by Sara Shepard
This was what had happened to her sister. This was all that was left of her.
Of course, everyone thought this was Emma’s body. There was nothing to tell them apart—not even the DNA in their bones. Looking at Sutton’s dead body was like looking at pictures of herself dead.
A dry spasm shot through her, and bile filled her mouth. She went to a low metal garbage can and spit into it, wishing desperately that she’d asked Quinlan for a glass of water before he’d left.
She went back to the table and sat down again, shaking slightly, fighting to suppress her nausea. On the other side of the folder were stacks of forms and reports, collated and stapled. She picked up a facial reconstruction sketch that showed a young woman’s features, from the front and then again in profile. It was almost spookier than the actual remains—there was something uncanny about seeing her own face, drawn by someone who had never actually seen her but who had built the image up from her sister’s bones. All the details were right. The artist had gotten the features perfectly, but something was off in the eyes and the lips. Of course, those would be the hardest things to imagine with only the skeleton for a guide.
Next she picked up a diagram of the crime scene, sketched from multiple angles, that showed both the body’s distance from the road and the spot the investigators thought she’d fallen from, high overhead. Her breath caught as she recognized the area on the map: Sutton had fallen from a precipice very close to the spot where the girls had held their fake séance just a few weeks earlier.
She thought back to the faint voice she’d heard in her head that night, so familiar in her ear. It had told her to run. It had sounded like it was coming from far, far away. But maybe it had been closer than she’d thought.
It had come from me.
Finally there was the coroner’s report. The medical examiner had enumerated Sutton’s injuries, and the list was long. On one page he’d sketched the locations of the wounds and fractures on a schematic outline of her body.
Victim has more than a dozen separate bruises and thirteen lacerations over her limbs and torso. Victim’s tibia and three ribs are fractured, and left shoulder is dislocated. Victim also suffered depressed skull fracture directly over right eye, causing subdural hematoma and massive hemorrhage.
Emma bit hard on the inside of her mouth, her blood salty and metallic on her tongue. Her sister had died in a lot of pain, and a side note mentioned that it looked like wild animals of some kind had “disturbed” the body. Emma didn’t want to think about that. She turned the page.
These injuries are all consistent with an accidental fall.
The words froze her in her seat. Accidental fall?
I froze, too. They thought it was an accident? How was that possible? I reached frantically through my memory to conjure up the last image I had of that night in the canyon. Once again I felt Garrett’s hand on my shoulder, his voice in my ear. I willed myself to turn around, to face him and find out what he had done to me—but the memory went dark. All I could pull up was that sickly sense of vertigo I’d had when Quinlan had first announced that I’d fallen. Garrett must have pushed me over the side—but there had to be a clue, some indication that he’d done it on purpose. What happened to me—what had happened to Emma and Nisha since—had been no accident.
Emma’s head spun wildly. It was just like Nisha’s death, covered up and made to look accidental.
Then, at the bottom of the report, two lines in bold type caught her eye.
CAUSE OF DEATH: CEREBRAL CONTUSION CAUSED BY BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA
MANNER OF DEATH: UNDETERMINED
She blinked. Undetermined. So maybe they weren’t so sure it had been an “accidental” fall, after all.
She kept shuffling through the folder. A stack of grainy surveillance camera stills were stapled together with printed-out e-mails from the Sabino Canyon visitor center, addressed to Quinlan. We’re eager to help in any way we can, the sender had written. The camera takes one picture on the hour every hour. We installed it three years ago after a spate of vandalism in the parking lot—it’s not set up to monitor activity on the trails. Emma quickly ran her index finger through the dates attached to the pictures until she found the ones taken on the night of the thirty-first. Her eyes searched for any familiar car, any familiar person. Any clue she hadn’t caught before.
From the photos it seemed that there’d hardly been anyone in the canyon that night, and she didn’t recognize any of the cars. Sutton’s Volvo was nowhere to be seen. Maybe the murderer had already stolen it by the time the picture was taken, or maybe she and Thayer had parked somewhere secluded.
