Minutes ticked by as they stood there, embracing. Emma’s tears came hot and silent and soaked into Becky’s T-shirt. Over the years she’d kept a list of Things She’d Say to Mom if her mother appeared again. But now that Becky was here, she didn’t want to say any of them. Hateful, angry words wouldn’t solve anything right now.
I moved nearer to my mother and my sister, hovering close to pretend that I was part of their hug, too. I knew neither one of them felt it, but for a moment I was there with them, mother and twins reunited after eighteen years.
Then all three of us let go.
Becky scratched at her earlobe awkwardly. “I should leave, Sutton. I need to get out of here.”
For a second Emma thought about asking her to stay. They could go to the Mercers’ house together. They could talk to Mrs. Mercer and make her understand. Emma could help Becky get better—she could look after her, just like she had when she was a little girl. She’d make sure she took her meds every day, and they could move in together. They could be a family.
But even as she pictured it, she knew it could never happen.
Emma nodded, her throat dry. “Take care of yourself, Mom. For me.”
Becky just smiled and turned away. And then she was gone, slipping into the shadows, her footsteps crunching on the ground and fading out of earshot.
My mother—strange, sad, damaged beyond repair—but not my murderer.
33
THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY
Emma woke up the next morning with her stomach growling. Early-morning light poured through the half-closed drapes. The clock read 5:57. She buried her head under the pillow, smelling the lingering wood smoke on her hair and skin from the bonfire the night before. She didn’t have school for another two hours. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will herself back to sleep.
But her stomach growled traitorously, and Emma realized she’d been picking at her food for over a week, ever since that first night she and Mr. Mercer went to the hospital. She rolled out of bed and went to the closet, pulled on a sweater dress, and raked a brush through her hair.
The house was dark and quiet as she crept down the stairs to the kitchen. Outside, the sky was the dusky violet of just before sunrise. In spite of the early hour, in spite of the fact that she was back at square one yet again, Emma felt almost buoyant. Becky hadn’t killed Sutton. And for the first time since she was a little girl, Emma had gotten to sit next to Becky, to talk to her. She was starting to understand her own family history. It wasn’t simple, and it wasn’t pretty. But it was hers.
Mr. Mercer was already sitting in the breakfast nook, dressed in chinos, a button-down shirt, and a blue silk Burberry necktie Laurel and Emma had given him for his birthday a month earlier. The New York Times was spread across the table in front of him. He was always an early riser, from all the years of keeping odd hospital hours. When Emma came into the room he pushed his reading glasses up on his forehead and blinked at her. “You’re up early.”
“I’m starving,” she admitted.
He folded his newspaper and set it aside. “Well, what kind of father would let his little girl go hungry? Let’s go out for some breakfast.”
Once inside, Emma rolled down the window of Mr. Mercer’s SUV. She let her hand catch the air as they drove, and nodded her head absently to the music he had on the radio. The sun poked its head above the mountains, casting orange light over everything. She didn’t know the last time she’d seen a sunrise. She’d forgotten how beautiful they could be.
Mr. Mercer looked at her out of the corner of his eye, a smile playing around his lips. “I haven’t seen you this happy in a while,” he said.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “It’s been a confusing … month, I guess. Year.”
They pulled into the parking lot of an adobe bistro. Inside there were fresh pink flowers on every table and the smell of bacon and hash browns in the air. The restaurant was already bustling with the early-bird crowd. A half dozen senior citizens in tracksuits laughed loudly from a booth at the back. At a table by herself, a bleary-eyed college girl wearing a sweatshirt and glasses nursed a steaming cup of coffee while typing furiously at a laptop, probably trying to finish a paper at the very last minute. Emma’s mouth watered as she watched plates laden with pancakes, eggs, French toast, and home fries swirl around the room in the waitstaff’s hands. She and Mr. Mercer took a seat next to the window, where the early-morning sun filtered in around the clean white curtains.
Mr. Mercer looked at her over the top of the menu, then sighed and set it down. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.
“Sutton,” he said carefully, “Becky came to see me yesterday.”
Emma nodded slowly. She folded and refolded the napkin across her lap. “I saw her, too.”
He nodded. “I thought you might have. She wanted to know where you were. I told her I didn’t know, that I could call you and set up a meeting—but Becky doesn’t like things to get too set in stone. She doesn’t do well when people expect anything of her.”