her being there. Maybe they didn’t want her to come down and help.
“You think it’ll be okay?” she asked, biting her lip.
Laurel raised an eyebrow. “You lived through blackmail, kidnapping, and assault, and you’re worried about trimming the tree? Come on.” She threaded her arm through Emma’s and gave her a reassuring
squeeze. Together, they went downstairs.
Mrs. Mercer had hung a garland along the banister already, and the smell of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the house. In the living room, they’d moved an armchair to make room for the silvery green fir.
Someone had already strung tiny winking lights around its branches. Bing Crosby crooned from the surround-sound stereo, and a platter of sugar cookies sat on top of the baby grand’s lid. Drake—wearing plush
reindeer antlers—lifted his nose to sniff hopefully at the plate.
The Mercers were already there, a fire crackling in the fireplace. Mrs. Mercer sat sorting through a box of decorations on the floor, while Mr. Mercer stood looking thoughtfully up at the tree, wearing a
bright red Santa hat. Grandma Mercer was there too, her hair perfectly waved, pearls at her neck and throat. Emma swallowed. Grandma still hadn’t spoken to her more than was absolutely necessary.
“Oh, God, they’ve already got ‘White Christmas’ going,” Laurel groaned, rolling her eyes, but Emma could tell she secretly liked it. Mrs. Mercer gave a satisfied little smirk.
“That’s right,” she said. “And after this we have John Denver and Judy Garland to get through, too. ”
Laurel pretended to gag, and Emma giggled. She’d always liked Christmas music—it was one of the few things you could enjoy for free during the holidays. She’d spent plenty of holidays walking the Vegas
strip, listening to the Bellagio fountain show play “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” and looking at the lushly decorated Christmas trees the casinos put up. She hummed along now, picking up a
cookie from the tray and biting into it.
Grandma Mercer glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Mercer, anxious creases at the corners of her eyes. Mr. Mercer put a hand on her shoulder, some unspoken communication passing between them. He nodded earnestly at her,
as if in encouragement. Emma’s heart skipped a beat.
Grandma Mercer swallowed and turned toward Emma. Her eyes scanned Emma’s face, taking in the features so like Sutton’s. She cleared her throat. “There’s something I’d like for you to have, Emma.”
Emma’s ears perked up at the sound of her name. It was the first time Grandma Mercer had said it out loud. She shot a look at Laurel, who smiled, the firelight dancing in her bright green eyes. Then the
older woman pressed a small box into Emma’s hand.
She held it in her palm for a long moment, unable to bring herself to disturb the pretty little package. It was jewelry-sized, tied with a satin bow. She could count on one hand the number of gifts she’d
received in her life, as herself. Now she hardly knew what to do.
“Go on,” Grandma said, her voice tinged with exasperated amusement. “Open it, already.”
Emma took the ribbon in her fingers and pulled. Inside was an ornament, a simple five-pointed star in sterling silver. Engraved across the front in cursive was her name. Beneath that was her birth date.
“That was what I gave each of the girls for their first Christmases,” said Grandma, a sad smile unfolding across her face. “Sutton and Laurel. And poor Becky, too, ages ago. I thought . . . I thought you’
d like one, too.”
Emma couldn’t speak. She stared down at the ornament in her hand, her lips parted. The star became blurred as her eyes filled with tears. But for the first time in a long time, they weren’t tears of fear,
or grief, or frustration. She was crying with happiness.
She suddenly realized that everyone in the room was watching her. Mr. and Mrs. Mercer were both smiling softly, and Laurel hugged her knees to her chest on the sofa, looking pensive. Grandma Mercer gave her a
worried, shaky smile. Emma wiped quickly at her eyes, looking around at all of them. “Thank you,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
“We thought this year . . . you could help us hang Sutton’s, too,” said Mr. Mercer, his voice breaking slightly.
Emma nodded, her throat tight with emotion as Mr. Mercer handed her the other star. For a moment it was cold and hard, and then slowly it warmed to her skin. She held them, one in each hand, engraved with the
same date. Then she turned to the tree and carefully hung them side by side, so close that their edges touched.
The sister stars, she thought. Finally together.
I watched them all a few minutes more. My mom trying to sing “O Holy Night,” laughing when she got the words wrong. My dad putting his arm around Grandma Mercer, tears glittering in her eyes as she found an