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“Travis?” the lawyer said, sounding mildly impatient. “Come on, we have a meeting.”
“Coming,” he said in a singsong voice. Then, staring right at Emma, he pursed his lips to kiss in her direction before pushing through the gate and disappearing into the back.
Her stomach twisted in knots, a sick, shaky feeling sweeping through her. Of course she was still poor, powerless Emma. So long as the murderer kept playing with her like she was his puppet, so long as she had to hide the truth from everyone she loved, she would still be as helpless to control her own fate as she had ever been as a ward of the state back in Vegas.
Emma uncrossed and recrossed her legs on the bench, shifting her weight, wondering why in the world Travis was even here. Maybe they just wanted someone else to identify the body. Maybe he was there to tell more lies about Emma, about how wild and perverted she’d been.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Detective Quinlan, who was now standing at the gate holding it open for her. “Thanks for coming down, Miss Mercer. Please follow me.”
As Quinlan led her past the clusters of desks, she was intensely aware of all the eyes following them both. Everyone in the office seemed to know who she was and what she was there for. A paunchy, buzz-cut officer gawked openly as she passed. A woman whose black hair was twisted in a high pompadour on her head took a surreptitious photo of her with a cell phone.
Who knew the police force would be just like a bunch of high school kids, I thought bitterly.
Quinlan led Emma down a linoleum hallway to an interrogation room at the back of the station. Like everything else in the building, the room was drab and industrial gray. A faded silk fig tree stood in a plastic pot in one corner, thick dust on its fake leaves. She glanced nervously at Quinlan. “How come we’re in an interrogation room?” she asked, trying to sound like she was joking. “Do I, uh, need a lawyer?”
Quinlan’s mustache twitched slightly. “No, no, Miss Mercer. Not to worry. This is just a casual conversation.” He moved to the far side of the table, then tossed two manila folders onto the table, side by side. The tab on the thicker one read SUTTON MERCER. The other read EMMA PAXTON.
Emma stared at the thin folder with her name on it. What could possibly be inside? The only time she’d ever gotten in trouble with the law in her old life was the night she and Alex had broken curfew to see a punk show on UNLV campus, and the officer then hadn’t even written them up—he’d just driven them home and handed them over to Alex’s furious mother, which had been bad enough. Was the file only for information about the body they’d found in the canyon? Her fingers ached to flip it open, but that was obviously impossible with Quinlan right in front of her.
I wanted to see inside just as badly as Emma did—especially if there was information about my body in her file. Every time I tried to imagine my corpse, an overwhelming sense of curiosity took hold of me. I’d never liked creepy things when I was alive—I didn’t watch slasher movies or medical dramas or anything like that. But the urge to see my body was like an itch just out of reach. It wouldn’t go away until I’d scratched it.
Quinlan, meanwhile, was busy fidgeting with a digital recorder he’d set on the table. “Can you please state your name and date of birth, Miss Mercer?”
Emma repeated Sutton’s name and their birthday, and after he’d replayed the recording to make sure it was working, he clasped his fingers together and rested them on the table. “All right. Can you please tell me again what you know about Emma Paxton?”
Emma swallowed hard. The recorder both made her feel better and not—she didn’t like the thought of the lies she’d have to tell being recorded in her own voice, but on the other hand it would document anything Quinlan said, too. He wouldn’t be able to bully or intimidate her if he wanted to use the recording as any kind of evidence.
“Well, like I told you,” she said slowly, “I met my birth mom for the first time in Sabino Canyon on August thirty-first. She told me I had a twin named Emma. That same night I got a message on Facebook from a girl named Emma Paxton. Her picture looked exactly like me. We messaged back and forth a few times, and we made arrangements to meet the next evening back at Sabino. I went the next night to meet her, and she never showed up, so I went to Nisha Banerjee’s party instead. I didn’t really think about her after that—I assumed the Facebook messages were either a lame prank from my friends, or that Emma was just a flake like my birth mom.”
“Can you show me those Facebook messages?” Quinlan asked. She nodded, pulling them up on her iPhone and handing it across the table. The night before, she’d sat up staring at her Facebook exchange with Sutton, trying to see if there was anything incriminating that she hadn’t realized. As far as she could see, the messages were safe.
Quinlan’s eyes flickered up to meet hers. “‘Don’t tell anyone who you are until we talk—it’s dangerous!’” he read out loud. “What was that all about?”
Emma’s throat felt dry. “I wanted to surprise my parents with her,” she said, beads of sweat gathering at her temple. “I was afraid someone else would find her before I did and think she was me. I didn’t want her to give it away.”
Quinlan’s eyebrow twitched, but otherwise his face was motionless. Somewhere overhead the air conditioning kicked on, and a blast of cold turned her sweat clammy.
“Pretty weird coincidence,” Quinlan said. “The night you found out about her was the night she messaged you?”
