by Sara Shepard
Emma stared at the detective, the air heavy and stale between them. For a moment, she considered telling him that it was Sutton’s blood. That someone had killed her twin sister and was after her, too. But Quinlan wouldn’t believe her any more now than he had a month ago. If he did believe her, he might presume what Ethan had warned her about—that Emma had killed Sutton, all because she wanted to ditch her foster-kid persona and take over Sutton’s charmed life.
“I don’t know anything,” Emma whispered.
Quinlan shook his head and slapped his hand on the table. “You’re just making this more difficult for all of us,” he grumbled. Then he turned as the door to the interrogation room opened. Another cop stuck his head in and mouthed something Emma didn’t catch. Quinlan stood and moved for the door. “Don’t go anywhere,” he warned Emma. “I’ll be right back.”
He slammed the door hard. Emma waited until he padded down the hall, then gazed down at the items he’d left on the table. The scarf, heavily perfumed with eau de Sutton. The sign-out sheet, Sutton’s signature in loopy swirls at the bottom. Then she stared hard at the cover of Little House in the Big Woods. A young girl in a red dress clutched a brunette doll. Emma had loved the books when she was younger, spending hours getting lost in the hardships of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s characters—for all of Emma’s shitty home situations, at least she didn’t have to live in a mud hut like the pioneers. But what was Sutton doing with a copy of this book in her car? Emma doubted it was something she would read at eighteen—if at all.
I had to agree. Just looking at the cover made me want to yawn.
Emma picked up the book and rifled through the pages. It smelled musty, as if it hadn’t been opened in a while. When she reached the middle, a postcard fell to the floor. She bent down and turned it over. The front was printed with a generic image of a sun setting over two multiarmed saguaro cacti. WELCOME TO TUCSON, it said in hot-pink bubble letters on the top.
Emma flipped it over to read the black ink printed on the back: Downtown bus station. 9:30 PM. 8/31. Meet me. —T.
Her heart began to pound. August thirty-first. That was the night Sutton died. And … T. There was only one person in Sutton’s life with that initial: Thayer. So was Thayer with Sutton the night she died? Wasn’t he supposed to be out of town?
Emma ran her fingers along the card. There was no postage stamp on it, meaning no date to signify when the postcard had been mailed—or from where. Perhaps Thayer had sent it in an envelope. Perhaps he’d slipped it under Sutton’s bedroom door or under her windshield wiper.
Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Emma froze, looking at the postcard in her hands. At first, she considered shoving it back into the book—it was probably wrong to tamper with evidence—but at the last minute she dropped it into her bag instead.
Quinlan walked through the door, and a second person followed. At first, Emma thought it was just going to be another cop, but then her eyes widened. It was Thayer. She gasped. His hazel eyes were lowered to the ground. His high cheekbones jutted as though he’d lost weight rapidly. Handcuffs circled his wrists, clasping his hands together like he was praying. A dingy rope bracelet was pushed up his forearm. It was so tight that it cut into his skin.
I stared at him, too. Just seeing him again made a strange tingle shoot through me. Those deep-set eyes. That dark, messy hair. That permanent smirk. There was something sexy and dangerous about him. Maybe I had fallen for him.
Quinlan made a grunting noise from behind Thayer and pushed him toward the table. “Sit,” he commanded.
But Thayer just stood there. Even though he wasn’t looking at Emma, she scooted her chair away, afraid he might lunge for her.
“I suppose you both are wondering why I brought you in here for a little reunion,” Quinlan said in an oily voice. “I thought that if I spoke to you both at the same time, we could clear some things up.”
He pulled another plastic bag from his pocket and held it in front of Thayer’s face. A long rectangular piece of paper was lodged within the plastic. “I believe this is yours, Thayer,” he said, shaking the bag under Thayer’s nose. “I found it in Miss Mercer’s car. Care to explain?”
Thayer glanced at it. He didn’t flinch—didn’t even blink.
Quinlan yanked the paper from the bag. “Don’t play dumb, kid. There’s your name, right there.”
