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I squeezed my eyes shut, disgusted at the whole idea of it. Of everything that’d happened since my death, this was the hardest to process. I felt like I was drowning every time I thought of the ways my father had let me down. How could he cheat on my mother? He had to know it would destroy our family. And how could he kill me? How could my father squeeze the life out of me, his daughter? Maybe he’d never loved me. Maybe I was just some adopted daughter he’d never really wanted in the first place.
With sleep nowhere in sight, Emma rolled over and pulled out her Sutton investigation notebook from under the bed and opened it to an empty page. Mr. Mercer, she wrote at the top. It pained her to even pen such a thing.
Then she leaned back to think. Had he known about Emma all along? Had Becky mentioned that Sutton was a twin when she put her up for adoption? Had he put that video of Sutton getting strangled on the Internet, hoping Emma would see it and come forward? Emma had always thought it was some sick coincidence that Travis, her then–foster brother, had found the snuff video that led Emma to Sutton the very night Sutton died. But Mr. Mercer must have gone through Laurel’s Lying Game videos and found one that would get someone’s attention. And then he’d hijacked Sutton’s Facebook account and written back to Emma. Sutton kept herself auto-logged in. It all would have been so easy.
Then Emma thought again about that first morning she’d eaten breakfast with the Mercers. Mr. Mercer had disappeared from the house in the middle of coffee, saying he was grabbing the paper. He had time to affix the Sutton’s dead note to Laurel’s car. He was friends with Mr. Chamberlain, and if Sutton and her friends knew the Chamberlains’ alarm code, it was definitely possible that Mr. Mercer did as well. For all Emma knew, the Mercers housesat for the Chamberlains when they went on vacation. Emma wasn’t sure how he could have gotten into the school auditorium unnoticed to drop the light on her, but Sutton’s father was agile—he went for runs every morning before work and sometimes hiked on the weekends. He was probably capable of a lot.
A creak sounded in the hallway, and panic welled inside Emma’s chest. What if that was Sutton’s dad? There was another loud creak, definitely a footstep. Emma stifled a small sob. It had been terrifying living under the same roof as Laurel when Emma thought she’d killed Sutton. But Mr. Mercer was twice her size. Emma wouldn’t stand a chance.
The doorknob started to turn. Heart in her throat, Emma waited for the door to open and bang into the oak bureau, but then Drake let out a yelping bark, and the doorknob turned back into place.
Emma’s pulse was still racing as the footsteps retreated along the hall. She stared up at the ceiling. Moonlight illuminated a miniscule web of cracks that fanned out from the light fixture overhead. Emma counted them over and over, wondering if she’d ever be able to sleep again.
19
ONE BIG UNHAPPY FAMILY
Emma stayed like that for the rest of the night, with the covers pulled up to her chin. Every clang of a pipe or swish of air inside a vent made her heart race. When she’d heard Mr. Mercer’s alarm sound at 6 A.M., followed by the creak of the stairs as he walked down in his running shoes, she’d leapt to the window to watch him jog down the street casually and easily. Like he wasn’t a murderer. Like he hadn’t tried to come into Emma’s room last night to possibly kill her, too.
By ten, Emma desperately had to use the bathroom. Reluctantly she climbed from bed and stumbled down the hall, locking the door behind her. She got in the shower, letting the sound of rushing water drown out her sobs. When she finally collected herself, she turned off the tap and used her palm to clear the steam from the mirror. She stared at her reflection and for a second pretended it was Sutton’s periwinkle eyes staring back. “I need you, Sutton,” she whispered. She knew it was crazy to talk to her dead twin, but she felt a little crazy right now. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to solve your murder. Tell me how to incriminate him.”
I stared back, wishing I could download my memory onto a DVD and play it for Officer Quinlan. But I couldn’t. All I could do was watch and hope my sister didn’t end up like me.
After Emma dressed, she opened the bedroom door to find Laurel standing with her hand poised to knock. “There you are,” she said. “Ready for breakfast, or are you still too sick?”
Emma stared blearily at Sutton’s sister. Out of habit, her muscles tensed, and she tightened her jaw, but then she realized—Laurel wasn’t a suspect anymore, for real. All of a sudden, she wanted to throw her arms around Laurel simply for not killing Sutton.
But then she registered Laurel’s question. Breakfast meant facing Mr. Mercer. “Um, I’m still feeling pretty bad,” she mumbled.
“Oh, come on.” Laurel linked her arm around Emma’s elbow. “Dad’s famous pancakes will fix you right up.”
Before Emma could protest, Laurel dragged her down the stairs and into the kitchen. When Emma saw Mr. Mercer’s tall, straight back at the stove, pouring pancake batter into a frying pan, she froze. Murderous Father Plays the Part of Doting Family Man, she thought, picturing a grainy, black-and-white photograph of Mr. Mercer holding a spatula and grinning maniacally into the camera.
I watched my father, too, wishing I could grab him from behind and shake him hard. “How could you?!” I screamed at his back. “I trusted you! I loved you!” But as usual, my voice instantly evaporated, like I’d yelled into an airless tunnel.
Mr. Mercer turned and stared at Emma. His lips spasmed slightly, as though the effort of holding back his anger in front of Laurel was too much for him. “Oh. Sutton. You’re awake.” He awkwardly scratched a spot by his nose. “Feeling better?”
