Hanna’s mother ran up to her. “Let’s get you out of here, honey.”
But Hanna was still looking around. “Dad’s here, too, right?”
Ms. Marin held Hanna’s hand and steered her through a sliding door. They came to a desk, and a guard asked her to sign some papers. The guards gave Hanna back her belongings, including her phone. Hanna checked the messages and texts. Lots of worried texts from Mike but nothing from her father.
“Mom.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Where is Dad?”
Ms. Marin handed the papers back and took Hanna’s arm. “I brought a scarf for you to put over your head when we go outside. There’s a lot of press out there.”
Hanna’s heart banged faster. “He knows about this, doesn’t he? Why isn’t he here?”
Finally, Ms. Marin stopped halfway down the hall. She looked positively heartbroken. “Honey, he couldn’t risk the bad publicity.”
Hanna blinked. “D-did you talk to him? Is he worried about me?”
Her mother swallowed hard, then slung an arm around Hanna’s shoulders. “Let’s get you in the car, okay?”
She handed Hanna a scarf, then pushed through the exit door. At least twenty reporters and cameramen swarmed toward them, flashbulbs popping, video cameras pointed, microphones poised.
The questions came fast and furious. “Ms. Marin, did you know your daughter did it?” “Hanna, how do you feel about being extradited to Jamaica?” “Ms. Marin, is your ex-husband going to withdraw from the Senate race?”
Hanna knew that if her father were here, the press would be asking him these questions instead. But not-so-deep-down, she didn’t care. He should be here. Who cared about his campaign at a time like this?
She blinked through tears and clung even tighter to her mother’s arm, suddenly more grateful for her mom than she’d been in years. Ashley Marin bulldozed through the press, not letting them take even one decent picture of her daughter, not uttering a word except for “No comment” to the leechlike reporters. She didn’t ask Hanna if she did it or not. She didn’t give Hanna shit or think of ways to spin this so it benefited her. That, Hanna realized, was how a parent was supposed to act.
And that was what she needed.
20
SHE’S DEAD TO US
Emily had returned to her house after a fair share of trouble—Ali’s death, A outing her at a swim meet, her banishment to Iowa, her secret baby coming to light. Each of those homecomings had been stilted and strange, but nothing, nothing was like returning to the Fields abode after being arrested for murder.
Her family was silent the whole ride home. Her mother stared straight ahead, unblinking, and her father gripped the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles were white. Only once did Emily dare to protest her innocence, but her parents hadn’t responded. Her phone buzzed, and she looked at it. To her astonishment, Jordan had sent her a private message. I’m so disappointed in you, Em.
Emily recoiled. Had Jordan heard? Did she actually believe the news?
There was an Instagram attached to the message. Emily thought it would be a still shot of the fake video, but instead a shadowy photo of her on a dance floor appeared. Emily held a champagne flute in her hand. A pretty black girl spun her around.
Pegasus? Emily dropped the phone to her lap. The night with Carolyn at the bar. The dance with River. Who had snapped and posted this? Ali?
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. It’s not what it looks like! she wrote. We were just dancing. I still love you, I promise.
But Jordan didn’t write back.
The Fields house was cold, and most of the lights were off. Emily followed her parents inside the kitchen and clapped eyes on Carolyn, who was bustling around gathering silverware and plates from drawers and cupboards. Her heart lifted.
But Carolyn didn’t even meet Emily’s gaze. “I have Chinese,” she announced in a brisk voice, plopping a large paper bag on the table.
Mrs. Fields’s brow furrowed. “How much did that—”
“It’s fine, Mom,” Carolyn cut her off, then slammed a bunch of forks down.
Emily took a few more forks from the pile and placed them at the rest of the seats. She glanced at her sister. “You know this is a huge mix-up, right? Someone framed us for killing that girl.”
Carolyn turned away. Emily’s heart slowly began to sink.
She waited until everyone else had served themselves lo mein and kung pao chicken, then took a paltry amount of fried rice and sat in her normal chair. The only sounds were chewing and the scraping of knives and forks.
She shut her eyes. How could Fuji think they killed not only Tabitha but Gayle and Graham, too? And why was Fuji so convinced, suddenly, that Ali was dead? Emily wished she could talk to the agent, but Mr. Hastings had forbade them from saying a word to anyone except for the legal team.
She decided to try again, turning back to Carolyn. “We think it was Ali, actually. She’s alive. We were afraid that Tabitha Clark was Ali, in fact . . . but she wasn’t, and . . .”
Carolyn looked desperately at their father. “Dad, tell her to stop.”
“Carolyn, I’m telling the truth.” Emily knew she should shut up, but she couldn’t control her mouth. “Ali survived. It’s really her.”
She looked around at her family, wishing someone would say they understood. But everyone was staring at their plates.
The doorbell rang. Everyone’s heads swiveled toward the hall, and Mr. Fields stood to answer it. There were low murmurs, and then the front door slammed.
Emily got up from the table and peered through the front window. Two tow trucks sat in the driveway. A man in a blue jumpsuit hitched the Volvo wagon to the tow, and a balding guy in a black jacket did the same with the family’s minivan. Mr. Fields just stood there on the lawn, hands in his pockets, a forlorn expression on his face.