repeated often enough would make her finally believe it was true: Nisha was really gone.
The newscaster, a slender Latina in a mauve blazer, stood in front of a contemporary ranch house that Emma knew well. Nisha’s home was the first place she went as Sutton, the night Madeline Vega and the
Twitter Twins, Lilianna and Gabriella Fiorello, “kidnapped” her from the park bench where she’d been waiting to meet her twin for the very first time. Emma remembered how irritated Nisha had seemed when
Emma walked into the party—Nisha and Sutton had been rivals for years. But over the past month, Emma had started to form a tentative friendship with the tennis team cocaptain.
“The girl was discovered by her father just after eight P.M. last Monday. In an official statement, the Tucson Police have determined that there is no evidence of foul play and are treating the death as an
accident. But many questions remain.”
The camera cut to Clara, a girl Emma knew from the varsity tennis team. Her eyes were wide and shocked, her face pale. NISHA’S CLASSMATE appeared at the bottom third of the screen below her. “A lot of
people are saying it might have been . . . it might have been intentional. Because Nisha was so driven, you know? How much can one person do before they . . . they crack?” Tears filled Clara’s eyes.
The camera cut away again, replacing Clara with a teenage boy. Emma did a double take. It was her boyfriend, Ethan Landry. NISHA’S NEIGHBOR, said the caption below his face. He wore a black button-down shirt
and a black tie and was obviously leaving his house for the funeral. Emma’s knees weakened at the sight of him. “I didn’t know her that well,” Ethan said. His dark blue eyes were serious. “She always
seemed really together to me. But I guess you never know what secrets people are hiding.”
The camera returned to the newscaster. “Services will be held this afternoon at All Faiths Memorial Park. The family has requested that donations be made to the University of Arizona Hospital in lieu of
flowers. This is Tricia Melendez, signing off.” Emma snapped the laptop closed and walked back into the closet. The silence left in the wake of the chattering newscaster felt deep and sepulchral.
She’d never been to a funeral before. Unlike most kids her age, who had lost grandparents or family friends, Emma had never had anyone to lose. She took a deep breath and started to flip through Sutton’s
black dresses, trying to decide which one would be appropriate.
I couldn’t remember if I’d ever had reason to wear mourning black. My dead-girl memory was frustratingly spotty. I could remember vague, general attachments—to my house, to my parents—but very few
concrete moments. Every now and then a memory would come back to me in a flash of sudden details, but I hadn’t figured out how to predict them, let alone trigger them. I tried to remember my grandfather’s
funeral, when Laurel and I were six or seven. Had we held hands as we approached the casket?
Emma finally decided on a cashmere sweater-dress, taking it gently from its hanger and pulling it over her head. The fit was a little clingy, but the cut was simple. As she smoothed the delicate knit down
over her hips, Clara’s words echoed in her ears. It might have been . . . intentional.
Thursday had been Thanksgiving, and even though the holiday had been cheerless, Emma was at least grateful for a few days away from school and the wild speculation about Nisha. The gossip didn’t sit right
with Emma. She’d spent the weekend before with Nisha, and she hadn’t seemed at all sad. Whatever insecurities had kept her and Sutton at odds seemed to have finally evaporated, with a little help from Emma
’s kindness. Nisha had even helped Emma break into the hospital mental health records to find out the truth about Becky’s past. For two awful weeks, Emma had believed Becky to be Sutton’s killer—she’d
wanted to check her mother’s file to find out if her behavior had ever been violent.
Now Emma picked up Sutton’s iPhone, scrolling through the messages. The day Nisha died, she’d called Emma about a dozen times over the course of the morning, then finally sent her a single text: CALL ME
ASAP. I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU. She hadn’t left a voicemail, and there was no other explanation. Hours later, she’d drowned.
It could be a coincidence, Emma thought, tucking the phone into a black-and-white clutch with her wallet. There’s no proof that anyone killed Nisha, or that her death had anything to do with me.
But even as she thought the words, a grim conviction settled over the doubt and grief that occupied her heart. She couldn’t afford to believe in coincidences anymore. After all, how many long shots had