by Sara Shepard
“I’ll call you when we get home,” Laurel promised, interrupting Emma’s thoughts. “Bye!” And then the music shut off abruptly, filling the second floor with silence. Emma heard a drawer open and shut, and then Laurel’s door creaked. She saw a shadow pass under Sutton’s door, and then heard Laurel’s voice downstairs in the kitchen, calling out to Mrs. Mercer.
Suddenly, an idea came to her. She sprang up from Sutton’s bed and padded into the hall. Laurel’s bedroom door was ajar. Light from a bedside table spilled onto the carpet. Listening to make sure Laurel wasn’t coming back up the stairs, she tiptoed toward the bedroom. Within seconds, she was inside. She pulled the door closed, listening to the lock catch.
Laurel’s bedroom was eerily similar to Sutton’s, down to the white bubble chair and the purple pillows on the bed. Emma stepped to the far wall where a recent collage of tennis team pictures hung next to a calendar of puppies. OCTOBER, the calendar heading read. Laurel had covered the days with notes about homework assignments, tennis matches, and parties.
Slowly, quietly, she pulled a lime-green tack from the wall and flipped the calendar pages back to August, which featured three tiny Boxer puppies. Laurel had written FAMILY VACAY in bold letters across the squares marking the first week of the month. Emma’s eyes immediately zoomed toward August thirty-first, the day Sutton vanished. Laurel had drawn a blue heart in the upper right-hand corner of the day. She’d colored the heart in with thick, scrabbling lines, the ink pressed hard into the page.
Emma stared at the heart for a moment, unsure what it meant. She flipped to September, staring at the dates marking Nisha Banerjee’s end-of-summer party, the first day of school, the first tennis invitational. Nothing was amiss. But then something on the back side of the August page caught her eye: Pressed into the paper, directly behind the box for the thirty-first, were the initials TV.
For Thayer Vega?
Emma’s heart picked up speed. Laurel had obviously written the initials first, then covered them up with the solid blue heart. But why?
I wish I knew.
“What are you doing in here?”
Emma let the calendar fall back to October and whipped around to see Laurel standing in the doorway. Her lips were pursed. Her hand was on her jutting hip. She shot across the room and pushed Emma away from her calendar.
Emma scrambled for an excuse. “The Haverford match,” she said quickly, pointing to a Friday two weeks in the future. “I just wanted to check the date.”
Laurel peered around her desk, as though to make sure nothing was missing or out of place. “With the door closed?”
A tiny beat passed, then Emma stood up straighter. “Paranoid much?” she snapped, channeling her inner Sutton. “The air conditioning must have pushed it closed.”
Laurel looked like she was going to say something else, but then Mrs. Mercer’s voice sounded at the bottom of the stairs. “Girls? We have to leave now!”
“Coming!” Emma trilled, as though she’d done nothing wrong. She swept past Laurel, trying to remain poised, blameless, and aloof. But she could feel Laurel’s eyes searing into her back.
I could, too. It was obvious she hadn’t bought Emma’s lie.
Mrs. Mercer was standing at the bottom of the stairs, checking her BlackBerry. She smiled at the girls as they walked down the stairs. “You both look lovely,” she said in an eager voice. Probably too eager. Emma knew she was going to be disappointed by tonight’s outcome.
Mr. Mercer rounded the corner and jangled a set of keys in the air. He’d changed from hospital scrubs into a pair of wrinkle-free khakis and a salmon-colored button-down, but his eyes looked tired and his hair was mussed. “Ready?” he said a bit breathlessly.
“Ready,” Mrs. Mercer echoed. Laurel crossed her arms over her chest sulkily. Emma just shrugged.
They walked to Mr. Mercer’s SUV and climbed in. As Emma belted herself into the seat behind Sutton’s mother, Mr. Mercer caught her eye in the rearview mirror. She quickly looked down. Aside from a few run-ins in the hall, she’d hardly spoken to Sutton’s dad since Saturday morning—he’d been working around the clock at the hospital. Now he was staring at her like he knew she was hiding something.
As Mr. Mercer hit reverse and pulled into the street, Mrs. Mercer plucked a gold-tone compact from her purse and smoothed on a layer of mauve lipstick. “This weather is so odd for early October,” she chattered. “I can’t think of the last time we expected rain like this.”
