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Emma tilted her head, taking in his words. “You wrote a letter?”
Mr. Mercer shifted in the seat. “I didn’t finish it, though. By the next day, you were acting like it had never happened, and I wasn’t sure what to do. But I can finish it—if you want. Or, if you feel more ready now, we can just talk.”
Emma’s mind whirred. If he had been called into surgery, he had a solid, easily verifiable alibi. There was no way he could have been out killing Sutton if he was in the OR. More than that, she had no idea why he would kill Sutton. He was her grandfather. The secret he was trying to keep was for her and Becky’s benefit, not his.
My relief at the knowledge that my father hadn’t killed me felt like fresh rain on my skin—cleansing, revitalizing, purifying. My dad was my dad again, someone I could love, someone I could wholeheartedly miss. It felt like my broken heart was healed. And Emma was right: It didn’t make sense that he would have killed me. I could tell in his face that he loved me more than words could say. I could also tell that this tension between us was killing him, that the only thing he wanted to do was end the stalemate and make things better.
But then I remembered the memory, and I felt the sharp sting of regret. The last words I said to the man I thought of as a father—my real grandfather—had been full of hate. If only I could go back and change things. Change everything.
Mr. Mercer adjusted his legs in the footwell. “You know, she really did care about you in her own flawed way,” he went on. “When I first heard from her again a few months ago, I was so thrilled. Kristin had had enough of the lies, but I never had the heart to turn Becky away. Dads and daughters…you know.” He ruffled her hair gently.
Emma nodded, wondering what it must have been like for them all those years ago when Becky showed up with a baby. She would’ve been right around Emma’s age. She wondered why Becky hadn’t told them about her, their other granddaughter—and why she’d only given up one of her daughters. Perhaps she thought she could be a good mom to just one girl. But, of course, by the time Emma was five, Becky had given up on motherhood entirely.
“I could never erase her completely,” Mr. Mercer went on. “But she’s troubled, Sutton. She always has been. I’ve been giving her money here and there, but it doesn’t solve the problem. It only makes it worse.”
A mist covered his eyes and he blinked, looking close to tears. “I always felt so guilty. Like it must have been something your mother and I did wrong as parents.” His broad shoulders slumped as though the weight of his sadness was too much to bear. “The whole situation has felt…impossible.” His voice sounded suddenly panicked. “I love Becky. But she’s made our lives very painful at times. And the way she treated you…”
Fresh tears sprung to Emma’s eyes. She knew full well how messed up Becky was—she’d lived with her for almost five years. And yet she still missed her, every day. She was her mother after all, and that was a hard bond to break.
Emma raised her eyes to Mr. Mercer, her grandfather, fingering the letter from Becky in her open purse. If she could only tell him the final piece in the puzzle: that he had another granddaughter, Sutton’s twin. But until Sutton’s murderer was found, she couldn’t. She’d be the prime suspect, the poor girl who’d stolen her twin’s life to get out of foster care. Once again, she was back to square one.
But not entirely. The moon emerged from a patch of clouds and hovered in the middle of the windshield. She stared up at the same sky she and her twin had shared for so many years without knowing it, the sky Emma had gazed up into and wished for a family. She had lost Sutton and Becky, but she had found her family—her real family. A grandmother and grandfather. A great-grandmother. And an aunt in Laurel.
She leaned toward her grandfather and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He let out a long sigh against her, squeezing tight. The car made a metallic pinging noise beneath their shifting weight.
“Will you tell me a little about her?” Emma asked into Mr. Mercer’s chest. “About my mom?” There was so much about Becky she didn’t know, so many details she craved, so many questions that had plagued her for thirteen years. “Like what she was like as a kid?” Emma asked. “How I remind you of her?” Her voice was so choked with sobs she could barely speak.
As Mr. Mercer pulled her closer, Emma could feel tears on his cheeks, too. “Of course,” he said, running his hands over Emma’s hair. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
33
SHE’S BACK
The following day, Emma sat at an outdoor café in a shopping complex a few blocks from the Mercers’ house, Sutton’s laptop beside her. Twitter was open, and she slowly scrolled through tweets hash-tagged #HOLLIERSECRETDANCE. If the tweets were any indication, the dance was a complete success—everyone was raving about the music, the food, the hookups, and even the narrow escape from the police. Only a few people had been caught that night. The cops had ended up letting everyone go, and so far no one had told that the Lying Game had organized it. Emma and her friends were safe for now.
I hoped they would stay that way.
“Sutton?” Mr. Mercer’s voice jolted Emma. She glanced up from the computer and saw him walking toward her from the Home Depot across the parking lot, a new shovel in his hand.
“Hey, Dad,” she said, relaxing her shoulders. She’d called the hospital last night and confirmed that he was in surgery the evening Sutton died. It felt good to not fear his presence but to welcome it with open arms.
