Seven Minutes in Heaven

7 A HAND IN THE DARK

Becky’s footsteps fade away into the velvet darkness, until there’s no sound in the canyon but the wind echoing mournfully through the trees. This late, even the crickets are silent. The moon looks ghostly, shining through tattered clouds and casting strange shadows all over the clearing, warped and grotesque. Far below me, the lights of Tucson sprawl at my feet. I feel more alone than I’ve ever felt in my life.

The breeze is sharp on my damp cheeks, and I rest my hands over my face for a long moment, hiding from the world like I did when I was a kid. Between the darkness and all the crying I’ve done tonight, my eyes are starting to feel strained. The pressure of my palms soothes me, shutting out my surroundings—but it can’t shut out the memories that keep flashing through my brain. The fight with Thayer, after I’d spent so long looking forward to seeing him. The accident, the terrible crunching sound of Thayer’s leg snapping as my own car plowed into him, driven by someone I couldn’t see. My father, coming to tell me that I was his granddaughter, that my biological mother is his daughter Becky. And then Becky herself—my sad, tormented birth mom—telling me that somewhere out there, I have a twin sister.

I think of my old dream, where my reflection would step out of the mirror and we’d play together. I would always wake up feeling peaceful and somehow sad. I never wanted to leave her, this other girl who looked like me and yet wasn’t. A part of me has always known, I realize now. A part of me has always missed her.

Anger spikes through me. I lean down and pick up a handful of rocks, throwing them as hard as I can out over the side of the canyon. The muscles in my shoulder flex and burn with the effort. I’m mad at Becky. I’m mad at my grandparents. Because they couldn’t work out their own problems, I’ve been kept from my twin. I’ve been denied the one person who might have understood me, who might have made me feel less alone. It hurts, even more than the years of wondering why my birth mother abandoned me, why my parents loved Laurel more. It hurts because without this missing piece, I will never feel complete.

“Selfish!” I shriek, releasing another stone into the night air. “You’re . . . all . . . just . . . selfish!” My voice echoes around the canyon, bouncing back at me fainter and fainter until it’s gone. Then my hands are empty. I stand there for a moment, my breath heaving, my fingers clenched. I could pick up more rocks. I could throw them all night.

But suddenly I think of Becky’s ravaged face, thin and tear-streaked, its faint resemblance to my own unmistakable. I remember the stricken look on my grandfather’s face as I screamed at him earlier tonight. And the rage begins to seep out of me, like water from a sponge.

I am a long way from forgiving them. But maybe, just maybe, they’ve already punished themselves enough for their mistakes. They’ve already suffered more than I would wish on any of them.

Something snaps in the bushes. I stop and listen, my heart pounding, but whatever it is goes silent. Some nocturnal creature on its way home, probably. Turning away from the cityscape, I sit on the bench again, exhausted. I should start heading back down to the parking lot, and across the street to Nisha’s so I can make someone drive me home. But I don’t want to see any of my friends right now. They’re always waiting for me to show the slightest sign of weakness. The only person I’d let see me when I’m vulnerable like this is Thayer.

I pull out my phone and scroll to Thayer’s number—I have no service out here, but I just want to look at his picture. It’s my favorite photo of him, gazing out over Wasson Peak. Thayer normally smirks for the camera, and even though I love that signature cocky smile of his, I managed to take this picture before he realized it. This thoughtful, serious side of Thayer—this is who he is when he’s with me.

I sigh, looking at the picture and blinking back tears. I love Thayer. When we’re not fighting, we’re perfect together. We make each other stronger. The only thing that’s keeping us apart is the secrets we’ve been hiding, the lies we’ve been telling. Thayer was the one who wanted to keep our relationship a secret. And I agreed. I didn’t want to hurt Garrett or Laurel or Madeline.

But I’m tired of lies. All our sneaking around is just as bad as the secrets my parents kept from me. We’ve hurt people, including each other. I’m not afraid of how real our love is, and I don’t care who knows it.

I take a deep breath of the cool, crisp night air. I’m going to break up with Garrett and go public with Thayer. Garrett will be hurt, I know. His face will turn purple with rage, and he’ll say some mean and ugly things. But isn’t it kinder, in the end, to rip off the bandage now? To stay with him any longer would be leading him on.

