Cross My Heart, Hope to Die

EPIGRAPH

Betrayal is the only truth that sticks
.

—ARTHUR MILLER                           

CONTENTS

Epigraph

Prologue: A Familiar Face

1 Drive-By Mom

2 The Good, the Bad, and the Sexy

3 The Face That Launched a Thousand Fists

4 Karma’s a Bitch, and So Am I

5 Daddy-Daughter Dine-and-Dash

6 The Fourth Floor

7 Strangers in the Night

8 Who Are You?

9 White Lies and Alibis

10 Tea for Two

11 A Picnic Under the Stars

12 Monsters in the Attic

13 Never Underestimate the Power of a Little Retail Therapy

14 The School of Bitchcraft

15 Hopes and Schemes

16 Every Day Should Be Senior Skip Day

17 Researching and Reminiscing

18 Mom, Interrupted

19 Mommie Dearest

20 The Escape

21 Calm in the Storm

22 In Hot Water

23 Help from an Unexpected Source

24 Meet Me at the Plaza

25 File M for Murder

26 You Better Get This Party Started

27 A Voice in the Dark

28 Scenic Overlook Ahead

29 Arts and Crafts Time

30 Things That Go Bump in the Night

31 Origin Story

32 Hello, and Good-Bye

33 The Most Important Meal of the Day

34 Kiss the Girl

35 Call Me Maybe

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Works

Credits

Copyright

Back Ads

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

I watched the two teenagers sitting together outside the Coffee Cat Café on a sunny Saturday morning. They leaned toward each other, their voices low and almost intimate, their bodies close but not touching. Most people probably thought they were a couple—a really attractive couple. The boy had high cheekbones and a lean, athletic build. His blue-and-green striped polo shirt brought out the green flecks in his hazel eyes. He was movie-star hot. But maybe I was just biased: Thayer Vega
was
my boyfriend, after all.

Or at least he was before I died.

The girl next to him looked exactly like I did, back when I had a body. Her bright blue eyes were lined with my velvety chocolate liner, and her light brown hair spilled down her back in thick waves just like mine used to. She was wearing a gray cashmere sweater and dark-wash skinny jeans from my closet. She answered to my name, and when a tear streaked down her cheek, my boyfriend leaned over to hug her. Instantly, I felt the ghost of my heart constrict.

I should have been used to this by now: living a bodiless existence as a dead girl, floating around like a plastic bag behind my long-lost twin, Emma, watching her inhabit my life, sleep in my bedroom, and talk to the boyfriend I’d never get to kiss again. The night Emma and I were supposed to meet for the first time, I never showed up—because I’d been murdered. My killer threatened Emma into taking my place, or else. She’d been living my life for months now, trying to solve the mystery of my death. But knowing all of that didn’t make it any easier to watch moments like the one I was seeing now.

When Thayer had first returned to Tucson from rehab a few weeks ago, Emma had thought
he
might be my killer. But even though he was with me that night in Sabino Canyon, her investigation proved—to my great relief—that he definitely hadn’t killed me. She had cleared my adoptive parents, too, even though they had been hiding a huge secret from me—that they were actually my
grandparents
. Our birth mother, Becky, was their troubled daughter. She had us when she was a teenager, leaving me with her parents and taking Emma with her when she left town, only to abandon her in foster care five years later.

I watched Thayer and Emma talk until a car backfired loudly. Emma’s head snapped up, her gaze locking on a brown Buick idling in the parking lot in front of the café. The woman at the wheel had a wrecked look to her, her hair a wild black tangle, her cheeks sunken and pale. And yet I could sense that she’d once been pretty.

When I looked back at Emma, her hands were trembling. Her coffee cup tumbled to the patio tile, and the lid flew off, spilling lukewarm coffee all over her black flats. But she didn’t even flinch.

“Oh my God,” Emma whispered.

And just like that, I knew: It was Becky, our birth mother. I recognized her from Emma’s memories, although she looked even more ragged than the last time my sister saw her, thirteen years ago. And yet she seemed familiar to
me
, too. I wondered if we’d ever met. So far, I had only been able to remember my life in disjointed flashes, usually preceded by a disconcerting tingling sensation. I felt tingly right then, but when I closed my eyes, I saw nothing. I had found out about Becky the night that I died. My father had met Becky in secret that same night—what if I had, too? I concentrated on the tingling feeling, willing myself to remember more of that night. But my mind was a blank and I was left with a feeling of dread and doom.

Just last night, my father had told Emma that Becky was troubled, possibly even dangerous. As I watched the car take off in a cloud of exhaust, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was she disturbed enough to kill her own daughter?

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