Dr. Banerjee wiped his glasses on the sleeve of his coat. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but she seems to have been living out of her car—the police found it in the parking lot. She’s off her medication again. I’m not sure for how long, but you know how bad she gets.”
Mr. Mercer and Dr. Banerjee continued to talk in low voices about Becky’s prognosis and a potential treatment plan, and Mr. Mercer asked whether he should talk to an attorney in case anyone at the mall pressed charges. But Emma was only half listening. She glanced back to the room that held her mother, drugged and silent. Then her eyes fell on the folder on Dr. Banerjee’s lap, bristling with medical records and arrest reports.
Emma imagined her two worlds, side by side like the twin images in a stereoscope. Was Becky her sad, beautiful mother, loving but tragic? Or was she a knife-wielding maniac, a woman so wild she deserved to be strapped to a bed? Her hands closed into fists. She wasn’t the adoring little-girl Emma anymore, and she couldn’t afford to be a bitter teenage Emma coming to terms with her mother’s sudden reappearance. She was a different person altogether. She was the Emma who’d been channeling Sutton. She was a tough and practical Emma who had to fight to survive, who had to ask difficult questions and learn truths she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She was the Emma who was going to solve a murder, and to do that, she knew she had to find out what was in that file.
I wanted to see whatever was in that folder as badly as she did. Now she just had to figure out a way to get it.
9
WHITE LIES AND ALIBIS
It was just after midnight when Mr. Mercer pulled the car into the driveway and killed the motor. The lights were on in the kitchen—Mrs. Mercer had obviously waited up for them—but he made no move to get out of the car. He and Emma sat in silence, neither one looking directly at the other. With the AC off, the air quickly became heavy around them.
Mr. Mercer took Emma’s hand in his and squeezed. “That really wasn’t how I wanted you to meet your mother,” he said.
“Yeah,” she muttered, looking out the passenger window. She could just make out the hole Mr. Mercer had dug in the lawn before his accident. He’d been planning to plant something there, but in the dark it looked like a fresh grave.
“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Mercer went on. “It must have been hard to see her like that.”
Emma didn’t say anything. Her body felt bruised and weak. She’d always imagined she might look for her mother someday, track her down with a private investigator or maybe by herself, with her own research skills. Sometimes in her fantasies, she told Becky off for abandoning her. Sometimes she ran to her, threw her arms around her neck, and all was forgiven. But never in all her daydreams had she pictured it like this.
After a long pause, Mr. Mercer spoke again. “I’m going to visit her tomorrow. Hopefully they’ll have stabilized her a little and she’ll be more coherent. Do you want to come with me?”
Emma bit her lip. She had questions she wanted to ask Becky, but nothing she could ask in front of her grandfather. And what if Becky kept calling her Emma? Someone might start trying to figure out whom Becky was referring to. In her deluded state, Becky might say anything—even that Sutton had a twin named Emma. And then what?
Mr. Mercer gave her an understanding look and squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to decide right now.” He undid his seat belt. “We’d better go in. Mom’s probably worried.”
Emma squinted in the harsh bright light in the foyer. Down the hall, she saw Laurel perched on a stool at the kitchen island, wearing her favorite terrycloth robe. Mrs. Mercer was standing behind her, pouring tea into two pineapple-shaped mugs. She almost dropped the kettle when she saw them.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. “It’s after midnight. Why didn’t you call? I tried you a thousand times.”
Looking abashed, Mr. Mercer pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through the missed calls. Emma didn’t have to look at hers to know that there were probably a dozen calls from her mother on the screen. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he mumbled.
Laurel narrowed her eyes at Emma, giving her a long, scrutinizing look. She pointed to something on Emma’s jacket. “What’s that?”
Emma looked down. The hospital visitor badge was pinned to her lapel. She caught her breath. She’d been so tired on the way home that she hadn’t remembered to take it off. She tried to slide it into her pocket, but it was too late.
“You were at the hospital?” Mrs. Mercer demanded.