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“So?” Emma asked, peering at the screen. “He really could be going to a conference. Not meeting with a woman.”
“Yeah, but either way, he’s not in his office—that’s a perfect opportunity for you to sneak in. You don’t think he’d keep that kind of information at home, do you?”
Emma paused. She’d never thought about that. “I guess someone having an affair would want to hide it, wouldn’t they?” she murmured. “Will you come with me?” The idea of breaking into Mr. Mercer’s office freaked her out.
Ethan gave the phone back to Emma, looking chagrined. “I can’t. I have to take my mom to another doctor’s appointment that afternoon.”
Emma bit her lip, not wanting to complain. “Okay. But can I call you after?”
Ethan squeezed her hand. “Of course.”
“I wish it was sooner. I don’t know how to make it until Thursday,” Emma said softly.
“You can do it, Emma. You’re so close.”
Emma closed her eyes. “After my mom left, I wished every night that she would come home and pick me up. She used to love treasure hunts,” Emma said, remembering the little notes Becky would leave under her pillow or in the egg tray in the fridge. “I thought if I could just figure out the clues, I’d find her again. We’d move into our very own house, get a golden retriever, and be a real family. We’d be happy. But I’ve lived with dozens of families now, and not one of them seems happy.”
A cloud shifted over the moon, momentarily plunging them into complete darkness. “My family certainly isn’t happy,” Ethan muttered. “But I don’t think it’s the way it has to be. At some point, you get to choose who you’re with.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Like we’re choosing to be together.”
Despite her stress and exhaustion, Emma couldn’t help but smile. “Well let’s choose to be together, here, for a little while longer. I’m not ready to go home yet.”
Ethan leaned back into the bench and put his arm around her shoulder, settling in. “We can stay here as long as you want.”
Hours later, Emma lay in bed, glancing every so often at Sutton’s bureau, which she’d once again pushed in front of the door. To stay calm, she’d started a Cute Couple Stuff I Want to Do with Ethan list, which included making each other iPod playlists of meaningful songs, and a Most Romantic Things Ethan Has Ever Said to Me list, which featured Ethan telling Emma that he would protect her from Sutton’s killer, no matter what.
“Come out and play,” a voice suddenly sang.
Emma sat up straight in bed, looking wildly around.
“Come out…” the voice sang again. But it wasn’t Mr. Mercer. And it wasn’t coming from the hall, either.
Emma went to Sutton’s window and drew back the curtain. And there in the front lawn, standing underneath the large oak tree, was a woman with stringy dark hair and a round face. Emma’s jaw dropped. It was her mother, Becky.
She was so much paler than Emma remembered, her skin a ghostly white against the night sky. Tattered rope bracelets crossed both of Becky’s wrists. Her worn jeans were rolled up at the bottom to expose her long, thin bare feet. Her faded red T-shirt hugged her slim shoulders and flared out at her stomach. The words on it were blurry, but the shirt suddenly felt achingly familiar—Emma knew she’d seen it before.
So had I. I couldn’t place it, but I knew the T-shirt like it was one of my own—maybe I’d seen it in one of Emma’s dreams?
“Mom?” Emma called. She leaned forward and squinted, trying to get a better glimpse of her mother, but Becky kept her eyes cast down at the wet earth. Emma could barely make out her face in the darkness.
“Hold on, Mom. I’m coming!” Emma said, shimmying out Sutton’s window, grabbing onto a tree branch, and swinging to the ground. Rainwater soaked her feet and ankles, dampening her nightgown. As soon as Becky saw her, she took a step backward, like a scared animal.
“No, Mom, wait,” Emma called, pushing through the thick night air. “I want to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk. I want to play,” Becky said in a childish voice.
“Please?” Emma said, reaching out. “I need you to help me. I need you to make sense of all this.”
Becky lifted her gaze to meet Emma’s. Her eyes were an icy, ghostly blue. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “For everything I’ve done. For disappointing you.” She swiped a dark lock of hair away from her eyes, leaving a streak of mud like war paint across her forehead. “For leaving you.”
Emma reached her arms out. “Please hug me,” she begged.
But Becky just stepped back. “I’m watching you. I’ve been watching you this whole time, Sutton.”
Emma blinked. “I’m not Sutton.”
Becky tilted her chin as though she didn’t quite believe what Emma told her. “What do you mean?”
Emma tried to rest her hands on Becky’s arms, but they were too slippery—as though a slick, icy substance covered her skin. “I’m Emma,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”
Becky shook her head vehemently. “You’re in Sutton’s house,” she said, inching farther away from Emma. “You have to be Sutton!”
She suddenly looked furious. She stepped forward and grabbed for Emma’s wrists, missing them. “Tell me the truth! Tell me who you are!” She swiped again, this time slashing Emma’s skin with her long nails. But as soon as she touched Emma, Becky disintegrated into a heap of ash. Someone laughed in the distance. It sounded like Mr. Mercer’s throaty, baritone chuckle.
