Cross My Heart, Hope To Die

by Sara Shepard

  “Before you leave?” Emma’s voice was sharp. She narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t letting Becky leave until she’d paid for what she’d done.

  “Emma,” I protested. I tried to clutch at her, knowing even as I did that it was hopeless.

  But this time, something was different. My touch didn’t move through her. It rested lightly on the surface of her skin, as soft as a kiss. I could feel her heartbeat, so warm, so alive.

  Emma was still staring at our mother, a determined look on her face. She didn’t seem to have felt anything. But I had. Even if it only happened once, I had touched my sister.

  “She didn’t do it,” I said, summoning up all my strength. Emma needed to know this, to stop following Becky’s trail so that she could find my real murderer. I concentrated everything I could on making her believe me. “Emma, she didn’t do it!”

  Then Emma realized something: Becky had called her Sutton. Not Emma. Either she was a very good actress, or she truly didn’t know Sutton was gone.

  Relief and suspicion mingled inside of her. Maybe Becky was innocent, or maybe Emma was just lying to herself again, wanting to believe in her mother despite the evidence to the contrary. She bit her lip.

  “Where are you going this time?” she asked.

  Becky shrugged. “I don’t know. I just need to get out of Tucson. This place has a lot of bad memories for me. There are too many people here that I can hurt. That I do hurt,” she said, swallowing hard.

  Emma tensed again. “People you hurt?”

  Becky looked up at her, her long lashes still damp with tears. She took a deep breath.

  “I know you probably won’t believe me, but I don’t remember much from the hospital. They had me pumped full of so many drugs I didn’t know what was going on. But I remember enough to know that I must have really scared you. I’m so sorry.” She rolled a pebble back and forth under the toe of her shoe. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t explain sooner, Sutton. I was too scared to tell you the truth, about my history, about my illness. That night we met here, it was so hard to leave you with all your questions. I almost came back to explain, but I was afraid.”

  Emma turned away from Becky, pacing in a little circle, trying to clear her head. Leave you? Come back? It sounded like when Becky left, Sutton was still safe. But could she take Becky at her word? She was crazy.

  But Becky looked so much more lucid now, her eyes focused, her breathing even and calm. All of the memories Emma had clung to over the years seemed to crowd in around her. Becky singing off-key along with the radio, teaching her the words to all the Beatles songs. Becky taking her to the free shows along the Vegas strip, her face reflecting the light from the Bellagio fountain. Becky stroking her hair out of her face, carrying her into the apartment after an afternoon playing outside, and tucking her into bed, Emma pretending to be asleep so she could lay against her mother’s shoulder. And here she was, right now, telling Emma she had walked away from a still-living Sutton in the canyon the night they’d met.

  “Becky didn’t kill me,” I whispered urgently. “Believe her, Emma.”

  And suddenly, as though she had heard me, Emma did.

  But just to be certain, she asked Becky another question. “Where did you go, after that night?”

  Becky sighed. “Vegas, actually. I had a feeling your sister might be there. I even got a job at the diner in the Hard Rock, so that I could stay longer and look for her. But I never found her.” She stopped, suddenly looking hopeful. “Have you made any headway in tracking her down?”

  Vegas, Emma thought. If things had been different, Becky might have come for her and reunited the twins herself. Then she realized what Becky’s words meant: Becky had told Sutton about Emma. The knowledge brought a fresh crush of sadness over her. In her last few hours of life, Sutton had known she had a sister.

  “Yes and no,” Emma said softly.

  Becky’s hand squeezed hers in the darkness. “I loved her so much. Giving both of you up was the biggest mistake of my life. Find her, Sutton. Her life hasn’t been as easy as yours. Give her the chances you’ve gotten.”

  Emma took a deep breath. “You have another daughter, too, don’t you?”

  Becky’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping open for a moment. She blinked several times, then nodded. “Yes,” she said softly. “How’d you …”

  “Where is she?” Emma pressed.

  “California. With her father. I was declared unfit to care for her five years ago. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “How old is she now?”

