nowhere. His name badge said CORCORAN. “Emma Paxton?”
She nodded silently. He gestured for her to follow him, and together they walked through the double glass doors. The sun had set. Beyond the parking lot, rush-hour traffic crawled past, brake lights glinting
red in the gloom.
Corcoran didn’t talk much as he drove Emma to the Mercers’. As they glided past shops and salons decorated in green and red for the holidays, she stared out the window, half listening to the crackle of
chatter from the cop’s radio. “. . . report of vandalism at the Snack ’n’ Shack on Valencia,” a muffled female voice was saying. “Unit fifty-three, please report.”
“So did you do it?”
She turned to look at the officer, giving him an are-you-serious grimace. Did he think she was going to offhandedly confess to a beat cop—if she had done it—after Quinlan had already interrogated her? But
he was staring straight ahead at the road with an earnest frown, like some part of the situation just didn’t add up.
“I was a foster kid, too,” he said matter-of-factly. “Here in Tucson.”
She nodded mutely, unsure what he was getting at.
“I don’t know why it is, but people don’t trust you if you don’t have family. Even if it isn’t your fault.” He shrugged. “You become a scapegoat for everything that happens, just because you don’t fit
into the natural order.”
Emma swallowed hard. She looked back out the window, not trusting herself to speak. Were they trying to good-cop her now, trying to get her to confess just because some cute guy, close to her own age, was
acting like he understood what she was going through? But Corcoran had fallen silent, like he’d said his piece and that was all he had to say.
When they turned the corner onto the Mercers’ street, Emma’s jaw dropped. The place was swarming with reporters. The whole street was lit up like a ballpark, a dozen vans lining either side of the road.
Reporters checked their makeup in the side mirrors on cars and ran through their lines, beard-stubbled men with giant cameras hoisted on their shoulders trailing in their wake. It looked like the Mercers’
neighbor, Mr. Paulson, was being interviewed in his driveway by a man with his hair plastered in a Ken-doll coif. Other reporters seemed to be mid-broadcast, using the Mercers’ house as a backdrop.
I’d always dreamed of being famous, of having paparazzi follow me home and beg me for interviews. But this definitely wasn’t what I had in mind.
“Stay where you are,” Corcoran said to Emma, putting the car in park in the middle of the street. He opened his car door. The moment he did, the cacophony of dozens of voices filled the squad car.
“Are you Emma Paxton, or Sutton Mercer?”
“Emma, why’d you do it?”
“Did anyone help you kill your sister?”
Corcoran didn’t even look at them. He walked around to the passenger-side door and opened it, standing protectively in front of Emma to keep the shouting reporters at a slight distance.
She met the officer’s eyes. They were calm, clear blue, and while she couldn’t tell if he believed her story or not, she could see a stubborn conviction there. This guy wanted her to be treated fairly, she
realized. Whether or not she was innocent, whether or not she had lied, he wanted her to have a fair shake.
“Ready?” he asked. She nodded, suddenly feeling a little stronger. He might not be her ally—but for the moment, he was close enough.
He helped her to her feet, then guided her quickly through the crowd.
“Emma! Did you really think you’d get away with it?”
“Do you think your mom’s mental illness is genetic?”
“Did Sutton put up a fight?”
Corcoran stood at the edge of the yard, his arms crossed over his chest. “Go on, then,” he said. “I’ll stay here ’til you get inside.”
She nodded, staring longingly at the Mercers’ front door. All she wanted was to be inside, to sit down with her family and tell them everything, as they’d already done with her. As she walked up the
driveway, she could hear the manic clicking of the photographers’ cameras all around her. A man in a dark red blazer tried to launch himself past Corcoran, microphone stretched out toward her—but the
officer grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and jerked him back.
Emma reached the porch and stood in front of the oak door with its lion-shaped knocker. She pulled out her keys, then fumbled and dropped them with a resounding clatter on the porch. Cheeks burning, she bent
to pick them up.
But when she went to unlock the door, the key wouldn’t fit.
Her heart tightened in the half second before she consciously understood. The locks had been changed. She wasn’t welcome.