Two Truths and a Lie

Her heart pounded. She glanced over her shoulder just as a police car turned out of the parking lot, its sirens blazing. For a few agonizing seconds, she was sure the cops were coming for her—maybe planting this important piece of evidence in the car was a test, and she was in trouble for not volunteering it. But then the car zipped past her, the officer at the wheel staring straight ahead. She let out a long breath. The cops weren’t after her. They didn’t even know what she’d found.

I only hoped it led to an answer.

23

THE PSYCHOPATH TEST

Emma drove exactly one and a half miles before she pulled over again, this time in the parking lot of the Tucson Botanical Gardens. Brightly colored blooms could be seen behind the gates. Hummingbirds flitted to feeders. But the gardens were closed for the afternoon, and the lot was almost empty. It seemed like the perfect place to sit and think. There was no way she could wait to look up Dr.

Sheldon Rose until she got home. She had to investigate this now.

Grabbing Sutton’s iPhone from the passenger’s seat, Emma typed DR. SHELDON ROSE into the search engine. In seconds, the results appeared, listing dozens of doctors across the country. Gastroenterologists. Cardiologists.

Some guy who did “Chakra Cleansing.” There were client testimonials, locations, and telephone numbers. Papers authored by various doctors named Sheldon Rose popped up with titles like “The Brain in Motion” and “Healthy Liver, Healthy Life.” And then there were PhD doctors—a Sheldon Rose who taught Victorian literature at the University of Virginia, a Sheldon Rose who worked on smoking cessation therapy in New Hampshire, and one who headed up the MIT computer science department.

Emma clicked on the link to a primary care doctor; maybe Thayer had caught some kind of flu or infection while he was in hiding. The website showed six doctors who worked in a white brick medical facility called Wyoming Health. Dr. Sheldon Rose of Casper, Wyoming, stared back at her with a smug look on his pockmarked face. It didn’t seem like the right answer.

A car honked on the street. A bunch of kids rode by on BMX bikes. A shadow around the side of a gas station across the street caught Emma’s eye, but when she looked closer, she didn’t see anyone there. Calm down, she thought. No one followed you. No one knows you’re here.

She scrolled through the next page of search results.

She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for—or how long it would take to find it—but there had to be something, and she’d know it when she saw it. She clicked on link after link, dead end after dead end. After ten minutes, she was about to give up, when suddenly she came upon a website for a Dr. Sheldon Rose in Seattle, Washington. When she opened it, her breath caught in her throat. The home page featured an emblem of an eagle with its wings stretched wide and its head tipped up and to the left. There were tiny initials below its talons that read SPH. It looked like the very same eagle in Thayer’s tattoo.

Her pulse raced as she clicked on the links. A photo of Dr. Sheldon Rose gazed back at her with black eyes nearly hidden behind thick, red-framed glasses. His shaved head and wide jaw made him look more like a bouncer at a motorcycle bar than a doctor. A sick feeling slivered through Emma’s stomach as she scanned his bio: DR.

SHELDON ROSE IS A PSYCHIATRIST WHO SPECIALIZES IN

PSYCHOPATHIC BEHAVIOR AND OTHER EXTREME MENTAL

DISORDERS. He treated his patients at Seattle Psychiatric Hospital—SPH. A mental hospital. The words on the tiny screen blurred before Emma’s eyes. Had Thayer been admitted to a mental hospital? Is that why he had a tattoo of an eagle on his arm? And what did that say about the state he’d been in on the night of Sutton’s disappearance?

I thought again about how furious Thayer had been when he’d chased me down the trail. It was like something in him had truly snapped. Or maybe like he’d gone off his medication.

Emma picked up Sutton’s cell with shaking fingers and dialed the main number listed for the hospital. A ring sounded in her ear before a woman picked up and announced, “Seattle Psychiatric.”

“I’m calling to see if you’ve treated a patient there,” Emma said. “His name is—”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s confidential. We can’t give out patients’ names.” An annoyed click sounded from the other end.

Duh. Of course they weren’t going to give out that kind of information. Emma ran a hand through her hair, wondering how she was going to find this out. A garbage truck rumbled past. The wind kicked up, bringing with it the mingled scents of rotting trash and flowers from the gardens. Emma peered at the gas station across the street again, searching for the phantom shadow. When she was certain no one was there, she cleared her throat and redialed the same number.

“Seattle Psychiatric.” This time it was a man’s voice.

“I’m calling to speak to Dr. Sheldon Rose,” Emma said, assuming a professional tone.

“Can I tell him who’s calling?” The voice sounded bored, as though he wanted to be anywhere in the world other than a reception desk.

“Dr. Carole Sweeney,” Emma said, pulling a doctor’s name out of thin air. It was the name of her favorite pediatrician—and she’d had at least a dozen of them.

