Seven Minutes in Heaven (The Lying Game #6)

Seven Minutes in Heaven (The Lying Game #6) Page 35

Quinlan’s mustache twitched. “After the 911 operator told you not to give chase.”

“We weren’t just going to sit there and do nothing,” Thayer broke in angrily. “We didn’t know how long it would take the cops to get there.”

“And it’s a good thing we did follow,” Laurel added sharply. “He was about to kill her.”

Emma looked up at the detective then. His normally hard gray eyes had softened, and they came to rest on her. She swallowed. “They’re right. Ethan would have killed me if they weren’t there to stop him.” The EMTs had bandaged the cut he’d made at her throat—it had scarcely scratched the surface, but now it seemed to throb with her heartbeat.

She reached for her cup again and took another sip of the hot chocolate. It was the cheap, just-add-water kind, but it was soothing and sweet. The knots in her stomach loosened a little from its warmth. Thayer and Laurel sat protectively on either side of her. Laurel’s leg was touching Emma’s, and Thayer’s hand rested between her shoulders, warm and gentle. She didn’t feel safe, exactly—she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel safe again. But they had rescued her and hadn’t left her side since. Through the swirling, heartbreaking confusion of shock and grief, a sense of gratitude filled her. She’d lost so much. But she hadn’t lost them.

I focused on Thayer. He was pale and tired, the vulnerable expression in his eyes contrasting with the fierce set of his jaw. That was what I had always loved about him—how strong he was, and how deeply he felt.

Quinlan clasped his hands around one knee, jogging his loafer up and down. “I owe you an apology, Miss Paxton. You and Sutton both.” He sighed, opening a bristling file folder. “We’ve actually been interested in Ethan for a little while now. I’ve been going over the parking-lot surveillance photos from the last few months, and he shows up in dozens of them. He’s out there all the time. It seemed like . . .”

“Too much of a coincidence,” Emma said miserably. He nodded.

“Detectives don’t believe in coincidences,” he said. “So we started to look into him. At first I thought he was your accomplice. That you guys had hatched this plan together, maybe, or that he’d fallen for you and you’d roped him into it. But this morning we found out he had a sealed record. We put in a subpoena to open it, but it didn’t get finalized until tonight, after we’d already taken him into custody.”

Laurel stuck her chin up haughtily. “Then it’s a good thing Thayer and I were there, since you were taking your sweet time.”

Quinlan rolled his eyes. “Please don’t turn your little gang into a pack of vigilantes, Miss Mercer. That’s the last thing I need.” He turned back to Emma. “Of course, the investigation is ongoing. But between what happened tonight, and what I’ve seen of his medical records, we have probable cause to hold him. I’ve got a CSI team on their way to his house now, and another one at the storage facility. Ethan’s a smart kid—I’m guessing he’ll have done a good job hiding the evidence. But if it’s there, we’ll find it. We always do.”

Emma nodded, feeling as if she were miles away from the interrogation chamber, miles away from Quinlan and Laurel and Thayer. She felt hollow to the core. Ethan had been lying to her all along. She’d loved him, and the whole time, he’d just lied and lied.

But it was over. Ethan had been caught, and it was only a matter of time before the cops found all the evidence they needed to charge him. So I couldn’t help wondering—why was I still here? I hadn’t been sure what to expect, but I’d always pictured something happening right about now. Pearly gates, or a long tunnel with a bright light at the end, or a cosmic escalator leading to some heavenly mall where my halo would double as a platinum card. But I was still here, still my sister’s silent shadow. Would I be here forever, haunting her until she died and joined me in the afterlife?

The door flew open, and Mrs. Mercer rushed in, followed by her husband. They’d obviously dressed in a hurry—Mr. Mercer still had on the ratty UC Davis T-shirt he often wore to bed, and Mrs. Mercer had pulled on sweatpants and a wine-stained blouse that looked like it’d been at the top of a laundry hamper. Thayer and Laurel both stood to meet them. Emma’s grandmother embraced Laurel tightly, her lips an anxious line in her face. Mr. Mercer, meanwhile, grabbed Thayer in a bear hug. Thayer looked embarrassed, but he patted Mr. Mercer on the back and smiled weakly.

Emma watched them from the sofa, her heart aching. For the first time, she thought she fully understood how they’d felt after finding out who she really was. She had done to them exactly what Ethan had done to her—she’d pretended to be someone she wasn’t. She couldn’t blame them for wanting her out of their lives.

But then Mr. Mercer let go of Thayer, his eyes shining as he sat beside Emma, and pulled her into an embrace.

For just a moment she went stiff in his arms. Then her body started to tremble, and she put her arms around his neck. Tears prickled her eyes. “I’m so sorry for everything,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

“I know,” he whispered, rocking her back and forth. “It’s going to be okay.”

Emma didn’t know if anything would ever be okay again. Having Mr. Mercer’s shoulder to cry on was a comfort she didn’t deserve, yet she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.

That was the thing about family. They were a comfort none of us deserved. I thought about the last angry words I’d said to my father, and the constant bickering with my mom while I was still alive. But they loved me anyway, no matter what I’d done.

