Seven Minutes in Heaven (8 page)

The Twitter Twins’ updates had been the most useful real-time description of the school day. Early in the morning Gabby had tweeted:

Media circus at Hollier. How’d the paparazzi find me again?

Lili had followed up shortly after:

Life expectancy of teen girls seems to be plummeting in Tucson. Be careful, everyone.

They’d chronicled each rumor as it circulated and had live-blogged the school assembly at which the principal had announced the discovery of another body. Gabby’s last post had read:

Hollier High needs a hero. Sutton Mercer, come back and lead your people!

She knew the halls were going to be buzzing with rumors the next day, and she would be at the center of it. Even imagining it made her heart beat faster—but not nearly so fast as it did a moment later when the news came back from commercials.

A male reporter with a shellacked helmet of hair stood in front of a coffee shop, talking to a girl wearing an apron over a vintage Bad Religion T-shirt. She wore a pair of black plastic-frame glasses, and her dark hair was spiked in a short, edgy pixie cut. Tears glittered in her eyes. Emma hurried to turn the volume back up.

“—just don’t understand how this could happen,” the girl was saying, wiping at her eyes. “Emma was my best friend.”

Before she could stop herself, Emma jumped to her feet, banging her knee on the table leg. Vibrations of pain shot up through her hip, but she ignored them.

The girl on the screen was Alex Stokes—Emma’s best friend from Henderson. The one person she’d been in contact with since coming to Tucson. She was standing outside of Sin City Java, where she was a part-time barista.

The Mercers gawked at Emma, alarm plain on their faces. She’d knocked her chair over, and she stood gripping the side of the table, her knuckles white. Her grandfather looked from her to the TV set, and then back to Emma, his eyes round and baffled. “Do you know that girl?”

Emma sat down slowly, shaking her head no, but they still stared. Laurel’s glass hovered halfway to her lips, frozen in midair. Mrs. Mercer gave her a worried look. Emma cleared her throat and forced herself to speak. “It’s just that that girl seemed to care about Emma a lot. No one else seems to miss her. It’s just so sad.”

Emma stared at her friend’s face. Alex was the only person from her old life who actually cared about her; she also happened to be the only person who could blow Emma’s cover.

Since coming to Tucson, Emma had been lying to Alex, just like she’d been lying to everyone. She’d told her friend back home that she and Sutton were getting along perfectly, that the Mercers had welcomed her to stay with them for a while. She’d been texting Alex on and off for the past three months—long after “Emma Paxton” was supposed to have died.

And now Alex could blow all of her lies wide open. All she had to do was mention the texts she’d gotten from her best friend, apparently from beyond the grave, and Emma would be through.

“We were joined at the hip,” Alex said. And then she looked directly into the camera, tears hanging from her long, dark eyelashes. “We used to meet at the rec center and talk for hours.”

And just like that, relief flooded Emma’s body. Alex wasn’t going to expose her. Alex was covering for her. The “rec center” had been their own private code for any kind of rule-breaking. It started when Emma was staying with the Stokeses; one night Alex had slipped out past her curfew for a date with a boy from UNLV. When Alex’s single mom came home early and asked where her daughter was, Emma had stammered out that Alex was swimming at the rec center. They both laughed about it later.
Good thing my mom’s internal clock is all screwed up from working nights
, Alex had teased,
or she’d have wanted to know why that pool is open at midnight on a weeknight
. From then on, “rec center” was synonymous for “I’ve got your back.”

Emma suddenly missed her old best friend more than ever. Hearing the news of her own death had made her feel horribly alone—as though she were a living ghost, invisible to the people around her. But here was Alex, clear as day, telling her she was on her side.

“I think I need to lie down for a little while,” Emma said cautiously. “May I be excused?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Mercer was still watching her with concern evident on her face. “Do you need anything, sweetheart?”

“No, I’m all right.” Emma gave a wan smile. “Just tired.” She stood up and carefully pushed her chair in against the table. She could feel their eyes follow her out the kitchen door.