Picture by picture, hour by hour, the parking lot emptied. At one point two new cars appeared—cars she knew. Mr. Mercer’s SUV and Becky’s rusted-out brown Buick. That must have been when Sutton had run into her father, and then, not long after that, into Becky. An hour later the cars were gone. Maybe the murderer had walked from somewhere, or had been dropped off by a taxi, just as Emma had been the following day.
She turned the page, and I felt an electric shock pulse through my being. There at midnight, under the sallow yellow light of a street lamp, sat a familiar silver Audi. I could just barely make out the sticker on the bumper. It read WHAT’S LIFE WITHOUT GOALS? The letter O in GOALS was replaced by a soccer ball.
I knew that car. I knew the dark, kidney-shaped stain on the passenger seat where I’d spilled a cup of coffee. I knew the cheesy shearling throw in the backseat, where I’d curled my legs up under me and quirked a finger, beckoning its driver to come close for a kiss. I knew the dent he’d left in the rear driver’s side door one night when I’d told him he’d had too much to drink, when I refused to give him his keys. I could see his soccer-muscled leg flying toward that door even now, crumpling the fiberglass with his heel.
It was Garrett’s car. And now that wasn’t all I could see. I felt the memory coming before it took me. It welled up like an undertow, and dragged me down, down, down—back to the last few moments of my life.
18
WHAT GOES UP . . .
When I feel the hand on my shoulder I spin around, fear tight in my throat. For a moment I can’t believe my eyes. Garrett stands inches behind me, his features clenched in a bitter scowl. He’s close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. His hair is a wild tangle, and one of his knees is skinned below his khaki cargo shorts. The scrape oozes blood down his calf.
“What are you doing here?” I gasp, staggering a few steps back. Behind me the trail slopes sharply away. I catch my balance on a boulder.
His laugh cuts through me like a knife. By now I’m used to Garrett’s mood swings, his erratic behavior, but that doesn’t mean I like them. Good Garrett might be a sweet, earnest puppy dog—lovable and easygoing and maybe even a little vulnerable—but Bad Garrett is a whole different story. And just my luck, guess which one of them is here now?
He squints at me through the gloom, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. “No need to ask what you’re doing here,” he sneers. “You look like a slut in those shorts.”
I should ignore him. I should turn and walk down the mountain without saying another word. But like I always do with Garrett, I rise to the bait. “You liked these shorts just fine the other day,” I snap. Just a few days earlier we’d gone to see some boring superhero blockbuster together, and he’d been so distracted by my legs draped over his lap that we didn’t do much watching.
“That was before you were wearing them at midnight in the middle of nowhere,” he says. His words slur sloppily together. “Are you trying to get attacked?”
I know why he’s saying this, where his venom is coming from, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. I turn away from him to hide the tears in my eyes. “Go home, Garrett. You’re drunk, and you’re being a real asshole.”
But he reaches out and grabs my arm. “Stop trying to act like you’re so innocent,” he hisses. “Stop trying to make me feel like the bad guy. I know what’s going on.”
/> “You don’t know anything,” I say angrily. After everything I’ve already been through tonight, I don’t have any patience for one of Garrett’s temper tantrums. “And I really don’t appreciate you acting like I’m a total ho just because I want to . . .” I can’t finish the sentence. All summer, I’ve been hoping that Garrett and I could cement our relationship, that we could finally take it to the next level. I think part of me has been hoping, deep down, that if we finally make love I’ll be able to commit to him and him alone, that I’ll be able to let go of Thayer and quit all the sneaking around and lying. I’ve given Garrett about a thousand opportunities to seduce me, and he’s rebuffed me at every turn. It’s almost enough to make a girl doubt her own charms—except I know it’s just Garrett’s own weird hang-ups holding him back. He’s been funny about sex, ever since what happened to his sister.
Now, though, I’m glad we didn’t go all the way. I don’t want to be with him anymore. What Thayer and I have is so much more real than anything between me and Garrett. I just can’t believe it’s taken me this long to see it.
“I know what you’ve been doing out here, who you were with,” Garrett says. He lets go of me, and I stumble backward. My wrist is tender where he gripped it.
