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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.
