brought her here? Travis, her pothead foster brother, had just happened to stumble upon a fake snuff video of Sutton that he’d thought was Emma. She’d conveniently arrived in Tucson the day after her sister
’s death, after spending eighteen years without even knowing she had a sister. And now Nisha had died the very same day she urgently had to talk to Emma? No, not all of that could be chance. She felt like a
pawn under an invisible hand, being moved without volition across a chessboard in a game she barely understood.
And she couldn’t help but feel that Nisha had just been sacrificed in the same game.
I watched as my sister fumbled with a handful of bobby pins, trying to sweep her hair up into a French twist. Emma was hopeless at updos—at anything but a simple ponytail, really. I wished I could stand
behind her and help. I wished that we could get ready together and that I could hold her hand during the funeral. I wished I could tell her I was right there when Emma felt so very alone.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Emma spit out a bobby pin and looked up. “Come in.”
Mr. Mercer pushed the door open, wearing a tailored black suit and a blue-and-burgundy tie. The gray in his hair seemed more pronounced than usual; he’d had a lot of secrets to keep lately. Emma had recently
learned from him that Becky was the Mercers’ daughter—making Emma their biological granddaughter. Now that she knew it, she could see the resemblance. She had Mr. Mercer’s straight nose and bow-shaped
lips. But Mr. Mercer had kept Becky’s reappearance from his wife and Sutton’s sister, Laurel.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, giving her a tentative smile. “How are you doing up here?”
Emma opened her mouth to say fine, but after a moment she closed it and shrugged. She didn’t know how to answer that question, but she certainly wasn’t fine.
Mr. Mercer nodded, then let out a heavy breath. “You’ve been through so much.” He was talking about more than Nisha. As if her friend’s death weren’t enough, Emma had recently seen Becky, her own mother,
for the first time in thirteen years.
Emma had managed to prove that Becky was innocent of Sutton’s murder, but the image of Becky strapped to a hospital bed, frothing at the mouth, still haunted her dreams. She’d spent so many years wondering
what had happened to her mom, but she’d never realized how ill Becky was. How unstable.
She picked up the small black-and-white clutch she’d packed with tissues. “I’m ready to go.”
Her grandfather nodded. “Why don’t you come down to the living room first, Sutton? I think it’s time to have a family meeting.”
“Family meeting?”
Mr. Mercer nodded. “Laurel and Mom are already waiting.”
Emma bit her lip. She’d never been to anything like a family meeting before and didn’t know what to expect. She stood unsteadily on Sutton’s black wedges and followed Mr. Mercer down the staircase and
through the bright entryway. Crisp, early-afternoon light flooded through the high window.
The Mercers’ living room was decorated in luxe Southwestern colors—lots of earthy reds and tans paired with Navajo chevron prints. Paintings of desert flowers hung on the walls, and a Steinway baby grand
stood gleaming beneath one window. Mrs. Mercer and Laurel were already there, sitting close together on the wide leather couch.
As with Mr. Mercer, Emma could see her own resemblance to her grandmother now that she knew to look for it. They had the same marine-blue eyes, the same slender frame. Mrs. Mercer looked nervous, her lipstick
torn where she’d been biting her lip. Next to her, Laurel sat with her legs crossed, jiggling one foot up and down anxiously. Her honey-blonde hair was twisted back in the exact updo Emma had been trying to
pull off. She’d chosen a black pencil skirt and a button-down blouse for the occasion, and she wore a tiny gold bracelet with a charm shaped like a tennis racket. She was pale beneath the light freckles
across her nose.
Emma sat down carefully on the suede wing chair across from Laurel and her grandmother. From the entryway, the clock gave a single resonant bong.
“The funeral starts in an hour,” Laurel said. “Shouldn’t we get going?”
“We will, in just a minute,” said Mr. Mercer. “Your mother and I wanted to talk to you first.” He cleared his throat. “Nisha’s death is a reminder about what’s really important in this life. You girls
are more important to us than anything.” His voice caught as he spoke, and he paused for a moment to regain his composure.
Laurel looked up at Mr. Mercer, her forehead creased in a frown. “Dad, we know. You don’t have to tell us that.”
He shook his head. “Your mother and I haven’t always been honest with you girls, Laurel, and it’s hurt our family. We want to tell you the truth. Secrets only drive us apart.”