  “Twelve,” Becky said. “I was pregnant with her when I gave up your sister.” She shook her head sadly. “I know it doesn’t make any sense. All I can tell you is I wasn’t in my right mind. I was off my meds, and it seemed like a good decision at the time.” She was quiet for a moment. “I haven’t stopped feeling guilty about it ever since.”

  Emma’s heart twisted in her chest. She knew she’d been abandoned for another child, but it was even harder hearing Becky say it aloud.

  Then she imagined Becky’s life: traveling from town to town, unable to go home, to see the people she loved. Yes, she’d been destructive. She was alone because she’d hurt the people in her life too much. But Becky hadn’t chosen to be mentally ill. And in her own twisted way, she’d tried to do what was right.

  Emma stepped toward Becky. She looked her mother up and down again. She’d call the Hard Rock Hotel later and confirm that Becky had been working there after Sutton died—if she was in Vegas, she couldn’t exactly be leaving Emma threatening notes and rigging light fixtures to crash on her head. But she already knew what they would say. Becky was telling the truth.

  Under the smell of tobacco, she caught a whiff of the same cheap herbal shampoo Becky had always used when Emma was a child, chamomile and mint. She remembered that fragrance washing over her when her mom leaned down to kiss her good night. Her lip quivered, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Mom,” she said hesitantly. “Did you see anyone else in the canyon that night? Someone stole my Volvo and hit my—and hit Thayer with it. I need to know who has it out for me.”

  Becky frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Dad and I got out there early in the evening and it was pretty crowded, but by the time you and I talked it was empty.”

  Emma stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Becky in a tight hug. For a moment Becky seemed frozen in shock. Then she put her arms around Emma, too. Emma held her mother for the first time in thirteen years. So the investigation was at a dead end again. No new leads, no new suspects. But at least her mother had been crossed off the list. And she’d finally gotten some answers about her family, about her own history.

  Minutes ticked by as they stood there, embracing. Emma’s tears came hot and silent and soaked into Becky’s T-shirt. Over the years she’d kept a list of Things She’d Say to Mom if her mother appeared again. But now that Becky was here, she didn’t want to say any of them. Hateful, angry words wouldn’t solve anything right now.

  I moved nearer to my mother and my sister, hovering close to pretend that I was part of their hug, too. I knew neither one of them felt it, but for a moment I was there with them, mother and twins reunited after eighteen years.

  Then all three of us let go.

  Becky scratched at her earlobe awkwardly. “I should leave, Sutton. I need to get out of here.”

  For a second Emma thought about asking her to stay. They could go to the Mercers’ house together. They could talk to Mrs. Mercer and make her understand. Emma could help Becky get better—she could look after her, just like she had when she was a little girl. She’d make sure she took her meds every day, and they could move in together. They could be a family.

  But even as she pictured it, she knew it could never happen.

  Emma nodded, her throat dry. “Take care of yourself, Mom. For me.”

  Becky just smiled and turned away. And then she was gone, slipping into the shadows, her footsteps crunching on the ground
and fading out of earshot.

  My mother—strange, sad, damaged beyond repair—but not my murderer.

  33

  THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY

  Emma woke up the next morning with her stomach growling. Early-morning light poured through the half-closed drapes. The clock read 5:57. She buried her head under the pillow, smelling the lingering wood smoke on her hair and skin from the bonfire the night before. She didn’t have school for another two hours. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will herself back to sleep.

  But her stomach growled traitorously, and Emma realized she’d been picking at her food for over a week, ever since that first night she and Mr. Mercer went to the hospital. She rolled out of bed and went to the closet, pulled on a sweater dress, and raked a brush through her hair.

  The house was dark and quiet as she crept down the stairs to the kitchen. Outside, the sky was the dusky violet of just before sunrise. In spite of the early hour, in spite of the fact that she was back at square one yet again, Emma felt almost buoyant. Becky hadn’t killed Sutton. And for the first time since she was a little girl, Emma had gotten to sit next to Becky, to talk to her. She was starting to understand her own family history. It wasn’t simple, and it wasn’t pretty. But it was hers.