He slammed the plastic bag on the table and pointed to the piece of paper. Emma leaned forward. It was a bus ticket with a Greyhound logo in the corner. The point of departure was Seattle, WA, and the destination was Tucson, AZ. The date was August thirty-first. And there, printed in small, neat letters at the bottom, was the passenger’s name: THAYER VEGA.
I drew in a breath the same time Emma did. So Thayer was in my car the night I died.
Quinlan eyed Thayer. A blue vein at his temple pulsed. “You were back in Tucson in August? Do you know what you put your parents through? What you put this community through? I spent a lot of time and money searching for you, and it turns out you were right here, under our noses!”
“That’s not quite true,” Thayer said in a quiet, steady, discomfiting voice.
Quinlan crossed his arms over his chest. “Then how about you tell me what is true?” When Thayer didn’t answer, he sighed. “Is there anything you can tell us about the blood on the hood of Ms. Mercer’s car? Or how your ticket ended up in her car?”
Thayer limped over to where Emma sat. He put both palms on the table, glancing from Emma to Quinlan. He opened his mouth like he was about to give a long speech, but then just shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, his voice creaking as though he hadn’t spoken for days. “But no. There’s nothing I can tell you.”
Quinlan shook his head. “So much for being cooperative,” he grumbled, then shot to his feet, grabbed Thayer by his muscular forearm, and dragged him from the room. Just before Thayer slipped out the door, he turned his head and gave Emma a long, eerie look. Emma stared back, her lips slightly parted. Her gaze fell from Thayer’s face to his shackled hands, and then to the rope bracelet around his wrist.
I looked at the bracelet, too, and was overcome with a strange snapping feeling. I’d seen that bracelet somewhere. All of a sudden, the pieces fell into place. I saw the bracelet, and then Thayer’s arm, and then his face … and then a setting. More and more dominoes fell over, more and more images flashed into my mind. And before I knew it, I was falling headlong into a full-blown memory …
7
NIGHT HIKING
I pull up to the Greyhound station in Tucson just as a silver bus chugs into the parking lot. I roll down my window and the pungent smells of a hot-dog vendor’s cart waft into my British racing-green 1965 Volvo 122. Earlier this afternoon I rescued my car, my baby, from the impound. The paperwork flutters on the dash, my signature prominent at the bottom, a big, red-stamped AUGUST 31 at the top. It had taken me weeks to save up the money to pay cash to get the car off the impound lot—there was no way I was going to charge it on a credit card, since my parents always saw the statement.
The bus door sighs open, and I crane my neck to scan the exiting passengers. An overweight man with a fanny pack, a teenage girl bopping her head to an iPod, a family who looks shell-shocked from the long journey, all of them holding pillows. Finally, a boy tumbles down the stairs, black hair disheveled, shoelaces untied. My heart leaps. Thayer looks different, slightly scruffier and skinnier. There’s a tear in the knee of the Tsubi jeans I bought him before he left, and his face looks more angular, maybe even wiser. I watch as he scans the parking lot, looking for me. As soon as he spots my car he breaks into his trademark, soccer-star sprint.
“You came,” he cries as he wrenches open the door of my car.
“Of course I did.”
He climbs inside the car. My arms reach out and wrap around his neck. I kiss him hungrily, not caring who might see us—even Garrett, my so-called boyfriend. “Thayer,” I whisper, feeling the layer of stubble along his jaw rough against my cheek.
“Nothing could keep me away,” I say, making myself pull back slightly. I check the plastic alligator-print watch on my wrist. Most of the time, I wear the Cartier tank watch my parents got me for my Sweet Sixteen, but what they don’t know is that I love this cheap thing more. Thayer won it for me at the Tucson County Fair the last day he was in town.
“So how much time do we have?” I whisper.
Thayer’s green eyes shine. “Until tomorrow night.”
“And then do you turn into a pumpkin?” I tease. This is a longer visit than usual, but I feel greedy. “Stay another day. I’ll make it worth your while.” I toss my hair over my shoulder. “I bet I’m more fun than wherever it is you run off to.”
Thayer runs his finger along my jaw line. “Sutton …”
“Fine.” I turn away, squeezing the steering wheel. “Don’t tell me where you’ve been. I don’t care.” I reach for the radio dial and turn up the sports channel. Loud.
