Maybe that’s a good thing, I thought, still shaken by my almost-memory—or, at least, my hunch. Whatever was going on, I had a feeling Becky didn’t come to town for a happy family reunion.
Suddenly, the brakes squealed and the Buick screeched to a stop so quickly that the smell of burnt rubber permeated the air. A bunch of kids playing kickball in the street screamed, and a boy stood inches in front of the car, frozen in fear, a bright red ball in his arms.
“Hey!” Emma called out, sprinting for the car. She cut across the Donaldsons’ lawn, hurdling their Kokopelli lawn ornament and narrowly dodging a staghorn cactus. “Hey!” she yelled again, plowing into the back of the car, bracing herself against the trunk to stop. She slapped her hand on the rear window. The exhaust steamed out hot against her knees.
“Wait!” she yelled. Her eyes met Becky’s in the rearview mirror. Her mother stared back at her. Her lips parted.
For a split second, it felt as if time stood still as Emma and her mother looked at each other in the mirror, cut off from the rest of the world. The boy ran off toward the sidewalk, clutching his kickball. Birds splashed in the Stotlers’ rock fountain. The grumble of a lawn mower vibrated through the air. Was Becky hesitating because she thought Emma was Sutton? Or was she thinking of Emma, remembering all the good moments they’d shared? Sitting in bed, reading chapters from Harry Potter. Playing dress-up with the clothes Becky brought home from the dollar bin at the thrift store. Making a tent out of blankets during a thunderstorm. For five years, it had been just the two of them, mother and daughter against the world.
But then Becky broke her gaze. The engine snarled once more, and the Buick shot off in a billowing cloud of dust. Emma choked back a sob. She turned away—and stopped in her tracks. A police car had driven silently up behind her.
The driver rolled down the window, and Emma sucked in a breath. It was Officer Quinlan.
“Miss Mercer,” Quinlan said acidly, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses. “What’s going on here?”
Emma turned as the Buick sputtered around the corner. For a fleeting second, she hoped that Becky had taken off because the cops had pulled up, not because she wanted to get away from her daughter. “Was that a friend of yours?” Quinlan asked, looking at the car, too.
“Um, no. I thought I recognized her, but I … didn’t,” Emma finished lamely, wishing it had been any other cop patrolling the street. Quinlan knew enough about her as it was—at least he thought he did. He had a file five inches thick on her twin, mostly about dangerous pranks she’d played with her clique called the Lying Game. Like the time Sutton had called the police to tell them she’d seen a lion prowling around the golf course, or the time she’d claimed to hear a baby crying in a Dumpster, or the time her car had “stalled” on the train tracks, only to miraculously spring back to life just in time to escape an oncoming train.
My friends had been particularly pissed at me for that one. They’d put together a revenge prank that was so dark, I hated to think about it even now. A video of it, which showed a faceless assailant strangling me, had been leaked on the Internet. And it was that video that had led Emma to me.
Quinlan squinted suspiciously. “Well, if you do know her, make sure she drives a little more carefully. She might hurt someone.” He looked pointedly at the swarm of kids watching with interest from the sidewalk.
Irritation seized Emma. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” she asked brazenly. Pushing the envelope was Sutton’s M.O., and it felt liberating to channel her sister’s attitude sometimes.
Thayer finally caught up to her, panting. “Afternoon, officer,” he said carefully.
“Mr. Vega.” Quinlan looked weary at the sight of Thayer—he didn’t trust him much more than he trusted Sutton. Thayer placed a hand protectively on Emma’s arm.
I twitched. I knew Thayer was trying to be supportive, but I felt jealous all the same. I wasn’t the kind of girl who shared, even with my own sister. Especially not my boyfriend.
Finally, Quinlan shook his head slowly. “I’ll see you both around,” he said, and drove away.
Thayer ran his hands through his hair. “Déjà vu. At least no one ran me down this time.”
Emma laughed weakly. The night of her sister’s murder, Sutton and Thayer had been together at Sabino Canyon. He’d snuck home from his rehab center in Seattle to visit Sutton, but what had started as a romantic moonlit walk had quickly gone sour. First, they’d seen Mr. Mercer talking to a woman who they’d assumed was his mistress. Then someone had stolen Sutton’s car and rammed it right into them, shattering Thayer’s leg. Sutton’s sister, Laurel, had picked Thayer up and taken him to the hospital, leaving Sutton behind in the canyon. She had then met with Mr. Mercer, her adoptive father, who’d told her the truth about the woman he was with: Her name was Becky and she was Mr. Mercer’s daughter—and Sutton’s biological mother.
But as for what happened next, Emma wasn’t sure. All she knew was that Sutton hadn’t survived it. Emma had been piecing together that night in the canyon ever since she arrived in Tucson. Every clue brought her a little closer to the truth, and yet she still felt so far from solving the puzzle. She had figured out that Sutton, furious at Mr. Mercer’s betrayal, had run back into the Canyon—but where did she go next? How did she die?
Emma looked down to see a ribbon of blood trickling into her sandal from the scrape on her leg.