I stared down at the keys in my sister’s hand. My house key had purple nail polish painted across the top, so I could always differentiate it from the others. How many times had I used it without ever
realizing how lucky I was to have a home to go to? How many times had I let myself in, never realizing what a privilege it was?
Her hand trembling, Emma rang the doorbell. Inside she could hear Drake barking, deep and hoarse. The blinds were all drawn tight, but it looked like every light in the house was blazing—blades of yellow cut
through the slats.
Something rustled behind the door. She waited. Behind her, the reporters were yelling questions, drowning each other out so they generated a loud, indeterminate roar. Corcoran stood at the curb with his arms
crossed over his chest, staring stoically out at the crowd.
Suddenly a voice came from behind the door. “You can’t stay here.” Mrs. Mercer’s voice was nasal and stuffy. It was obvious she’d been crying.
“Please, Mrs. Mercer, I just want to explain.” She didn’t want to plead her case here on the doorstep, with the press watching and taking pictures. She leaned toward the door, hoping to hide her face from
their cameras. “Please just give me a chance to explain.”
The door jerked open without warning.
My heart wrenched at the sight of my mother standing in the light-filled entryway, her face blotchy with tears. A frenzied, wild expression contorted her features, grief and rage twisting together. She still
wore her work clothes, gray tweed slacks and a pink shell top, but she was barefoot and disheveled. She stared at Emma like she barely recognized her.
“I want you gone,” she said shrilly, her eyes blazing.
“Mrs. Mercer, please . . .”
“You’re just like your mother,” hissed the older woman. Emma took an involuntary step back. “You’re both liars. You’re both insane. You don’t care who you hurt, as long as you get your way.”
“I’m not like Becky!” Emma gasped. A sense of desperation clawed at her chest. She had to make her grandmother understand. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m so sorry, but I had no choice!”
Mrs. Mercer gave a strangled sob, tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. “You had a choice, and you made it.”
A dark shape moved at the back of the hallway, like someone was around the corner listening. Emma craned her neck to see who it was. “Where’s Da— Where’s Mr. Mercer? Can I talk to him?”
Her grandmother shook her head violently. “No, you can’t. He doesn’t want to speak with you. Not after what you’ve done to us.”
“But if you’ll listen for just . . .”
Mrs. Mercer’s breath was fast and shuddering. She moved quickly, lunging toward Emma. Emma flinched, almost anticipating a blow. But instead of striking her, Mrs. Mercer wrestled the Kate Spade hobo bag off
Emma’s shoulder.
“This is my daughter’s purse,” she sobbed, tears flooding down her cheeks. Then she grabbed Emma’s jacket in her fists, pulling it out of her arms. “And her coat. Not yours.”
Emma stood motionless, her lip trembling. She didn’t struggle. She didn’t have the heart to. Mrs. Mercer was right. None of this belonged to her. Not the clothes, not the house—and not the family. She had
nothing of her own.
“Now get the hell off my property,” Mrs. Mercer spat.
I’d never heard my mother curse before, not even when she was at her most frustrated. The sound of it now filled me with fear. She was acting like a different person. It was like the old Mom, the one I’d
loved so much, who had taken me for ice cream the day I got my first period and who’d watched old romantic comedies with me on rainy, lazy Sundays, was gone. All that was left was this bitter, angry shell of
a woman. Suddenly I realized that this was what my death would mean to my family—that this wasn’t some adolescent fantasy where I’d get to hear everyone say nice things about me at my funeral and then ride
a cloud to heaven. My mother had just realized that she’d lost me, and it was destroying her. This was my murderer’s—Garrett’s—legacy.
Mrs. Mercer started to close the door in Emma’s face, but before she shut it all the way she paused. “Tell me one thing.” Her voice was lower now, very soft.
“Anything,” Emma whispered.
Her grandmother’s eyes flitted over Emma’s face, searching for something. Emma wasn’t sure what.
“Did you do it? What they say you did?”
Emma took a deep, shuddering breath. “No.”
Mrs. Mercer stared at her silently, her blue eyes, so much like Emma’s own, suddenly soft. Emma wanted to say more, but she couldn’t figure out where to start. She wanted to tell Mrs. Mercer how badly she
had wanted to meet Sutton. How sorry she was, how scared she’d been, how desperately she’d wanted to tell the truth all this time. More than anything, she wanted to tell her how the last few months had felt
like someone else’s dream—that she had never had family like this, and that it’d meant more to her than anything. But before she could speak, Mrs. Mercer’s expression hardened once more, and she gave a