It was all she could do to keep from taking the stairs three at a time. She forced herself to walk slowly, passing the gallery wall of family photos that ran up the stairwell. She knew the pictures by heart now, every smile, every outfit, the patterns on the wrapping paper in birthday and Christmas photos. It was a highlight reel of Sutton’s life, not hers—and yet after so much pretending, sometimes it was hard to remember that.

When she got to Sutton’s room, Emma rummaged at the bottom of the biggest desk drawer, where she’d hidden the old BlackBerry she’d brought with her from Vegas. Sure enough, Alex had messaged her.
WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? ARE YOU OK?

Emma winced, wishing Alex were in front of her right that minute so she could throw her arms around her with relief. She hit the button to reply.

I CAN’T EXPLAIN RIGHT NOW. DON’T CONTACT ME AGAIN—IT’S DANGEROUS. THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING. LOVE YOU ALWAYS.

Her heart was sick at the knowledge that she was about to cut off one of the few people in the world who really knew her, but she forced herself to hit
SEND
, then powered down the BlackBerry. In Sutton’s underwear drawer she found a box of tampons—her go-to hiding place from her foster kid days. No one ever thought to look in someone else’s tampon box. She shoved the phone inside and stuck it in the back of the drawer.

There. Hopefully Alex would keep a low profile until this was all over and Emma could explain. The last thing she needed was for her best friend to end up on the murderer’s hit list—or get Emma herself thrown in jail.

But I couldn’t help wishing Emma had broken the BlackBerry and thrown away the pieces. After all, they’d found the Greyhound locker. Nothing was safe, not anymore. Emma needed to hurry up and prove that Garrett killed me—before he pinned it on her.

12

DOWN THE DRAIN(PIPE)

“It’s like she was lying to her journal,” Emma said, sprawled on her stomach across Sutton’s luxurious bed. With no other clues, she had turned back to Sutton’s cryptic diary for answers. But it was just as confusing as all the other times she’d read it—even with Ethan’s help trying to interpret it. It was around ten that night, and they’d been on the phone for almost an hour, sifting through the various entries with no luck.

“
July 20—C is being a real c-word if you know what I mean. She needs to get over it.
” Emma turned the page. “
July 21—Yum yum yum, got G Burberry Sport for our 1 mo. anniversary and he smells
so
good.
Nothing about Garrett’s temper or the fights they had or the fact that she was still sneaking around with Thayer. She had all these secrets, and she didn’t even admit them to herself.” She snapped the book shut in frustration.

“It makes sense, though.” On the other end of the line she could hear a soft crunching sound. She pictured Ethan with his legs up on the railing of the porch, a bowl of salted popcorn in his lap, wearing the blue flannel shirt that always smelled like vanilla. She couldn’t help the little shiver of pleasure that trilled along her spine at the image. “Her friends were always looking for ways to get her. She wouldn’t want to give them anything that they could use to prank her.”

Emma sighed, rolling over on her back and flipping through the book for the hundredth time. What would it have been like if their situations had been reversed—if Sutton had been forced to figure out who Emma was through
her
journals? Her twin would probably be as annoyed as Emma was now—after all, none of her cutesy fake headlines or lists had any real information in them. Emma had always been careful not to put in too many details or names. In a foster home you never knew who was going to get into your stuff.

“It just feels like the harder we look, the less we find,” she said. “I’ve dog-eared all the pages that say anything about
G
, but none of them are of any use.”

“We have to keep looking. This guy is smart—but somewhere, somehow, he slipped up. I’m sure of it. We just have to figure out how.”

A soft knock sounded at the door. “One second!” she yelled, covering the receiver. Then she dropped her voice.

“Hey, I need to go. See you tomorrow, okay?”

“Love you,” he whispered.

Her toes wiggled at the sound of his sexy baritone saying those two little words. For a moment after she ended the call, she clutched the phone against her heart and smiled. Then she got up off the bed, smoothed her hair, and went to the door.

Mr. Mercer stood in the hall, dressed in a short wool jacket and holding Drake’s leash in one hand. “Looks like the media have gone home for the night. Want to come on a walk?”

“Yes!” Emma had never felt so stir-crazy in her life. She was almost relieved to have to go back to school the next day. Anything would be better than doing nothing.