“Why? Have you been following me?” I think about the feeling I’ve had all night that someone’s been watching me, and my skin crawls. “That’s gross, Garrett.”
He gives a derisive snort. “You know, I went to Nisha’s house tonight. Looking for my girlfriend?” He says the last word almost sarcastically. “Since that’s where you told me you were going to be tonight, after all. But they said you hadn’t been there all night.”
I shrug. “I decided not to go to Nisha’s lame party. So what?”
“So I was pulling out of her driveway and just happened to see you running up the trail. I thought I’d come up and surprise you. But you weren’t out here alone, were you?”
The clouds around the moon shift, casting weird wispy shadows over the trail. To my left, Tucson sparkles like it’s made of fairy lights. To my right is the drop-off to the ravine. This is the part of the trail my father used to warn me about—when I was a little girl he’d make me hold his hand as we passed the drop. He’d always told me that the cliff was too steep for climbers to rappel down, and that there were bodies no one had ever been able to retrieve at the bottom. A shiver runs up my spine.
“Admit it,” Garrett says, his voice ragged. “You were with Thayer, weren’t you?”
My mouth goes dry. I don’t even have the heart to deny it anymore. But I don’t want to admit the truth right now either—not in the middle of nowhere, when he’s this drunk, this angry. Before I can move, he rips a sapling up by its roots and snaps it in half, screaming with rage.
“Goddamn it, Sutton!” His voice echoes, ricocheting around the ravine below. He throws the broken halves of the little tree over the side, and I watch as they are swallowed by the darkness. “How could you do this to me? I love you.” He pulls at his own hair, grabbing it with his fists.
Terror flashes through me, and suddenly I think of the shadowy figure behind the wheel of my Volvo as it crashed down on Thayer. Of the driver who hijacked my car to run down the boy I love. A bleak realization starts to blossom inside of me. I take a step away from him. “How long have you been following me?”
“Long enough,” he sneers. My heart twists in my chest. This is Garrett, I try to tell myself. Sweet, dopey Garrett. He’d never run anyone over with a car—not even Thayer. Right?
But then the moon comes out from the clouds, and I can see the muscles in his neck and shoulders taut with barely restrained rage. His jaw is clenched into a twisted rictus grin, his eyes flashing wildly. The thought comes to me with a sudden dull thud of my heart—maybe this isn’t Bad Garrett after all. Maybe this is a Garrett I haven’t seen until now. Insane Garrett. Violent Garrett.
“What did you do?” I breathe.
He laughs, and it’s a bitter, broken sound. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” He takes a step toward me, grinning nastily.
A rush of anger flashes through me, burning my fear away. For a moment it’s almost like I can hear the sickening crunch of Thayer’s leg snapping again, like I can hear his voice call my name, weak with pain. I clench my fists, pushing my face close to Garrett’s. “You’re so fucked up,” I whisper. His eyes widen.
“Me?” He takes another step toward me. I stand my ground, even though he’s inches from my face now. “Who’s the liar here? Who’s the slut?” On the last word he shoves me, a short, hard push. I stumble but catch my balance before falling. “Who’s the one who just . . . can’t . . . tell . . . the truth?” With every word he pushes me farther back. My blood is pounding in my ears, and this time it’s as much from anger as it is from fear.
“We’re through, Garrett!” I stare up at him, and it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time. The sweet boy who brought me lilies of the valley for our first date, who sent me dozens of playlists filled with songs that made him think about me, who held my hand so innocently when we walked side by side—that boy is gone. Did he ever even exist? The person in front of me is a monster, damaged beyond all repair.
He freezes, and for a moment it looks like nothing is alive but his eyes. They burn with a frenzied light. I don’t know how I ever thought they looked soulful. “We’re not through until I say we’re through,” he grits out.
Pebbles shift beneath my feet, and I turn to realize he has backed me up against the precipice. Inky darkness fills the air below me. I can’t tell how far the drop is.
He moves so fast. All at once he has me by my shirt. My feet rise up off the ground, the collar of my shirt tight against my neck. I whimper and kick out, but my feet don’t hit anything. Below me, the ravine opens hungrily. He lifts me up and pulls me close to his face so that I choke on the rancid fumes of whiskey.
