in Charlotte’s calligraphy script and that expensive dove-gray ink: Complete the hunt, and you’ll get back the item you treasure most.
    The item I treasure most? Easy: my locket. My neckline feels naked without it. And . . .