No one responded.
Mrs. Mercer cleared her throat, trying again. “I got that great mariachi band you love for your party, honey,” she said, laying a hand on Mr. Mercer’s arm. “Remember how brilliant they were at the Desert Museum benefit?”
“Great,” Mr. Mercer answered in a tepid voice. It seemed like he didn’t really feel like doing family dinner either.
Mrs. Mercer fell quiet, looking defeated.
I watched them all settle into stony silence. Something about this situation seemed familiar to me. I wondered how many other times my parents had tried whatever means necessary to force Laurel and me to be friends. We’d been close, once—I had glimmers of us spying on our parents together during family vacations, playing a game I’d made up called Runway Model in the basement, and even me teaching Laurel how to hold a tennis racket and hit a decent backhand. But something had happened over the years—I’d begun to push Laurel away. Part of it might have been jealousy—Laurel was my parents’ real daughter, while I was their adopted child. I worried they loved her more. Maybe Laurel was just reacting to me. And things had just snowballed until we went through phases of barely speaking to each other.
Fifteen minutes and zero conversational topics later, Mr. Mercer eased the SUV over a speed bump and pulled into the resort parking lot. A little grotto with the name ARTURO’S etched in a boulder was lit up with Christmas lights. Outside the front entrance, a man in a business suit with a briefcase talked on his BlackBerry. A woman stood next to him, fussing with her blonde hair. Two waiters dressed in dark pants and crisp white button-downs took a smoke break next to a spindly cactus.
Emma followed Sutton’s family along stone steps that wove through a garden spotted with tiny yellow and violet flowers. Inside, thick, dark wood framed the windows in the adobe walls. Exposed beams hung overhead, and soft classical music floated from miniature speakers. The room was full of people, and waiters swirled with plates full of beautiful-looking racks of lamb, strip steaks, and lobster.
A maître d’ with a pencil mustache and a dark gray suit checked their reservation, and then led them to their table. As they walked through the room, Emma stood up a little straighter, feeling out of place.
“This is lovely,” Mrs. Mercer cooed as they sat, picking up a thick piece of cardboard and perusing the wines listed. “Isn’t it, girls?”
Emma murmured in assent. But Laurel’s gaze was on something—someone—across the room. “I think you’re going to have a visitor, Sutton,” she said nastily.
Emma looked up just in time to see a guy with an angular jaw and short blond hair advancing toward their table. Her stomach flipped uncomfortably. It was Garrett, Sutton’s ex. And he didn’t look happy.
“Hello, Garrett!” Mrs. Mercer said, her mouth wobbling, sending a worried glance at Emma. Emma shifted in her seat. She’d told Sutton’s dad that she and Garrett were no longer an item, and no doubt he’d told her mom. What they didn’t know was that he’d accosted her in the supply room at Homecoming on Friday. In fact, he’d been a little … violent.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Mercer.” Garrett nodded politely at Sutton’s parents. Then he turned to Emma. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” He slid his eyes toward a little hallway at the back of the restaurant. Clearly he meant alone.
“Um, I’m here with my family,” Emma said, scooting a little closer to Sutton’s mom. “We were about to order.”
“I just have a quick question,” Garrett said. His voice was pleasant enough, but his eyes were cold
and calculating. All at once, Emma knew what this was about: He’d no doubt heard that Thayer had broken into Sutton’s bedroom. Garrett had been shocked that Emma had dumped him, and he was convinced that she had been cheating on him. No doubt he was going to accuse Emma of seeing Thayer behind his back—and maybe Sutton had been.
I took in Garrett’s Abercrombie button-down and khaki pants, feeling a vague flicker of the fun times we’d spent together hiking, going for long bike rides, and having picnics in the park. I was sure there had been some point where I’d been thrilled that he was my boyfriend. But what had happened that made me choose Thayer instead? I thought again about the memory that had come back to me, the push-and-pull of guilt I felt for cheating on Garrett and the thrill of kissing Thayer. Garrett was right about me: I was a cheater. He had every right to be mad.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “But I just sat down.”
