Mrs. Mercer nodded firmly. “We’re going to try to track her down. We would at least like to meet her, make sure she’s safe and happy where she is. Maybe make her a part of our family, if she wants to be.” She tilted her head at Emma questioningly. “Did she tell you anything else, Sutton? Where Emma might be, or what her last name was?”
Emma bit hard on the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from escaping. It was so unfair—they wanted to look for her, wanted to make her safe, and she was right in front of them, in as much danger as she’d ever been in. “No,” she whispered. “Becky didn’t tell me anything else.”
Mr. Mercer sighed, then leaned over to kiss the top of Emma’s head. “Don’t worry,” he said. “One way or another, we’ll find her. And in the meantime—I promise that we’ll be honest with each other from now on.”
For one brief, frantic moment, Emma thought about coming clean. The idea terrified her—they’d be devastated. She would have to tell them that the girl they’d raised as their own daughter was dead—and that she’d helped to cover it up. But it would be a relief, too. She would have help in her investigation, maybe even protection. She would be able to let go of the heavy weight that had pressed down upon her since the first morning she’d woken up in Tucson.
But then she thought about the murderer, always watching her—leaving notes on her car, strangling her at Charlotte’s house, dropping lights from the catwalk in the theater at school. She thought about Nisha, calling her over and over, and then, just like that . . . dying. She couldn’t expose her family to that kind of danger. She couldn’t risk it.
Mrs. Mercer cleared her throat. “I know you girls will want to tell your friends, but for the time being, I’d appreciate it if we could keep this information private. Your father and I are still debating the best way to go about searching for Emma, and . . . there’s still a lot for us to talk about.”
Laurel’s jaw stiffened belligerently for a moment, and Emma was sure she was going to argue. But then she took Mrs. Mercer’s hand and squeezed it. “Sure, Mom,” she said, her voice gentle. “We can keep a secret.”
In the hallway, the clock struck the quarter hour.
“We need to go,” Mr. Mercer said softly. “We’ll be late.”
“I have to run to the bathroom,” Emma said, needing a second to compose herself. She grabbed her clutch and hurried down the hall. As soon as she was alone, Emma leaned over the sink. In the mirror, her skin looked milky pale, her blue eyes brighter than usual. I’m doing the right thing, she told herself. No matter what, she needed to keep her family safe.
I was glad Emma was looking out for my family. But as I stared into her face, so achingly like my own, I couldn’t help but wonder: Who would keep Emma safe?
2
A GRAVE MATTER
“It is with much sadness today that we offer up our farewells to Nisha. She was a vibrant, talented girl, and we will miss her.”
The funeral was a graveside service, set among the sycamores and salt cedars of the cemetery. The sun blazed from its late-fall angle in the sky, sending a melancholy sheen over the gray and white tombstones. Emma sat on a folding chair between Madeline Vega and Charlotte Chamberlain, Sutton’s two best friends. Right behind them sat the Twitter Twins, their cell phones in their purses for once. Laurel sat next to them, hiccupping with silent tears. The entire school had turned out, including most of their teachers and Principal Ambrose. Emma caught sight of Ethan standing in the shade of a tree, wearing the black shirt and black tie he’d been in for the news interview.
The officiant, a broad-hipped woman in a white sari, went on. “It is especially cruel to lose someone so young. Nisha was brimming with potential. The temptation to dwell on all she could have done if she had survived is great. We want to lament how she might have changed the world, how she might have gone on to such great heights.”
Behind the woman in the sari sat the coffin, its polished oak gleaming in the sunlight. It was closed; there had been no viewing. The service was shaping up to be a short one. Before the officiant had gotten up to deliver the final eulogy, there’d been a handful of scattered readings from Nisha’s friends, and the Hollier High show choir had sung “Wind Beneath My Wings.” Privately Emma could imagine Nisha snickering at the choice—she hadn’t been a sentimental girl. But there hadn’t been a dry eye in the audience. Charlotte had burst into gasping sobs, mascara running down her cheeks, and Madeline, pale and trembling, balled up her skirt in her fists.
I watched the crowd wistfully. Would I ever have a funeral? What would people say about me then? Would they cry? Watching the casket and the deep hole next to it, a chill went through me—somewhere, my own remains lay hidden, separated violently from my spirit and left to rot. I looked around again, half-hoping to find an ethereal Nisha. But I was the only ghost here as far as I could see.
The officiant had a resonant, musical voice, tinged with the same faint Anglo-Indian accent Dr. Banerjee had. “But I believe we do Nisha a disservice, focusing on what could have been. As we say our good-byes, I ask you not to dwell on what has been lost but to think of what we gained by having Nisha in our lives.”
A small string ensemble played an instrumental arrangement of the Beatles’ “Let It Be” as everyone rose from their chairs and started to mingle.
Charlotte dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a tissue she’d pulled from the depths of her bag. Her long red curls had been pinned up behind her head, but stray coils fell on either side of her round, freckled face. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe she’s dead.”