During the ten months she’d lived with a foster family in northern Nevada, Dr. Sweeney treated Emma and the six other children in the foster home. Their foster mom couldn’t afford a babysitter, so every time one of the six got sick, she lugged them all to her office. Dr. Sweeney’s waiting room was full of rainbow-colored building blocks, tattered stuffed animals, and coloring books scattered across a red plastic table in the center. When Emma and her foster siblings used to chase each other around the table, making tons of noise, Dr. Sweeney never yelled at them.

“Please hold,” said the male voice.

Emma’s heart pounded. Piano music tinkled through the phone as she waited.

“Dr. Rose’s office,” a woman’s voice said.

“Is the doctor available?” Emma tried to sound rushed and important.

“No, he’s not in, can I take a message?”

“Who am I speaking with?” Emma asked.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other line.

“This is Penny, Dr. Rose’s nurse,” the voice finally said.

“This is Dr. Carole Sweeney from Tucson Medical,” Emma blurted. She kept her voice urgent, as though she was in the middle of a life-or-death situation. “I’ve just admitted a patient by the name of Thayer Vega. He’s in bad shape.”

“Bad shape? What do you mean?”

Emma felt a twinge of guilt. She hated lying like this.

But I was impressed. Was this the same girl who used to question the morality of the Lying Game and the pranks we pulled? And here she was impersonating a doctor—

which had to be ill egal—while trying to learn confidential medical information. My, my, how playing Sutton Mercer had changed her.

“He’s, um, unconscious,” Emma went on. “I just need to know the date he was released from your care.” The nurse let out an aggravated breath. “One moment.” Her fingers clicked across computer keys. “Aha. Thayer Vega was in and out of treatment and was released for good on September twenty-first of this year—against doctor’s orders. Now, what did you say your name was?

What hospital are you at?”

Emma quickly hit end. She was suddenly trembling so badly that the phone tumbled from her hands and into the foot well. Disbelief and fear mingled in her mind. It was true.

Thayer had been in a psychiatric hospital … and he’d been in and out of treatment, and then left against doctor’s orders. Uncured. On the loose. He might have been—he might be—a psychopath.

And I might have picked the wrong guy to mess with.

24

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU

ARE?

“Tonight is going to be awesome,” Charlotte said on Friday morning as she and Emma walked down the Holl ier science wing. The air smelled like charred chemicals and gas from Bunsen burners. “Cornelia is planning an awesome meal for us. We’ll meet at my place, eat and get ready, and then head over to set up for the secret party.

Sound good?”

“Sure,” Emma said cautiously, staring down at her bare knee poking through Sutton’s carefully distressed jeans. She’d never understood buying three-hundred-dollar jeans that were made to look old—why couldn’t you just go to Goodwil and get a genuinely worn-in pair?

Uh, because stuff from Goodwil isn’t cool? I didn’t care how savvy Emma was with making cheap stuff look stylish.

Brand names were always king in my world.

“See you later!” Charlotte trilled as they turned to the foreign language wing, peeling off for Spanish class while Emma entered the German room. Faded white chalk marking verb conjugations lingered on the blackboard, and someone had drawn a frowning stick figure with a dream bubble that read I’D RATHER BE ANYWHERE BUT HERE . The faint smell of glue wafted through the air. Emma spotted Ethan slumped in a seat in the corner of the classroom. He glanced up at her and quickly averted his eyes. Her stomach twisted.

Frau Fenstermacher wasn’t in class yet, so Emma stalked over to the chair where Ethan sat. She stood there for almost ten seconds, but he pointedly didn’t look her way.

“We need to talk,” she finally said, her voice determined.

“I don’t think so,” Ethan said, his head still turned toward the window.

“I do.” Emma grabbed Ethan’s arm until he stood, and pulled him out of the classroom. A couple of kids stopped and stared, probably wondering why Sutton Mercer was taking Ethan Landry by the hand. But Emma didn’t care who looked. She needed to sort this out with Ethan— now.

A smattering of students filtered through the hall, hustling in the final moments before the bell. Emma glanced to her left and saw Frau Fenstermacher’s shapeless form approaching. Emma steered Ethan toward the next corridor, praying they’d gone unseen. They pushed through two glass doors that emptied onto a long stretch of lawn abutting the track.

Ethan shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his mud-colored cargo shorts. “We should go back inside.”

“There are a few things I need to say,” Emma interrupted, walking toward the track. “And you need to listen.”

She opened the gate and they crossed the patch of lawn that stretched before the white starting line. Silver hurdles were assembled in straight columns. A water bottle lay tipped over next to a forgotten clipboard. They climbed the bleachers slowly, their shoes making tinny clanking noises on the metal planks. Emma wandered down a row halfway to the top. She sat on the hard metal and Ethan followed suit. The wind whipped across Emma’s face. She pulled her long hair into a ponytail and turned to face Ethan.

“I don’t want to prank you,” she said. “I never did, and I’m not going to let them go through with it. It’s just hard, with everything going on, to know how to best derail it without giving myself away.”

Ethan pretended to be fascinated with the stitching on his pockets. Two students from Fashion Design class sped by on bicycles, apparently also skipping class.