“Okay, I can ask you here if you’d prefer,” Garrett said challengingly, placing his hands on his hips. He glanced at the Mercer parents. “I just wanted to see how your visit to the police station went yesterday, Sutton.”
Emma bristled. How did he know that? The Mercers stiffened. “You were at the police station?” Mrs. Mercer blurted. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Garrett faked a look of surprise. “Oh!” he said. “I figured you would have said something. I’ll leave you guys alone.” Then he backed away, returning to his parents’ table in the corner.
Emma faced Sutton’s parents, feeling her cheeks flush. She’d kind of hoped that they wouldn’t find out about her little trip to see Quinlan.
“Were you in trouble again?” Mrs. Mercer asked, looking heartbroken, no doubt thinking about how she’d visited the police station to reprimand her daughter for shoplifting the week before.
“I bet she was there to see Thayer,” Laurel said, her voice dripping with hatred.
“I wasn’t in trouble,” Emma said, her voice rising. “And I wasn’t there to see Thayer, either. I only went because Quinlan called me in. I didn’t want to tell you because it wasn’t important.”
“Yeah, right,” Laurel said under her breath. “Like you’re such the good daughter. Like you tell them everything.”
Emma shot her a look. “What about you? Have you told them about the Free Thayer campaign? How you’re asking kids to contribute to his bail fund?”
Mr. Mercer turned to her for a moment, looking horrified. Laurel reddened. “It’s a project for my government class,” she said quickly. “We were learning how petitions impact laws, and we had to put it into practice.”
“You could have petitioned for something other than freeing the boy who broke into your home and scared the hell out of your sister,” Mr. Mercer said sternly. Then he held up a hand. “We’ll get to that in a second. Why did you go to the police station, Sutton? Was it about Thayer?” He leaned forward, staring Emma down. Fear prickled along Emma’s spine. Sutton’s dad looked just as furious as he had the night he’d found Thayer in Sutton’s bedroom.
“I …” Emma started. But she wasn’t sure what to say.
A waitress appeared beside them, then noticed the family’s expressions. She waved her hands deferentially, and backed away toward the kitchen. Mr. Mercer laid his palms on the table, his face softening. “Well, Sutton?” he said in a milder voice. “Please tell us. We won’t be upset. We’re just concerned. Thayer is troubled. No normal guy runs away and then sneaks into your bedroom. We’re just trying to keep you safe.”
Emma lowered her eyes, her heart slowing down. Sutton’s dad was using the same gentle-but-protective voice he’d used in the garage last week when she’d helped him work on his motorcycle. He was just trying to be a good parent. Still, there was no way she could tell him about what had happened at the police station.
“I was just signing paperwork about the shoplifting incident,” she said, thinking quickly. “Nothing else happened. I promise. Garrett was just trying to get me in trouble because he’s pissed off because we’re not together anymore. You’re making too big a deal about this.”
She hid her shaking hands under the table, hoping they bought her story. Mr. Mercer stared at her. Mrs. Mercer bit her mauve-lined lip. Laurel sniffed, clearly not believing a word of it. But finally, the Mercer parents sighed and shrugged. “Next time you’re at the police station, maybe you could let us know,” Mrs. Mercer suggested calmly.
“Let’s hope there isn’t a next time,” Mr. Mercer said gruffly, a crinkle forming between his eyes.
Emma looked away uncomfortably, her gaze floating to where Garrett and his family were sitting. At that very moment, he glanced over and gave her a smirk. Jerk, she thought. She hadn’t wanted to open the Thayer can of worms tonight. But when she turned back to her parents, they were discussing whether they should order a bottle of Shiraz or Malbec from the wine list. She was off the hook—for now.
Or was she? I couldn’t help but notice Laurel glaring at Emma across the table. And I couldn’t help but remember those tiny little initials scribbled on her calendar the night I died. TV.
Laurel knew something. I only hoped Emma found out what it was before it was too late.
12
I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR
The following day, Emma stood in the Hollier parking lot, baking beneath the brutal Tucson sun. The girls’ soccer team ran laps around a dusty field in the distance. Emma had no idea how they weren’t keeling over—it had to be almost 110 degrees outside. She’d played thirty minutes of tennis at practice and felt like she needed to be hooked up to an IV for rehydration.
