Emma walked to Sutton’s desk and snapped the laptop shut. The day before, she’d met with the Tucson District Attorney, a stout, brisk woman in a red power suit. She’d agreed to testify in court and to
provide any evidence she could in the case. They’d offered her immunity from prosecution—the D.A. told her they could have charged her with fraud and identity theft if they wanted to—but that wasn’t why
she’d agreed to testify. She’d sworn to bring her sister’s killer to justice, and she planned to follow through to the end. The idea of being in a room with Ethan again, even separated by the witness box
and a dozen burly bailiffs, made the hollow place inside her feel even more raw. But the trial was months away. She had time to steel herself, to try to heal, before then.
According to the D.A., Ethan’s laptop showed hacks into Sutton’s and Emma’s personal information—their phones, their computers, their medical files. There were also copies of all the photos he’d taken of
Emma on his Las Vegas trip, and dozens upon dozens of Sutton. He’d encrypted everything, but the forensics lab had some guy who was more or less a savant, and he’d managed to retrieve it all.
She lay back in the nest of pillows, suddenly exhausted again. It had been so easy for Ethan to fool her, to make her love him. He’d been her perfect boyfriend, funny and sensitive and thoughtful. Had the
entire thing been an act to keep her in Tucson? Was there any small part of it that had been real? And did she even want it to be? She wasn’t sure what was worse: getting played by a monster—or being in
love with a killer.
A soft tap came at her door. Emma gave a little start and glanced at the bean-shaped clock over Sutton’s window. It was just after one—soon they would have to leave. “Come in.”
Mrs. Mercer opened the door a crack and peeked in. Her smile was almost shy, but her blue eyes were warm. “How are you doing?”
“I’m almost ready,” Emma said. They stood in awkward silence for a moment, Mrs. Mercer’s face framed by the barely opened door.
“Can I come in?” she finally asked. Emma blinked. She hadn’t realized her grandmother was waiting for an invitation.
“Of course! Sorry, I . . . of course. Come in.”
Mrs. Mercer opened the door and entered the room, sitting carefully on the bed. She was wearing a neat black suit, and her bobbed hair had been combed sleekly back. If not for the creases at the corners of
her eyes, she could have been Becky’s older sister. She crossed her ankles and looked around the room, the ghost of a smile playing around her lips.
“It feels so strange in here. It’s like she’s just around the corner—in the bathroom, or in her closet. And then you’re here, looking just like her.”
Emma wasn’t sure what to say. In the past few days, she and the Mercers had been tentative and polite with one another, like they were approaching each other slowly from a great distance. Emma knew that they
needed space to grieve for Sutton, and she’d tried not to intrude. But at the same time they seemed to want to get to know her. Yesterday Mrs. Mercer had asked what her favorite meal was, and that evening at
dinner a chicken pot pie had sat steaming in the middle of the table, along with a leafy side salad and a carafe of sweet tea. Mr. Mercer had invited her to go on a walk with him and Drake, and as they’d
walked he’d asked questions about her life before Tucson. They all seemed to be gently avoiding the topic of Sutton or Ethan—Emma assumed their grief and anger were still too fresh—but their overtures were
sincere, and it was a start.
The one holdout was Grandma Mercer, who’d flown in the night before for the funeral. When she’d come in, she’d stared at Emma for a long time, her eyes red and glassy, before heading up the stairs to the
guest room with cold dignity. “She was fond of Sutton,” Mr. Mercer whispered to Emma. “This is all a shock to her. But she’ll come around.” So far, though, Grandma Mercer hadn’t shown any signs of
“coming around.” She referred to Emma only as “that girl” and had made a point of sitting as far from her as possible at dinner. Emma tried not to take it to heart, but it was hard.
“I know this is difficult for you, too,” Mrs. Mercer said now, meeting Emma’s eyes. “You have no idea how much I wish we’d known about you before all this happened. We would have come for you a long time
ago.” She smiled sadly. “But there’s no sense in wishing for what can’t be changed.”
“I wish I could have met her,” Emma blurted out. She hugged herself, clutching at the gray wool cardigan she’d put on for the funeral. When she looked up, Mrs. Mercer was wiping away a single tear.
“I know.” She patted the bed next to her, and Emma sat down. Her grandmother took her hand and squeezed it. “And I hope you know this was no one’s fault but Ethan’s.”
Emma didn’t answer. Her own lies had almost allowed him to get away with murder. If only she’d tried harder that first day, insisted to the police that they check her records. If only she hadn’t been so