“Don’t be like that.” Thayer’s hand covers mine. His fingers trail along my bare arm until they pause at my neck and uncurl. My skin warms beneath his hands. He leans closer until I can feel his breath against my shoulder. It’s minty, like he chewed a whole pack of gum on the ride here. “I don’t want to fight with you the only day we’re together.”
I face him, hating the lump that forms at the back of my throat. “It’s just hard here without you. It’s been months. And you said you’d come back for good this time.”
“I will, Sutton, you have to trust me. But not quite yet. It’s not right.”
Why? I want to ask. But I’ve promised not to ask questions. I should be happy that he has left wherever he’s been staying to see me, even if it’s only for twenty-four hours. Coming back here under such secrecy is a risk. So many people are looking for him. So many people would be furious if they knew he was here and hadn’t reached out.
“Let’s go somewhere special,” Thayer says, tracing a pattern on my leg. “Want me to drive?”
“You wish!” I tease, checking my rearview mirror and revving the engine. And just like that, I feel better. There’s no use in dwelling on what I don’t know and what the future might hold for us. Thayer and I have twenty-four blissful hours, and that’s what matters.
I peel from the station’s lot and turn onto a main road. Two kids wearing cut-off jean shorts and clutching duffel bags who look our age are trying to hitchhike from next to a patch of desert broom. The Catalina Mountains tower in the distance. “How about a night hike?” I ask. “No one else will be out right now—we’ll have the whole mountain to ourselves.”
Thayer nods and I switch the radio to a scratchy jazz station. Saxophone music filters through the car. I reach to change it, but Thayer stops me.
“Leave it,” he says. “It puts me in the mood.”
“In the mood for what?” I ask, giving him a sly sideways look. I put my index finger to my lips and tap them like I’m thinking hard. “I bet I can guess.”
“You wish, Sutton,” he says with a smirk.
I laugh and reach across the seat to punch his arm.
We’re quiet on the rest of the drive to Sabino Canyon. I roll both windows down and wind rushes across our faces. We pass a coffee shop called the Congress Club that advertises a book reading and open-mic night, a dog groomer’s named Mangy Mutts, and an ice cream shop with a neon sign for make-your-own sundaes. Thayer takes my free hand as we drive along a quiet stretch of the highway. Cacti appear in the distance. The scent of wildflowers wafts into the car.
Finally, we ascend the dirt road leading to the canyon and park in a secluded spot by a bunch of metal trash barrels. The night sky is black, the moon a shining orb floating high above our heads. The air is still warm and heavy as we climb from the car and find the entrance to the winding path that leads to the overlook. As we walk, Thayer’s hand brushes my shoulder, trails down my spine and lands on the small of my back. His touch feels hot on my skin. I bite my lip to keep from turning and kissing him—even though I want to, it’s more delicious to resist for as long as possible.
We walk a few more yards in silence up the gravelly path. Technically, the park is closed at night, and there’s not a soul in sight. A slight breeze makes me shiver. The boulders stand out in sharp relief against the moonlight. And then, after another minute, I hear it: a crackle of a branch followed by what sounds like a sigh. I freeze. “What was that?”
Thayer stops and squints in the darkness. “Probably an animal.”
I take another step, checking cautiously over my shoulder once more. There’s no one there. No one is following us. No one knows Thayer is here … or that I’m with him.
It’s not long before we reach the overlook. All of Tucson spills out below us, a sea of glittering lights. “Whoa,” Thayer breathes. “How did you find this?”
“I used to come here with my dad years ago.” I point to the precarious ground below. “We used to put a little blanket there and camp out with a picnic lunch. Dad’s a big bird-watcher, and he got me into it, too.”
“Sounds fun,” Thayer says sarcastically.
I cuff him on the arm. “It was.” Sadness fills me, suddenly. I remember how my dad would perch me on top of one of the huge rocks up here and hand me my purple water canteen—the only one I’d use during grade school. We’d clink our glasses and make up fake toasts. To Sutton, my dad would say, the most agile trailblazer to cross Sabino Canyon since 1962. I’d tap my purple canteen against his, and say, To Dad, your hair is getting kinda gray, but you’re still the fastest climber these parts have ever seen! We’d laugh and laugh as each toast became sillier than the one before.