I remembered hot tennis practices like that. But weirdly, floating next to Emma, I felt neither hot nor cold. Just… nothing. It sounds strange, but I’d love to be sweaty and short of breath one more time. It surprised me that I desperately missed even those parts of being alive.
A horn honked, and Charlotte pulled up in her silver Mercedes. “Get in, bitch,” she called out the window.
“Thanks for the ride,” Emma said, throwing her tennis gear and purse in the backseat. “My sister is so lame for abandoning me.” They were all meeting at Madeline’s house for a prank-planning session today, but after tennis, Laurel had vanished without waiting for Emma. Luckily, Charlotte hadn’t left school yet, though Emma would have given anything to skip the meeting. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass Ethan. When she’d seen him in the halls today she’d felt terrible, sure he knew that she was keeping something from him. She felt stuck: If she told Ethan what they were up to and blew the prank, Sutton’s friends would never forgive her. But if she didn’t tell him, she might lose him forever.
As soon as Emma was inside, Charlotte hit the gas and the car lurched out of the parking lot onto the highway. Within minutes they were passing a long stretch of desert, then a mini mall packed with local clothing boutiques, a 1950s-looking ice cream parlor, Starbucks, and a video store. Charlotte took a right into a familiar housing development. Emma was glad Charlotte was driving. She’d only been to the Vegas’ house once, when she and the girls had been planning a prank on the Twitter Twins, and she didn’t really remember where it was. It was one advantage of Sutton’s car having been missing for all this time—if Sutton’s friends thought she couldn’t find her way around Tucson, they’d probably check her into the mental hospital.
As they waited at a stoplight on Orange Grove, the local news came on. “Tucson is abuzz with the story about Thayer Vega, the missing boy from this summer,” a woman reporter said. Emma sat up straighter and tried not to gasp.
“Mr. Vega broke into an alleged girlfriend’s house early Saturday morning, and now he’s being held on a fifteenthousand-dollar bail for breaking and entering, resisting arrest, and carrying a concealed weapon,” the reporter went on. “However, Geoffrey Rogers, the lawyer assigned to his case, is convinced he’ll get it dismissed.”
A man’s voice boomed through the stereo speakers. “My client is a minor—he should not be tried as an adult,” Thayer’s lawye
r said. “This is a matter of bad blood between him and a certain member of the Tucson police force.”
“Bad blood?” Emma said aloud before she could stop herself.
Charlotte looked at her. “Yeah, between him and Quinlan. Remember how that guy spearheaded the Find Thayer campaign? Thayer was like his white whale. He was furious that he couldn’t find him. Everyone’s saying that’s why his punishment is so harsh—and that Quinlan made up the part about how Thayer resisted arrest.”
Emma raised her eyebrows. What if that was true? What if the lawyer could get Thayer out before his trial? She didn’t want to think of what might happen then.
“So Laurel’s pretty pissed at you, huh?” Charlotte asked.
Emma nodded. “She thinks it’s my fault that Thayer’s in jail.”
“Right,” Charlotte said noncommittally, her expression giving nothing away. Emma wondered where she stood on the Thayer debate. While Madeline and Laurel had been out-and-out accusatory of Emma, Charlotte had defended her. And yet, Emma had seen her signing the Free Thayer petition earlier today. Maybe she just wanted to straddle the two sides and not make any waves.
“So how do you think Mads is doing about this whole Thayer thing?” Emma asked casually, popping a strawberry Life Saver into her mouth. “It’s not like she’ll talk to me about it.” Charlotte and Madeline had been hanging out more recently; maybe Madeline had revealed something to Charlotte about Thayer that could help Emma understand his relationship with Sutton.
Charlotte kept her eyes on the road. “She’s not happy, that’s for sure. Apparently her dad’s being an even bigger jerk than usual. Things are tense at home.”
“Do you think she’s … hiding something?” Emma asked, cracking the candy between her teeth.
“About what?”
Good question, Emma thought. She was taking a blind stab in the dark here, trying to grasp at anything. “About Thayer, maybe. About where he was all this time.”