  Mr. Mercer was already sitting in the breakfast nook, dressed in chinos, a button-down shirt, and a blue silk Burberry necktie Laurel and Emma had given him for his birthday a month earlier. The New York Times was spread across the table in front of him. He was always an early riser, from all the years of keeping odd hospital hours. When Emma came into the room he pushed his reading glasses up on his forehead and blinked at her. “You’re up early.”

  “I’m starving,” she admitted.

  He folded his newspaper and set it aside. “Well, what kind of father would let his little girl go hungry? Let’s go out for some breakfast.”

  Once inside, Emma rolled down the window of Mr. Mercer’s SUV. She let her hand catch the air as they drove, and nodded her head absently to the music he had on the radio. The sun poked its head above the mountains, casting orange light over everything. She didn’t know the last time she’d seen a sunrise. She’d forgotten how beautiful they could be.

  Mr. Mercer looked at her out of the corner of his eye, a smile playing around his lips. “I haven’t seen you this happy in a while,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “It’s been a confusing … month, I guess. Year.”

  They pulled into the parking lot of an adobe bistro. Inside there were fresh pink flowers on every table and the smell of bacon and hash browns in the air. The restaurant was already bustling with the early-bird crowd. A half dozen senior citizens in tracksuits laughed loudly from a booth at the back. At a table by herself, a bleary-eyed college girl wearing a sweatshirt and glasses nursed a steaming cup of coffee while typing furiously at a laptop, probably trying to finish a paper at the very last minute. Emma’s mouth watered as she watched plates laden with pancakes, eggs, French toast, and home fries swirl around the room in the waitstaff’s hands. She and Mr. Mercer took a seat next to the window, where the early-morning sun filtered in around the clean white curtains.

  Mr. Mercer looked at her over the top of the menu, then sighed and set it down. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

  “Sutton,” he said carefully, “Becky came to see me yesterday.”

  Emma nodded slowly. She folded and refolded the napkin across her lap. “I saw her, too.”

  He nodded. “I thought you might have. She wanted to know where you were. I told her I didn’t know, that I could call you and set up a meeting—but Becky doesn’t like things to get too set in stone. She doesn’t do well when people expect anything of her.”

  “Maybe it’s because she’s let people down so much she’s afraid she’ll fail,” said Emma.

  Mr. Mercer cocked his head at her. “That probably has something to do with it.” The waitress came over and poured him a cup of coffee, and he added milk and sugar before taking a sip. “Is it my imagination, or have you grown up a lot in the past few months?”

  Emma wished yet again that she could tell her grandfather the truth. He deserved to know. Maybe he would be able to help her figure out what to do next, to find Sutton’s killer and lay her spirit to rest.

  But every time she had almost convinced herself to tell him, she thought about the threatening messages she’d received. The killer was obviously still watching her. The killer could be here right now, in this very restaurant. Her eyes flicked around, studying the waiters, the people walking outside in the parking lot or waiting in line at the smoothie counter next door. She shivered. Who knew what Sutton’s murderer would do if she told Mr. Mercer? She couldn’t risk her grandfather’s safety.

  Mr. Mercer looked sideways out the window, too. “I’m glad Becky found you,” he said. “I know she didn’t want to leave things like they were the other night at the hospital.” He sighed. “Part of me thinks I should have sent her back there, but she seemed so much healthier last night. She said she needed to get out of here, so I gave her some money and made her promise to call me soon. I know from experience it’s no good trying to force her into treatment. She has to want to take care of herself.”

  Emma nodded. “She told me she was sorry. I guess I just don’t understand why she feels like she has to leave. Can’t she stay here and try again? We could help her, Dad. Our family is worth fighting for.”

  He turned his serious eyes back to meet hers. “Oh, Sutton, of course we are. Of course you are. And in her own way, Becky has tried harder than the rest of us can ever fully appreciate. Even if you don’t believe anything else about her, believe that.”

