A chill went through Emily’s body. “Thanks,” she said quickly, grabbing it and shutting the door.
Her mom stuck her foot in the gap before Emily could close the door completely. “Didn’t you get a letter from there, too?” she went on, her voice cracking. “Do you . . . know someone from there?”
Emily hugged the box tightly to her chest. EMILY FIELDS, it said on the top. “No,” she mumbled. It was the truth, after all.
“Then why is someone from a prison sending you things?”
See? That was why Emily hadn’t told her mom anything. Sure, she was dying to explain that the love of her life was gone . . . and that Ali had done it . . . and that she felt like she was falling into a dark, deep chasm that she’d never be able to climb out of. But her mom wouldn’t hear any of that. She wouldn’t hear anything past the fact that Emily had loved someone in prison. She wouldn’t absorb any of Jordan’s good qualities, or that she would have been freed soon. So why even bother getting into it?
Emily turned around jerkily and walked back to her bed. “I’m really tired.”
She hoped her mom would take that as a hint to leave, but Mrs. Fields remained in the doorway. A moment later, Emily heard a sniff and turned. Mrs. Fields’s face was red, her eyes full of tears. “What’s wrong with you, honey?” she begged Emily. “Please tell me.”
“Nothing,” Emily groaned. Now go away so I can open this box, she wanted to scream.
Mrs. Fields still didn’t move. Her gaze drifted to the bruises on her neck. “You’re going to explain those right now,” she demanded, now sounding angry. She often took on an angry tone, Emily knew, when she got really scared. “Otherwise, I’m going to think someone hurt you.”
Emily balled up a fist. “I did it myself,” she blurted before she could think.
Her mom’s eyes widened. “You deliberately hurt yourself? Why?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Emily roared. She stomped back to the door and closed it tight. “I’m fine, Mom! Just give me some space!”
She twisted the lock on the knob and waited. She could hear her mother standing outside, sniffing a little, her clothes rustling. And then, without saying another word, Mrs. Fields turned and padded down the hall. Emily listened as she walked down the stairs. She heard a jingle of keys, then the rumble of the garage door rising. Where was her mother going? Emily wasn’t sure she’d been out since her heart attack. But maybe it was a good thing. She’d asked for space; now she was getting it.
She looked at the box, then felt under the mattress and pulled out the picture of Jordan she’d hidden. Jordan smiled happily up at her, blissfully unaware of what her future would hold. Emily stared at the picture until her eyes blurred, trying to imagine that Jordan was still alive. But all she saw when she closed her eyes was Jordan’s body on a cold, hard slab in the morgue. Gone.
Slowly, she opened the box. On top of a layer of Bubble Wrap was a small typewritten note. Emily picked it up and examined it closely. Jordan Richards’s possessions, it read. And then, Delivered to: Emily Fields.
A knot formed in Emily’s chest, and she shut the box tight. This must be the stuff Jordan had on her when she was arrested. For whatever reason, Jordan had wanted her to have it, not her parents. What was inside? A watch, maybe. Some earrings. Personal items, things Emily couldn’t bear to see right now. Or maybe ever.
She needed noise, news, something. Carrying her phone and the laptop with the surveillance feed, she padded downstairs. The house was quiet, the TV in the den off and the breakfast dishes stacked neatly in the drying rack. Emily switched on the TV in the kitchen and stared at a commercial for a local car dealership. A plate full of Danish from the local bakery sat on the kitchen table, probably a hint that Emily should eat something. But she couldn’t imagine putting food in her mouth, and swallowing, and feeling full. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat anything ever again.
The commercials on TV were over, and the news was back on. “We have new developments from the disturbing murder of the young woman in prison known as the Preppy Thief,” the anchor, a generic-looking blond woman with an ascot around her neck, was saying.
Emily’s head snapped up. It was as if the news were showing this just to torment her. On the screen was a picture of Jordan on a boat dock, her long hair blowing in the wind, a huge, brilliant smile on her face. It was gut-wrenching to look at. Jordan seemed so alive. So vibrant. Emily moved zombielike toward the TV and touched Jordan’s cheek, the TV zapping her with static.