Hey man, thought you might like this video of your sweet little foster sister. Do me a favor and show her, too.
Below that was a link. Emma was willing to bet it would be dead now, but she was certain that back in August, it had led straight to the Sutton in AZ video that started it all.
“This is two days before the murder,” she said, a clammy feeling descending over her body. That meant that Sutton’s murder had been premeditated—not a crime of passion or an accident. And it meant that
Garrett had been watching Emma, too; had known where she lived and with whom. It meant she’d been a part of his plan all along.
Travis had replied: That is some freaky shit, bro. Thanks for the link. But what’s in it for me if I show her?
Hollier_hell answered: $5K sound good to you? But don’t tell anyone about this. Delete these messages. If Emma leaves town you’ve done your job. Then meet me at 5784 W. Speedway in Tucson on September 15. I
’ll be there with the money.
The last e-mail in the thread was from Travis: I’m game. Sept. 15. Be there.
Emma clenched her fists, her fingernails digging into her flesh. Travis had sold her to her sister’s murderer for $5,000. “Ethan. Do you know that address?”
“I’m on it.” A map flew open on the browser when he searched for the address. It was on the outskirts of Tucson, on the west side of town. When Ethan selected the pin on the map, the name of the business
sprang up.
“Holy shit,” Ethan muttered.
The address the murderer had given Travis was for Rosa Linda Storage.
Slowly, Emma reached over him. She slid open his desk drawer and pulled out the tiny silver key they’d found in Garrett’s locker, holding it up next to Ethan’s monitor. She stared at the scratched-out
second word again.
Emma’s blood went still in her veins. The glittering key dangled motionless between her and Ethan, catching the bright overhead light. There it was: Under the scratches and the scars on the metal, the second
word was suddenly clear. It couldn’t be anything but LINDA.
Emma pulled the burner cell out of her tote. Wordlessly, she keyed in the number on the website. Ethan opened his lips to ask what she was doing, but she held her finger to her lips. The line rang five times
before someone finally answered.
“Rosa Linda Storage,” croaked a man’s voice in the receiver. Emma took a deep breath.
“Hi, this is the tenant of unit three-fifty-six,” she said, using a brisk, important voice. “I’m calling to find out when my next payment is due.”
A crackling silence came from the other end of the line. After a moment, the creaky voice replied, heavy with skepticism. “This is Arthur Smith?”
Her heart sank. She’d hoped it would be in Garrett’s name—if it had been, all she’d have had to do was turn the key and Travis’s phone over to the cops. But of course Garrett had covered his tracks.
She cleared her throat. “This is Mrs. Arthur Smith, yes.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith.” There was a rustle of paperwork. “It looks like your account is clear through the end of the month. Will you be paying in cash again?”
Emma ended the call, lowering the phone back to her bag. Then she looked at Ethan, his eyes round and questioning.
“Get your coat,” she said. “We’re going to Rosa Linda.”
If I still had fists, I would have punched them toward the sky in excitement.
Finally, we were going to find out what was behind door number two.
27
MEMENTO MORI
Rosa Linda Storage was located on a desolate stretch of road on the outskirts of Tucson, between a run-down motel called the Flamingo and a boarded-up liquor store. A neon sign stood out front, several of the
letters burnt out so that it said only OS LIN STOR. A chain-link fence wound around the property, the barbed wire dotted with incongruous red bows for the holidays.
Emma traced her sister’s initials on the key fob as Ethan pulled into the parking lot. She knew that they wouldn’t find old furniture or soccer equipment in that storage unit. Whatever it was, it had
something to do with Sutton.
I knew it, too. I could feel the truth just out of my reach, like a dream that fades from memory upon waking.
Ethan parked, and they stepped out into the packed-earth courtyard. Rows of storage units, shuttered and silent, branched off into the darkness in four directions. No one else was there at that hour.
“Are you ready for this?” Ethan asked, his voice low.
“I don’t know,” Emma admitted. She took a deep breath, the dry desert air filling her lungs and calming her. “Come on,” she said, giving Ethan’s hand a squeeze. “Let’s get this over with.”
They started down the aisle of buildings hand in hand. The floodlights that lit each unit made their shadows flicker grotesquely across the ground, misshapen and eerie. Their footsteps echoed in the