“Why do you make me so crazy?” he asks, his voice breaking in agony.
And then he lets me go.
19
FACE OFF
The heavy tread of footsteps sounded outside the door. Emma quickly shoved the pages back into the folder just as Quinlan stepped inside.
Without hesitating, she shot to her feet. “Detective Quinlan, I think I know who killed my sister.”
“Yes, tell him,” I urged. I was still reeling from the sensation of Garrett holding me out over the precipice.
He stopped in his tracks. One eyebrow crept up his forehead in a skeptical arc. “That’s interesting. I was just coming back in here to tell you the same thing . . . Emma.”
For a moment what he said didn’t register. Emma stood rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle as her mind raced to catch up with what was happening.
Quinlan gave her a cool smile. “When I swabbed your cheek, I couldn’t help but notice you have two fillings in your molars. The thing is, Sutton Mercer has never had a cavity in her life. Must be all that nice organic food the Mercers buy. But according to the dental records we got from Las Vegas, Emma Paxton has two fillings. Right where yours are, as a matter of fact.” He threw a set of dental X-rays down on the table.
Emma stared at them dumbly, adrenaline churning through her body. For one wild moment she thought about making a break for it. But then what? She might make it as far as the hallway, but she was surrounded by cops. The awful realization unfolded: There was no way out of this. She slowly lowered back to her seat.
Quinlan pulled out his chair and sat as well. He watched her for a moment, his face softening visibly. Emma had the impression that he felt almost sorry for her. “It’s time to tell the truth, Miss Paxton. Come on, why not make this easy on yourself?”
Emma looked down at her fingers on the table in front of her, her mind racing. How much did he already know?
Quinlan sighed, pressing his fingertips together thoughtfully in front of him. “Come on, Emma. I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.” He opened Emma’s file, pulling out the c
rime scene photos and dropping them on the table in front of her.
“Maybe it was just an accident,” Quinlan said gently. “You girls were in the canyon, you got into some kind of argument. Things turned physical, and Sutton just . . . fell. You didn’t mean for it to happen. But you have to help me out, Emma. You have to tell me the truth.”
I watched warily. I knew what he was doing from long hours spent in the hot seat myself. He’d pulled this on me more than once—it must be so hard for you, Sutton, being adopted, not knowing who your family is. Why don’t you just tell me the truth? He was trying to manipulate my sister into talking.
Quinlan’s stone-gray eyes were implacable. Before Emma had time to process what he was saying, he threw his hands up as if he’d tried his hardest to reason with her. “All right. Let’s see what’s behind door number one, then.” His knees popped as he slowly stood up, pushing his chair in behind him. He opened the door a crack and looked outside, holding a low conference with someone in the hall. Emma craned her neck, trying to see who was out there, but his body obstructed her view.
Then the door opened wider, and a female officer propelled Alex Stokes inside.
She was in handcuffs.
Emma’s jaw dropped. Her best friend stood awkwardly in front of her, staring down at the familiar checkerboard-patterned Vans she’d worn every day for the past two years. She was a short, elfin girl, tiny next to the Amazonian officer escorting her. She’d been crying, and her trademark turquoise Urban Decay liner had smeared across her cheeks. When Quinlan gave her a little nudge, she stumbled forward, lifting her tear-filled eyes to meet Emma’s.
A lead weight seemed to drop on Emma’s heart in that moment. Alex was in trouble, all because of her.
Quinlan’s lips curled up in a cruel smile. “We can get your friend here on a half dozen charges. Aiding and abetting, obstructing justice, concealment of a crime. Hell, if the judge is feeling creative I might be able to get her as an accomplice to murder one.” He made a tsking sound. “We got a search warrant for her phone, and it turns out she’s been in contact with her dear friend Emma Paxton for the past three months. And Emma had all kinds of interesting stories about life in Tucson. How close she was with Sutton, how great life was with the Mercers. The most recent one was . . .”—he made a show of looking at a pile of papers in his hands—“. . . one day ago! Look at that!”