  “I know. I do,” Emma promised.

  Mr. Mercer opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the waitress appeared at their table to take their order. Emma fumbled at the menu, trying to decide what she wanted. She felt hungry enough to eat a half dozen pancakes, but she finally settled on a vegetable omelet with a side of bacon. Mr. Mercer ordered the eggs Benedict, his favorite, then turned back to Emma and dropped his voice.

  “Sutton, honey, did your mother say anything else to you last night?”

  Emma’s heart picked up speed. “Like what?”

  He frowned down at his hands, then shook his head. “I don’t know. She insinuated some very strange things to me, and I don’t know what to believe. Time will tell, I guess.” He stirred his coffee, his eyes looking somewhere far away.

  Emma wondered what, exactly, Becky had hinted at. That there was a lost twin in Las Vegas? Another daughter in California? Something else entirely? She waited for him to say more, but he’d gone quiet and pensive, sipping from his mug.

  My sister was still in so much danger—and along with her, all the other people I loved. I was glad that Becky had been cleared. But Emma needed to keep investigating the night that I died. The case was getting colder by the minute. We didn’t even know where my body was, and we had no new evidence, no leads. All we had was my murderer, watching Emma’s every move.

  “Where do you think she’ll go this time?” Emma asked softly.

  A sad smile turned the corners of Mr. Mercer’s mouth up. “I don’t know if she even knows. She told me she’d let me know when she landed somewhere. I hope she does. As difficult as things can be with her, I miss her when she disappears.”

  Emma nodded. She understood the feeling more than she could tell him.

  “I’m glad that you’ve had Ethan through all of this,” Mr. Mercer said, and Emma looked up in surprise. “He seems like a nice young man. Maybe you should invite him to dinner tonight? Your mom is cooking her special enchiladas.”

  Emma smiled. “That sounds like a great idea.”

  The waiter arrived with plates of steaming food. Emma dug into the melted goat cheese center of her omelet. She glanced out the window once more. A cluster of pigeons pecked at invisible crumbs on the sidewalk. Beyond the parking lot the university campus sprawled, the red
tile of the roofs bright in the morning sunshine.

  By now Becky could be anywhere—on her way to California, Las Vegas, or somewhere new, somewhere she could make a fresh start. Emma pictured Becky driving through the desert, greeting the sunrise with tired eyes. Drinking a cup of truck-stop coffee and tuning the radio until she found a station that played loud, happy music. Becky’s life had been full of mistakes and bad decisions; it seemed naïve to hope she’d suddenly change, so Emma settled for hoping that Becky would survive. As long as she did, as long as she was alive, there was always a chance to keep growing up. There was always a chance for them to be a family again someday.

  34

  KISS THE GIRL

  By the time Mr. Mercer dropped Emma off at school, news of the séance prank had already made the rounds. Word traveled fast at Hollier, especially when the topic was the Lying Game girls. Some boys from the football team tried to high-five Emma in the hallway. Kids she recognized from Charlotte’s party hooted about her “insane weekend.”

  She didn’t catch sight of Celeste until third period German. Frau Fenstermacher’s classroom was decorated with declension charts and pictures of German and Austrian landmarks. A panorama shot of Neuschwanstein hung next to the chalkboard, a black-and-white shot of the Brandenburg Gate over the radiator. The Frau sat at her desk, grading a stack of papers while the students settled into their seats.

  Two girls sat on either side of Celeste. Emma couldn’t think of their real names—the German aliases they’d given themselves were Klara and Gretl. Klara had a tiger-striped Mulberry purse on her desk, and Gretl wore a black motorcycle jacket and skintight leggings. The first girl moaned like a ghost, waggling her fingers at Celeste, while the other giggled shrilly. For her part, Celeste sat silently, staring forward, determined to ignore them. She wore a tie-dyed baby-doll dress and her usual armory of silver jewelry, but her hair had come out of its customary braids. It fell long and somewhat flat around her shoulders, as if she’d been deflated.