It feels like ages have passed since my dad and I were close like that, and I know it’s my fault as much as his. I stare up at the stars that dot the dark sky and resolve to try a little harder with him. Maybe I can get our relationship back to the way it used to be.
I step carefully to the edge. “Dad had just one rule,” I go on. “I had to stay away from this ledge. There were all kinds of rumors that people fell right over the side. No one could rappel down to get their bodies—the drop is too steep—so there are a bunch of skeletons down there.”
“Don’t worry,” Thayer says, wrapping his arms around me. “I won’t let you fall.”
My heart suddenly melts. I lean forward and press my lips to his. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling my body into his. His hands are in my hair as he returns my kiss.
“Don’t leave me again,” I plead. I can’t help myself. “Don’t go back to wherever it is you’re hiding.”
He kisses my cheek and pulls away to look at me. “I can’t explain right now,” he says. “But I can’t be here—not now. I promise, though, that I won’t be gone forever.”
His hands cup my chin. I want to understand. I want to be strong. But it’s so hard. Then I notice a white woven rope bracelet on his wrist. “Where’d you get that?” I ask, pinching the rough twine between my fingers.
Thayer shrugs and avoids my glance. “Maria made it for me.”
“Maria?” I stiffen. “Is she cute?”
“She’s just a friend,” Thayer says, his tone gruff and hard.
“What kind of friend?” I press. “Where did you meet her?”
I feel his muscles tense beneath his gray T-shirt. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, how’s Garrett doing?” He says the name Garrett like it’s a flesh-eating disease.
I turn away, filled with guilt. I love Garrett—in a way. He’s a good boyfriend. And he’s here, in Tucson, not God-knows-where like Thayer. But there’s something I can’t explain that pulls me to Thayer and makes me want to sneak around with him like this. It’s like every reason I give myself to stop doesn’t matter.
Thayer shifts closer to me. “When I come back, will things be different between
us?” he asks in a low voice. He curls his palms around my hip bones, gripping me tight.
Our bodies are so close. I focus on his full bottom lip, wishing I knew how to answer him. When I’m with him, all I want is him. But I can’t deny that part of what makes our relationship work is that we’ve kept it a secret.
“I want to, but I don’t know,” I whisper. “There’s Laurel. And God knows how Madeline would deal. It’s so … complicated, don’t you think?”
Thayer disentangles himself from me, kicking at a fallen tree branch. “You’re the one who keeps begging me to come back.” The cold, closed-off tone is back.
“Thayer,” I protest. “Remember that no-fighting thing?”
But he won’t look at me. He mutters something beneath his breath. Suddenly, his foot flies out. There’s a crack as his toes make contact with one of the big boulders in the clearing.
“Are you trying to break all your bones?” I cry. Thayer doesn’t answer. I take a step closer and put what I hope is a soothing hand on his shoulder. “Thayer, listen. I do want you here. I miss you like crazy. But maybe right now isn’t the best time for us to tell everyone how we feel.”
Thayer whirls around. “Really, Sutton?” he spits. “Well, I’m sorry our relationship is less important than you maintaining appearances.”
I grab for his hand. “I don’t mean that. I was just saying—”
“Enough.” His mouth tightens. “Maybe it was a mistake to come back. I’ve had enough.”
His eyes darken as he rips his hand from mine. I spin away from him, my heart suddenly in my throat. I’ve never seen Thayer like this. In many ways, he’s reminding me of his father. Explosive. Mercurial. Volatile.
Crickets chirp in the distance. A bunch of little pebbles cascade over the side of the cliff. All at once, I realize how alone and vulnerable I am, here on the edge of this mountain with a boy who ran off to some mysterious place he won’t tell me about. How much do I really know about what Thayer’s been up to lately, anyway? I’ve heard all the rumors about him—especially the ones about the trouble he’s mixed up in here, the dangerous things he’s done. What if some of them are true?
