stop.
Just as she was about to turn into the front office, she ran full-on into someone—someone who smelled familiar, like freshly mown grass, mint gum, and hospital. It was Mr. Mercer.
“Thank God,” he mumbled, his eyes racing over her features like he was checking each and every one of them. He pulled her in and hugged her tight. “You’re okay.”
He was still wearing a lab coat and hospital ID; he’d obviously come straight from work. For a moment Emma just stood there, rigid in his arms, her heart still racing. How had the murderer attacked this
time? Did Laurel’s death look like a suicide, like Nisha’s?
Then a shaky voice spoke up from behind Mr. Mercer. “Sutton, what’s going on?”
Emma broke away to peer over his shoulder. Behind him, Mrs. Mercer stood, her eyes swollen with tears. And next to her was Laurel.
“Oh my God,” Emma exclaimed, flying at Laurel and hugging her tight.
For once, I was grateful for Emma’s tendency to show more emotion than I ever would. She needed to hug Laurel enough for the both of us.
“Um, good to see you, too?” Laurel tried to joke, though she was clearly shaken. She took a step back and twisted a lock of hair nervously around her finger.
A single hot tear cut down Emma’s cheek. “I just thought . . . I was worried that you . . . you weren’t in class . . .” She looked up at Mr. Mercer, frowning. “What’s going on, Dad?”
“Let’s step outside,” he said softly, taking Emma by the elbow and leading her toward the door. Laurel and Mrs. Mercer followed.
They exited by the student parking lot. A small strip of lawn stretched out between the building and the sidewalk, a beat-up picnic table carved with graffiti of ages past chained to a handicapped parking
sign. A few feet away, Sutton’s beloved Volvo glittered in the sun. Mr. Mercer guided everyone gently toward the table, gesturing for them to sit down.
The chasm of dread in Emma’s chest opened wider as her grandfather sat slowly next to her. He inhaled deeply, and then, finally, he met her eyes. What she saw there stopped her ragged breath in her throat.
She knew what he would say a heartbeat before she heard it.
“The police found a body in Sabino Canyon,” he said. “They think it’s your sister.”
Emma’s hands clenched against her thighs. A panicked feeling clawed inside her chest, more and more frantic, until she couldn’t push it down any longer. She opened her mouth and let out an anguished sob.
The sunny afternoon fragmented into a thousand pieces, like a mirror breaking before my eyes. My parents and my sisters fell away from my vision. And just like that, I was back in the canyon, on the last
night of my life.
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