Drake had caught sight of the leash and was skidding in circles around the entryway when they came down the stairs. His tail flew back and forth wildly, and when it hit the accent table at the foot of the stairs, the photos of Laurel and Sutton propped on top collapsed like a set of dominoes. He reared up and pawed at Mr. Mercer, whining with excitement.

“Down!” Mr. Mercer said, trying to sound stern, but the sight made Emma smile. She pulled on a purple Juicy Couture puffer jacket she’d found in Sutton’s closet while Mr. Mercer snapped the leash to the dog’s collar.

The night was crisp and so clear the stars looked like perforations in the sky. Christmas decorations had started to spring up throughout the neighborhood. Poinsettias in terra-cotta planters flanked a few desert-scaped walkways, and one family had strung colored fairy lights around a towering saguaro cactus in their yard. The Paulsons had gone completely overboard—they’d assembled a giant inflatable snow globe, its constantly running fan roaring as it circulated fake snow through a winter scene that featured both Santa and Frosty the Snowman. When Emma and her grandfather stepped close to the yard they activated some hidden trigger that started playing “Deck the Halls” from a tinny speaker behind the mailbox. Drake eyed the production warily, pressing protectively against Emma’s leg as they walked past.

Mr. Mercer seemed surprised by the decorations, as if he’d lost track of months. “I haven’t even had a chance to ask you girls what you want for Christmas,” he said.

“Oh, right,” Emma said, feeling suddenly warm despite the chill. No one had ever asked her what she wanted for Christmas before. She knew Sutton had no problem asking for designer clothes and goods from her parents, but all she wanted was to solve her sister’s murder. And stay a part of this family.

Mr. Mercer sighed, his breath puffing out into the cold night air. “I know it’s hard to even think of presents at a time like this.”

“I’m sure I can come up with something.” She put on a deadpan expression that made him chuckle.

They walked in silence for a little while. Mr. Mercer moved with his shoulders strangely hunched, as if protecting himself from something Emma couldn’t see. He seemed tired and introspective, and she wondered if it was the loss of a granddaughter he didn’t know affecting him so profoundly, or something else entirely.

“Have you heard from Becky?” she asked tentatively.

“No,” he said, his voice low. He looked ahead into the darkness. “I want to try to get word to her, but who knows where she is by now? And maybe it’s better that she doesn’t know. What would it help? She lost track of Emma so long ago. It might be best if she never learns what happened to her.”

The idea put a lump in Emma’s throat. Becky hadn’t been in her life for thirteen years, but the idea that Emma could die and Becky would never even know it made her feel small and alone. She could have suffered terribly every single day since Becky had left her—she could have died hundreds of times over, and Becky wouldn’t have had a clue. She’d never realized it before, but now that she did, the thought sat hard and cold over her heart.

I knew how Emma felt. Every single time I watched my adopted father put an arm around her shoulders, I was sure that would be the time he realized that she was an impostor. That he’d finally see that I was gone. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly—I didn’t begrudge Emma that love—but the world had moved forward, and no one had noticed that the girl living my life wasn’t even me.

Emma played with the zipper pull on her jacket, her voice suddenly small. “Dad, did you suspect? Before Becky told you, I mean? Did you ever think there might have been two of us?”

Mr. Mercer turned to look at her, his lips twisted in thought. “No. But then again, you yourself were such a surprise it was hard to know what to think. Becky was only eighteen when she came home with you. We hadn’t seen her for more than six months. We hadn’t even known she was pregnant, and then all of a sudden she rang the doorbell with you in her arms. It was just before Thanksgiving, and you were only a few months old.” A fond smile curved across his face. “You were such a sweet baby. And tiny, impossibly tiny. Becky told us you’d been several weeks premature—of course, now we know that your size was because you were a twin.” His voice caught for a moment, then he recovered. “We loved you from the moment we saw you. We would have loved both of you, if only we’d known.”

Emma nodded. “Mom’s taking this really hard, isn’t she? The news about Emma?”

