“Who’s that?”
She looked up to see that Corcoran’s car was still there. She felt a little rush of gratitude. It was too dark to see the man’s face behind the windshield, but she knew he was waiting to make sure she was
all right.
“They kept Sutton’s car to search for evidence, so he tried to take me home. But . . . the Mercers . . .” Her lip trembled. “They’re furious, Ethan. They think I killed Sutton.”
His chest rose and fell beneath her as he sighed. “Come on,” he said, leading her up the stairs and through the front door.
Ethan’s house gave off an aura of genteel neglect. The hardwood floors were scuffed but squeaky clean. The décor was dated—the floral wallpaper had a “grandma’s house” kind of feel—and the air smelled
stale, as if the windows had been closed for a long time. There was no clutter anywhere, no piled-up mail or half-folded stack of laundry. Emma felt dizzy, and her knees buckled. “Let’s go into the kitchen,
” Ethan said quickly, catching her. “You look like you need a glass of water.”
He led her down a short hallway into the Landrys’ kitchen. Unlike the Mercers’ pineapple-themed, cheerful kitchen, this one felt empty and soulless, with a few mismatched tea towels and a plain gray
countertop. A two-year-old calendar featuring a picture of a Persian cat hung on the wall, flipped to March.
They didn’t notice Ethan’s mother until they turned on the light. She’d been sitting in the dark at a square table by the window, still and silent. She was bone-thin, her hair flat and dull, the corners of
her eyes crumpled like parchment. When they came in she gave a small, startled jump.
“Hi, Mrs. Landry,” Emma said nervously. She wasn’t sure how much Ethan’s mother knew—did she follow the news? Would she welcome someone at the center of so much drama into her home?
The woman didn’t say anything but stared silently at Emma for several beats. Emma didn’t know if it was her imagination or not, but she thought she detected a glint of fear in the woman’s eyes. She knows,
Emma thought, her heart sinking. Or at least she knows what I’ve been accused of.
After a moment, Mrs. Landry got slowly to her feet and scuttled wordlessly toward the hall. Ethan didn’t even look at his mother as she nudged past. He pulled out a chair for Emma and gently pushed her into
it.
“Are you going to be in trouble for having me here?” she asked tremulously.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “My mom just . . . isn’t used to having guests. She’ll get over it.”
Though they rarely talked about it, Emma knew Ethan had a strained relationship with his mom. His dad had basically bailed when Mrs. Landry got cancer, and Ethan had taken care of her throughout the whole
ordeal. But when his dad started abusing Mrs. Landry, and Ethan hit his father to make him stop, she called the cops on Ethan, not on his dad. Emma knew all of this only because she’d found Ethan’s psych
file a few weeks ago while looking for Becky’s, and he’d confessed the whole story. So many unhappy families, she thought sadly.
As Ethan started to pour her a cup of water, Emma turned away—and saw Sutton’s ghost looking back at her. She nearly jumped out of her chair.
But then she looked again—and of course it wasn’t Sutton’s ghost. It was Emma’s reflection, haunted and pale in the glass of the window that looked out into the dark night. Her hair was tangled, her face
smeared with tears.
Ethan handed her the water. It was in a keepsake glass printed with a picture of Miss Piggy on a motorcycle. “There’s more,” Emma said. “Ethan, Garrett was in the canyon that night. I saw the file for the
murder case while Quinlan was out of the room. His car was in the parking lot.”
His eyes widened. “You’re sure it was his?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “And this afternoon, before I went to the cops, I went to his house.”
Ethan sputtered, spitting out the mouthful he’d just sipped. “You what?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first,” she said quickly, “but I’m done playing the game by Garrett’s rules. It’s time to go on the offensive. Anyway, I talked to Louisa. She said that he came home
really upset the night Sutton died, that he was out of control. And Ethan . . . he has a prescription for Valium.” She dropped her voice again. “That’s what was in Nisha’s bloodstream when she died.”
My mind flashed back to the look of rage on Garrett’s face, that night in the canyon. I knew why he’d killed me—he was in a jealous rage after he caught me with Thayer. But Nisha’s death seemed less of a
heat-of-the-moment act; drugging her and pushing her in the pool would have required deliberation and planning. What made him decide she needed to die?