He shrugged. “It’s not your fault.”
“It kind of is. If it wasn’t for me …” Emma trailed off, still annoyed at Thayer and Ethan.
But Mr. Mercer waved her protestations away. “Let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”
A waitress handed them leather-bound menus, and Emma’s mouth started watering just reading her choices: portobello ragout in truffle oil, butter-poached lobster, rosemary-rubbed pork tenderloin, pecan-crusted snapper. Eating in nice restaurants instead of Jack in the Box was definitely on the list of Things That Do Not Suck About Being Sutton Mercer.
But then Emma thought of the killer’s most recent note—YOU SHOULD THANK ME—and suddenly didn’t feel as hungry. The cost of her new life made it hard to enjoy the perks.
When the waitress returned, they put in their orders: fettuccine alfredo for Emma, a filet mignon, rare, for Mr. Mercer. Then Mr. Mercer reached into his coat and pulled out a folded manila envelope. He looked down at it in his hands for a moment. “I found these for you,” he said, setting it on the table between them.
Emma opened it to find a thick pile of photographs. On the top was a glossy picture of Becky around age twelve or thirteen. She was sitting on a horse and grinning broadly, braces glinting on her teeth. The next was of Becky in a Girl Scout uniform, pointing proudly at a merit badge on her sash. Becky in a cat costume for Halloween. Becky on a beach building an elaborate sand castle. There were a few of an older Becky, sixteen or seventeen years old. She’d lost all her baby fat and had a pale, waifish beauty. She no longer smiled for the camera. Emma paused at a picture of her mother in an oversized plaid flannel shirt, standing on a canyon trail in California. The expression on her face was hard to read. Sad, maybe, or just distant.
A wave of sorrow washed over Emma, too. What had happened to that smiling girl on horseback? How had she become the haggard woman she’d seen in the Buick?
It was hard for me to look at them, too. All my life, I’d wondered who my birth mother was. Admittedly, I’d pictured someone amazing: an international reporter called away to cover a dangerous war zone that was no place for a child, or a fashion model working the runways in Paris. But Becky was so ordinary, plain. Damaged.
“There are more in the attic, if you’d like to see them,” Mr. Mercer offered.
“I would,” Emma said, flipping through the photographs again. She paused on a picture of a junior-high-age Becky scowling playfully from a tent, perhaps on a camping trip. “She’s really pretty.”
The Becky she’d known had been beautiful, with her big blue eyes and milky white skin. But there was a brittleness to her, an unease that kept most people at a distance, as though some tangible sadness clung to her. Emma remembered being at a playground once when a man in a basketball jersey had tried to flirt with her mother. Becky had stared silently at him from within the depths of her long, loose hair until he’d moved nervously away.
Mr. Mercer nodded as the waitress set down their appetizers. “She is. She looks a lot like her mother. So do you, for that matter.”
Emma could see it: All three generations of Mercer women had the same eyes, the same cheekbones. In one of the pictures, Becky sat side by side with her mother at the end of a dock. Mrs. Mercer’s smile looked forced, while Becky just stared blankly at the camera. She looked as if she might be around Emma’s age.
“When was the last time Mom saw Becky?” she asked, picking up her fork to spear a piece of lettuce from her salad.
Mr. Mercer dipped a bite of calamari into marinara sauce, frowning. “Not long after she left you with us, Sutton.” He sighed. “Becky had a way of hitting her mom just where it would hurt her the most.”
Emma swallowed a crouton. “Shouldn’t we tell her that Becky’s been in town? It’s been a long time. Maybe things have changed.”
Mr. Mercer shook his head. “I know it’s difficult, but we have to keep this a secret. Things haven’t been easy for any of us, but your mom has taken it especially hard. Promise me you won’t tell her.”
“I promise,” Emma said softly. She hesitated, biting her lip, then forged ahead. “I think I saw Becky the other day. She drove past me, but I know it was her.”
To her astonishment, he nodded. “I guess I’m not surprised by that.”
“You’re not? You mean she’s hung around here before, spying?”
The waitress swooped in at that very moment to ask if everything was okay. “Fine,” Mr. Mercer said, giving her a clipped smile. When she vanished, he turned back to Emma. “She’s come back into town a few times.”
“She clearly saw me.” Emma felt the hurt on the surface of her skin, like a physical wound. “Why did she drive off? Why did she pretend I didn’t exist?”
Mr. Mercer sighed heavily. “Becky’s life has never been easy.”
“Sure it has.” Emma suddenly felt angry. She grabbed the pile of pictures and started to flip through them. “Horseback riding. Dance lessons. Presents at Christmas. Ski vacation, beach vacation, Disneyland vacation. She had …” Emma swallowed hard. She’d almost said more than I ever did. “She had everything anyone could want. Don’t make excuses for her.”
She’d managed to keep her voice from climbing higher, from echoing through the entire dining room, but it shook dangerously. She pinched her forearm under the table to hold back her tears. Mr. Mercer’s eyes were sad behind his glasses, and for a moment he seemed older and more tired than Emma had ever seen him.