I open up an e-mail on my phone from our secret account and start to type, overcome by the sudden need to say all this, to get it down while the emotions are fresh and raw. Dear Thayer, I begin.

And then I keep writing. I tell him everything I’ve held back so long. That I’m ready to move on to the next stage of our relationship. That I love him. It all comes pouring out of me.

And then I hear another noise, another soft rustling in the bushes. I pause, my nerves singing. It doesn’t sound like an animal to me.

Someone is in the canyon with me.

“Hello?” I call. Maybe Becky came back to tell me more about my sister. Or maybe my dad came to pick me up.

But no one answers.

My blood picks up speed again, my pulse thudding in my ears. I save my draft and stand up from the bench, but I can’t see beyond the trees and boulders that circle the little clearing.

It could be Madeline—Thayer could have called her from the hospital. Maybe he asked her to come pick me up and she decided to mess with my head a little first, punish me for being out here with her brother. I deserve it.

“Is anyone there? Say something,” I yell. I sound braver than I feel. “Come on, it’s late, I’m not in the mood for this shit.”

I take a few steps toward the source of the sound, willing myself not to look scared. Someone might be videotaping me from the trees. In the Lying Game, you never know when one of your friends is getting footage of you looking like a moron, or setting you up for a fall. You’re always waiting for your comeuppance. It used to be fun. I used to crave that adrenaline rush, that feeling of being just a little out of control. But that was back when we had an emergency brake. Before I destroyed it.

Just a few weeks earlier, I’d pretended to stall my car on the train tracks. It was a good prank. But during that stunt I’d done the unforgivable: I’d said, Cross my heart and hope to die, the phrase we were only supposed to use if we were really in trouble. At the time it seemed like a great idea. Our pranks were starting to get predictable and stale. We’d gotten so used to each other’s tricks we could see one coming from a mile away and derail it before it had a chance to really get good. Breaking the safe-words’ hold on us was the only way to keep the game interesting.

But since then, the game has gotten a little too interesting. My friends fake-kidnapped me a week later and filmed my sister strangling me into unconsciousness with my own locket. It left a big bruise on my throat; I went through three bottles of concealer in a week trying to cover it up. Garrett caught sight of it one night when we were waiting to get a table at Cafe Poca Cosa and freaked out—he asked what had happened, but I just shrugged off his question. What happens in the Lying Game stays in the Lying Game.

Before that night we’d never actually gotten physical with each other. The stakes have gone up, and it’s not as fun as I expected—I’ve been twitchy since then, constantly waiting for the other shoe to fall. And now there’s no going back. Once you’ve broken a rule like that, you can’t fix it.

“Mads? Char?” I take another step toward the trees, squinting into the darkness. My mouth has gone dry. I think of the stranger in my car, bearing down on Thayer. Whoever hit him could still be out here, hiding in the shadows. I try to swallow but it’s like I’ve got a throat full of sand. A few yards away an owl gives a soft, chuckling hoot, making me jump.

“You guys?” My voice sounds too high. I clear my throat and try again. “Whatever, bitches. Your lame stalker act isn’t fooling anyone.” I turn back to the bench, my hands shaking as I throw the bag over my shoulder and start for the trail.

I’m tired of not being able to trust anyone—not even my best friends. Maybe it’s time to end the Lying Game. I try to imagine their reactions to that idea. Charlotte will go all alpha on me and tell me it’s not mine to end. Madeline will wheedle and coax. Laurel will get sullen and claim I’m only ending it to hurt her after she worked so hard to get in. But I hate that tonight of all nights, after all I’ve been through, I’m literally freaking out because I think my own friends are up to something. That’s not how friendship is supposed to work.

The path to the parking lot is steep and treacherous, covered in roots and rocks. I start down it slowly, leaning back to counterbalance myself as I go. When the moon disappears behind a dense cluster of clouds, I have to feel my way in the dark. That’s when I feel someone’s hand on my shoulder.

“Sutton,” growls a voice behind me, rough and angry. The smell of whiskey mingles sickeningly with that of spearmint.

But I know that voice. And as soon as I realize who it is, I know just how much trouble I’m in.

It’s Garrett.