Finally Mrs. Mercer settled on the couch next to Emma, her hands twisting around each other nervously. She gave Emma a lingering, uncertain look, then took her hand. Her blue eyes were serious and piercing.

“It’s not fair that you’ve been facing all of this alone,” she said softly. “I’m still struggling to understand it all . . . but I know you must have been terrified this whole time.”

Emma nodded, tears prickling her eyes again. “I wanted to tell you so badly.”

Mrs. Mercer squeezed her hand. “There’s a lot we’ll have to get used to. Do you think you can give us time to work through all these feelings?”

Emma frowned up at her. “Time?”

“We lost two daughters,” Mr. Mercer said, his voice breaking. “We don’t want to lose another.”

“We’d like it if you’d come stay with us. At least for the time being,” Mrs. Mercer said. “I know you’re eighteen, and maybe after all this you’re ready to move on. But we’d like a chance to get to know you, Emma. As yourself.”

Emma opened her mouth to reply, but words refused to form. She glanced at Mr. Mercer, and he nodded encouragingly. Quinlan sat quietly in an armchair, as poker-faced as ever, but she thought she could see a twinge of sympathy in the corner of his mouth.

“Of course she’s coming to stay with us,” Laurel said briskly. “I didn’t just save her ass in the middle of the woods so she could run off again.” She looked steadily at Emma.

Emma stared around the room at her family, all of them waiting for her answer. They may not have forgiven her yet—but they wanted to try. And if they could do it, maybe she could forgive herself.

“I’d like that,” she said, smiling through her tears.

I sat in their midst, surrounded by my family again. And I could feel their love for me, even across the divide between the living and the dead.

33

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“There’s been yet another twist in the sensational case of the Tucson Twin Murderer,” Tricia Melendez’s voice reported from Sutton’s laptop. “On Wednesday night, eighteen-year-old Ethan Landry was arrested for kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder. The victim? Emma Paxton, Sutton Mercer’s twin sister, and, until Wednesday, the chief suspect in Sutton’s murder.”

Emma lay curled on Sutton’s bed Saturday morning, staring dully at the screen. She’d propped the computer on Sutton’s nightstand, where she could see it from the nest of pillows. She’d been watching since she’d woken up, clicking through different blogs and news agencies to hear twenty different versions of the same event—the fact that Emma Paxton had been cleared of all charges, and that Ethan Landry had allegedly killed Nisha Banerjee and Sutton Mercer.

In just a few minutes she’d have to move. She’d have to get up, even though her body felt like it was made of lead, and go downstairs to join the Mercers. That afternoon, Sutton would finally be buried—and finally be at peace.

Would I? I’d been imagining my funeral for months, but now that it was here, I wasn’t so sure. Would this last good-bye from my friends and family finally lay me to rest? Or would I linger in Emma’s shadow for the rest of her life, voiceless and powerless and utterly alone?

“Police are now saying that Landry lured Paxton to Tucson under the pretense that she’d meet her long-lost twin.” Tricia Melendez couldn’t keep a note of glee out of her voice. She stood in front of the police station, wearing a tweed Armani jacket that was a step up from her usual polyester—it looked like she’d gotten a pay raise. “When she arrived, he sent her notes and threatening messages to force her to impersonate her sister so he could cover up his crime. The investigation is still ongoing, but one source told Channel Five that a storage unit on the outskirts of Tucson was raided on Wednesday night, and while it’d been registered under a false name, the attendant was able to ID Landry as the person who opened the account. No word yet on what the unit contained, but at this time it seems safe to assume police found some damning evidence inside.”

Emma smiled slightly, wondering what Tricia Melendez would say if she had opened the unit to find a threadbare stuffed animal waiting patiently inside. Socktopus was still being held as “evidence,” but she wished she had him here. She knew it was childish, but she wanted to tie him around her neck for protection, the way Becky had so long ago. A part of her still felt like she needed all the protection she could get. Maybe a part of her always would.

Ethan. A dark, fathomless chasm opened in her chest every time she thought of him—his earnest, lake-blue eyes; his laughter; his lips on hers. Every time a fragment of their conversation came floating through her mind, their flirtations and their promises, a cold, empty space opened inside her where something had been torn away—something pure and trusting and fragile. She didn’t know if she would ever trust anyone again.

“Yesterday, I spoke with Beverly Landry, the mother of the accused, as she left the courthouse,” Tricia Melendez continued. Emma bolted up on the bed, staring at the screen. Mrs. Landry stood uncertainly on the steps of the courthouse, her mousy hair tied in a lopsided bun. In the bright light of day, she seemed more scared than hostile, her eyes wide and vulnerable in a thin, sunken face. “I saw him cross the yard to the Banerjee girl’s house at around three in the afternoon the day she died,” Mrs. Landry said, leaning nervously toward the microphone. “And a few weeks ago I found a green duffel bag shoved in a back corner in the attic. It had a journal and some girls’ clothes in it. I tried to tell myself he’d just stolen it. But . . . but it scared me. I was afraid to ask what else he’d done.”