They were passing under a streetlight, and in its lurid yellow light she could see the deep shadows in Mr. Mercer’s face. “Of course she is. We both feel terrible. Sutton, Emma was just like you at the beginning. Thinking about how difficult things were for her is hard, because it’s so easy to imagine
you
in her place. It could just as easily have been you that Becky kept secret from us. And now . . . well, it’s too late to do anything for Emma. And that breaks your mother’s heart, and mine.”

As they turned a corner, headlights lit up behind them. Emma glanced around to see a midsized Audi, creeping slowly in their wake. She drew in her breath, instantly on edge. “Let’s go this way,” she said, lacing her arm through Mr. Mercer’s and tugging him down a side street. Drake’s tags jingled as he trotted along ahead of them. She wanted to see if the Audi would follow them. Sure enough, the headlights turned, too.

“Is that someone you know?” Mr. Mercer asked, glancing over his shoulder. She pulled him ahead, walking faster. She passed a mailbox with tinsel garlands wound up the pole and hung another right. Who did she know with an Audi? It was hard to see in the dark, but it looked white. Or maybe silver . . .

“Silver,” I whispered, suddenly knowing who the car belonged to. I’d been in that car almost every day last summer.

Garrett
, Emma thought, only a moment behind me. Her heart pounded as the car crept closer. Garrett had picked her up in that car the night he’d taken her out for their picnic. She clutched Mr. Mercer’s arm. “We need to go home,” she muttered urgently.

“What’s wrong, Sutton?” he said, trying to look behind them at the car. “Who is that?”

“Just trust me. Keep walking.” She pulled him along behind her, cutting across a corner lawn now to keep as far from the car as she could. For a moment she thought about bolting, but then she realized it would do no good—Garrett would be able to catch them. He’d already run someone over in a car once; if he wanted to do it again, there’d be nothing to stop him.

With a sudden roar of the motor, the car lurched around the corner after them, angling its nose to block their path. Drake barked furiously. Next to her, Mr. Mercer tightened his arm through hers. She shuddered as the door flew open and braced for Garrett in all his rage, ready to push Mr. Mercer down and stand in front of him, if she had to.

But it wasn’t Garrett. It was a skinny, pointy-chinned man wearing a denim jacket and a shabby brown knit scarf. He wore wire-frame glasses, and he was fiddling with a digital audio recorder as he approached them.

“Ted and Sutton Mercer?” A shameless grin spread across his face. “Care to give me a statement for
The Real Deal Magazine
?”

Mr. Mercer looked outraged. He straightened himself to his full height and hugged Emma to his side with one arm. “You almost ran us over!”

The reporter’s grin didn’t falter. “Just trying to get your attention. Come on, pops, don’t you want your side of the story to be told?”

Emma’s temper flared. “Not by some hack from a second-rate gossip rag.”

The man laughed out loud. “I’ve already heard it all, sweetheart. Save your insults for the fat girls at school.”

Drake hadn’t stopped barking. Now he gave a low, threatening growl.

“We have no comment to make at this time,” Mr. Mercer said firmly. Emma noticed that he’d given some slack to the leash, and Drake had gotten closer to the reporter. The reporter seemed to have noticed it, too. He held his hands up in the air and backed slowly away.

“It’s your prerogative. But the story’s going to be big, and there’s gonna be a lot of dirt that comes out. I guarantee it.” He leaned slowly down to place a business card on the curb. “If you start to feel like you aren’t being properly represented in the media, give me a call. My number’s on the card.”

The reporter backed into the side of his car, eyeing Drake the whole way. He groped around for the door handle, and then he was off, leaving Emma, Mr. Mercer, and Drake in a cloud of exhaust.

Emma strode over to where the card lay and plucked it up. Then she ripped it into tiny pieces and threw them in the air. Mr. Mercer watched her with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Did you know that was a reporter?” he asked.

“I . . . I suspected,” she stammered.

He sighed, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I wish I could protect you from them, Sutton. They’re going to be all over the place.” He rubbed Drake behind the ears. The dog’s tail whipped wildly back and forth. Then he laughed. “‘Second-rate gossip rag’?”

Emma broke into a sheepish grin. “That’s right. Those reporters are the ones who are going to need protection.” She held up her fists and pretended to box.