around two thousand dollars in cash.”
Emma’s insides lurched. They had her journals? Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. She imagined the police flipping through the cheap composition books, guffawing over the phase in junior high when she’
d dotted all her i’s with hearts, or reading her fake headlines out loud to a room of beat cops. Girl Goes Stag to Homecoming, Stands by Refreshment Table All Night—she imagined Quinlan and his buddies
reading it aloud and erupting in laughter. The very thought made her want to hide her face in her hands.
The cameras jumped back to the newscaster, who held her microphone to her lips and looked seriously into the camera. “Meanwhile, the Tucson Police Department has refused to give an official cause of death,
saying the case is still under investigation. But our sources tell us Paxton was hoping to meet up with her biological family in Tucson. Whether she made it to them is unknown. The family has so far declined
our requests for an interview.” At that, Mrs. Mercer hit the remote, and the sound muted.
“Requests?” she snapped, curling her lip. “You spent most of the day on our front lawn, you gargoyle.” Then she sighed, and started gathering dishes. “Poor Emma. It sounds like she could have used our
help.”
“What do you mean?” Emma asked, glancing up at her grandmother.
“Just, if she was as troubled as those people said . . .” Mrs. Mercer trailed off, then shook her head. Her face darkened. “I wish we’d known about her sooner. This is all Becky’s fault. It’s always
Becky’s fault. She lies, she steals, she keeps secrets, and she doesn’t care who she hurts along the way.”
“Kristin,” Mr. Mercer said softly. But his wife scowled, grabbing the Pyrex dish of lasagna from the center of the table. She moved so violently a small splatter of sauce flew free and landed on her
sweater, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“You know it’s true. She kept us in constant agony, wondering where she was and if she was okay. And for some insane reason, she didn’t tell us about this other little girl who we could have . . .” Tears
sprang to her eyes. “This little girl we could have saved.”
Mr. Mercer stood up and gently pried the dish from her hands. He set it back on the table and pulled his wife into his arms. She broke down then, sobbing against his chest as he patted her back. Laurel and
Emma looked at each other with wide, frightened eyes. Emma had never seen Mrs. Mercer this emotional, and from the look on Laurel’s face, she hadn’t either.
Emma couldn’t help but agree with Mrs. Mercer. She wanted to forgive Becky—Becky was her mother, after all—but sometimes she was so angry she could scream. What had been the point of keeping Emma if she
was only going to abandon her five years later? What had been the point of separating the twins?
It was so unfair. If Sutton hadn’t died, if Emma hadn’t come out to Tucson to find her, the wheels might have been set in motion on their own, by Becky’s confession to Mr. Mercer. What would it have been
like if the Mercers had come for her as a family? She imagined being called out of class in Henderson, just like she had been the day they found Sutton’s body. But in this alternate reality, she was summoned
to meet her family. Her real, blood family. She pictured it: Mr. Mercer, gentle and reassuring; Mrs. Mercer, a nervous but excited smile twitching the corners of her lips; Laurel, wary at the possibility of a
new rival but hopeful, eager to be liked. And Sutton. Her sister. Her twin.
“What was she like?” Laurel asked softly, breaking Emma’s thoughts. Emma gave a start, her mind racing to come back to the present. To the reality where Sutton was gone, and she was alone.
“What was who like?” she asked.
“Emma,” she said. “You talked to her, right?”
Emma ran her finger along the condensation on the outside of her glass. “Just a little bit. I didn’t know much about her.” Then, because she couldn’t resist, she added, “I know her foster mom had just
kicked her out of the house. She sounded kind of awful.”
“Who, that woman with the tacky lounge-waitress hairdo?” Laurel said. “She looked awful.”
“Now, girls,” Mr. Mercer said, frowning at them from where he still stood with Mrs. Mercer in his arms. “You don’t know that. It can be hard to know what to do for someone who’s troubled. I’m sure that
woman did her best for Emma.”
Emma knew he was speaking more about his own relationship with Becky than anything, but she was glad that Laurel at least had sided with her.
Mrs. Mercer wiped her eyes with a pineapple-print cloth napkin, then let go of her husband. “Did anyone want dessert? There’s some ice cream in the fridge.”