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“Requests?” she snapped, curling her lip. “You spent most of the day on our front lawn, you gargoyle.” Then she sighed, and started gathering dishes. “Poor Emma. It sounds like she could have used our help.”
“What do you mean?” Emma asked, glancing up at her grandmother.
“Just, if she was as troubled as those people said . . .” Mrs. Mercer trailed off, then shook her head. Her face darkened. “I wish we’d known about her sooner. This is all Becky’s fault. It’s always Becky’s fault. She lies, she steals, she keeps secrets, and she doesn’t care who she hurts along the way.”
“Kristin,” Mr. Mercer said softly. But his wife scowled, grabbing the Pyrex dish of lasagna from the center of the table. She moved so violently a small splatter of sauce flew free and landed on her sweater, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“You know it’s true. She kept us in constant agony, wondering where she was and if she was okay. And for some insane reason, she didn’t tell us about this other little girl who we could have . . .” Tears sprang to her eyes. “This little girl we could have saved.”
Mr. Mercer stood up and gently pried the dish from her hands. He set it back on the table and pulled his wife into his arms. She broke down then, sobbing against his chest as he patted her back. Laurel and Emma looked at each other with wide, frightened eyes. Emma had never seen Mrs. Mercer this emotional, and from the look on Laurel’s face, she hadn’t either.
Emma couldn’t help but agree with Mrs. Mercer. She wanted to forgive Becky—Becky was her mother, after all—but sometimes she was so angry she could scream. What had been the point of keeping Emma if she was only going to abandon her five years later? What had been the point of separating the twins?
It was so unfair. If Sutton hadn’t died, if Emma hadn’t come out to Tucson to find her, the wheels might have been set in motion on their own, by Becky’s confession to Mr. Mercer. What would it have been like if the Mercers had come for her as a family? She imagined being called out of class in Henderson, just like she had been the day they found Sutton’s body. But in this alternate reality, she was summoned to meet her family. Her real, blood family. She pictured it: Mr. Mercer, gentle and reassuring; Mrs. Mercer, a nervous but excited smile twitching the corners of her lips; Laurel, wary at the possibility of a new rival but hopeful, eager to be liked. And Sutton. Her sister. Her twin.
“What was she like?” Laurel asked softly, breaking Emma’s thoughts. Emma gave a start, her mind racing to come back to the present. To the reality where Sutton was gone, and she was alone.
“What was who like?” she asked.
“Emma,” she said. “You talked to her, right?”
Emma ran her finger along the condensation on the outside of her glass. “Just a little bit. I didn’t know much about her.” Then, because she couldn’t resist, she added, “I know her foster mom had just kicked her out of the house. She sounded kind of awful.”
“Who, that woman with the tacky lounge-waitress hairdo?” Laurel said. “She looked awful.”
“Now, girls,” Mr. Mercer said, frowning at them from where he still stood with Mrs. Mercer in his arms. “You don’t know that. It can be hard to know what to do for someone who’s troubled. I’m sure that woman did her best for Emma.”
Emma knew he was speaking more about his own relationship with Becky than anything, but she was glad that Laurel at least had sided with her.
Mrs. Mercer wiped her eyes with a pineapple-print cloth napkin, then let go of her husband. “Did anyone want dessert? There’s some ice cream in the fridge.”
“No thanks, Mom.” Laurel threw her own napkin down in front of her. Emma shook her head, too. Her stomach felt like a lead weight.
Mr. Mercer pulled a chair out for his wife. She sat down, her eyes still damp, and he set about clearing the rest of the dishes. The plates and silverware clattered together, echoing around the silent kitchen. On the muted TV Santa Claus delivered pizzas in his sleigh, the phone number for a regional pizza chain painted on the side.
“Do we have to go to school tomorrow?” Laurel asked, sucking her lower lip anxiously. Mr. and Mrs. Mercer exchanged uneasy glances from across the room. Then Mr. Mercer came back to the table, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“I wish I could hide you girls from this forever,” he said, “but I don’t know if you should miss any more school. We talked to the principal this afternoon, and she promised me there would be no press allowed on campus. I know it won’t be easy. I’m sure your friends have a lot of questions for you.”
Emma rolled her eyes. That was an understatement. All day long she’d been fielding texts from Madeline and Charlotte. WHAT IS GOING ON???? Charlotte had asked, while Madeline had seemed excited that a “mega-foxy” reporter had cornered her outside campus to ask if she knew Sutton. THIS IS SO CRAZY, she’d texted, along with a photo taken from her phone of a line of news vans just off campus.
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:
