by Sara Shepard
“Besides the headlights heading straight for me? No.” Thayer’s eyes narrowed. “So you think Garrett ran me down, too?”
Emma nodded, picking at one of the small distressed holes in her jeans. “He’s violent. At first I chalked it up to the breakup. But I think it goes deeper than that.” She met his eyes. “Everyone keeps hinting about something that happened to Louisa, something really traumatic. Do you know what they’re talking about?”
Thayer blinked in surprise. “Yeah, I do. It was pretty fucked up.”
My ears pricked. Thayer took a deep breath. “Last year, Garrett took Louisa to this party. It was almost kind of a joke—she was just this awkward, naïve little freshman. I think he got it in his head that he was going to initiate her into high school life or something. You know, get her drunk for the first time, introduce her to all his friends. But the party got really out of control.” Thayer shuddered. “I was there. Not that I remember much of it—I was pretty blasted. Anyway, at some point in the evening Garrett lost track of Louisa. I guess at first he didn’t worry much. I mean, it was a party. He just assumed she was swimming or dancing or whatever. But after a while he started to panic. No one had seen her in hours, and people were starting to leave. He tore the place apart looking for her. Finally he ended up calling the cops.”
Emma suddenly realized she’d been holding her breath, and took a deep gulp of air. A part of her knew what was coming and didn’t want to hear it—but she needed the truth.
Thayer’s eyes were distant and glazed when he spoke again. “They found her in the pool house, unconscious. Pretty badly beaten up.” His lip curled in disgust. “She’d been raped.”
“Oh my God,” Emma whispered. A queasy feeling spread through her body.
“They caught the guy,” Thayer continued. “His name was Daniel Preuss. He’d graduated by then, but he’d been on the soccer team. He was a really good friend of Garrett’s.”
The memory rose up in me as Thayer talked. I hadn’t been at that party—it’d been the week of the state championship, and I’d been in Glendale with the rest of the tennis team. Garrett and Louisa had been out of school for a few weeks, but I remembered when he came back. He’d looked so vulnerable, so lost. That made it easy to ignore his mood swings, his temper tantrums—because after each violent flare-up, he looked so anguished. I’d made excuses for him every time.
But he’d been more broken than I’d realized. I pictured his face that night in the canyon, twisted into a mask of rage, the terrible things he yelled at me. How jealous he’d been that I was out there with Thayer. How he called me a slut for wearing shorts, his breath angry and hot with whiskey. He hated the fact that I’d wanted to sleep with him—and hated himself for wanting to sleep with me, too. What happened to Louisa shattered him, and he’d punished me for his own fear and self-loathing about not being able to protect her.
Emma’s stomach curled into a tight little ball inside her, her head spinning. “That’s . . . awful,” she breathed.
Thayer nodded. “Yeah. Garrett never really recovered.”
In spite of everything, a twinge of pity shot through Emma’s chest. She couldn’t even imagine the kind of pain Louisa and Garrett had been through. Then again, she thought, the same thing had happened to her—someone had hurt her sister beyond belief, and she had to live with it. Sutton hadn’t deserved what happened to her any more than Louisa had.
She looked up to see Thayer watching her closely. “So you think what happened to Louisa made him snap?” he asked.
Emma sat up, straightening her legs out in front of her. “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter, does it? He killed my sister, and I don’t care what his excuses are. He’s dangerous, and I have to find a way to prove it.”
Thayer was silent for a long moment, studying her face.
“You know, you’re so much like her.” He gave a sad smile. “Not just the way you look, I mean. When you get that determined gleam in your eyes, you remind me so much of her.”
Emma found that she was leaning slightly against his shoulder, their arms just touching. She knew she should shift her weight, put more distance between them, but she couldn’t seem to move. For just a heartbeat, something magnetic pulled her toward Thayer.
“But I’m not her,” she said softly, forcing herself to move away. “And you have to keep your promise. I don’t know what I’d do if Garrett hurt you, too.”
Thayer’s jaw clenched, and his hands curled into tight fists. But he took a deep breath and stood up, his eyes suddenly clear. “I promise. You know where to find me if you need anything . . . Emma.” Then he turned and strode off toward his car.
I watched him go, hoping against hope that Emma had made the right choice in telling him—and hoping against hope that Garrett wouldn’t kill him, too.
24
GO GOOGLE YOURSELF
Emma drove back to the Landrys’ house slowly, reluctant to spend the day inside and alone. She cruised for a while past organic markets and upscale boutiques, decorated for Christmas with garlands and bows and twinkling lights. For a moment she contemplated going into the public library—she could go online, maybe do some research from there—but the memory of the reporters shouting her name made her shudder. Anywhere she went in public, she ran the risk of drawing down the press.
Soon the storefronts disappeared behind her, replaced by large, elegant homes and the Santa Catalina Mountains beyond. She turned into Ethan’s development and parked beneath the Landrys’ carport. Across the street the entrance to the canyon was still blocked off, police tape draped across the drive. She wondered if the investigators were over there even now, slowly sifting through the dirt. The skin on the back of her neck crawled like it always did when she glimpsed the bench where she’d waited for Sutton that first day. Sometimes it felt like the canyon had eyes.
Movement from across the lawn caught her eye. She paused as she climbed out of Ethan’s car, the keys frozen in her hand. Next door, Dr. Banerjee was shoving a battered suitcase into the hatchback of his car. It looked like there were already a bunch of bags piled haphazardly in the backseat. Nisha’s father still looked haggard, his eyes swollen in exhaustion, but he’d straightened himself up since she’d seen him last. His hair was combed, and he wore a button-down shirt that was wrinkled but clean.
As he climbed into the front seat of his car, Emma caught his eye. She lifted her hand to wave, taking a step toward him. For a moment she almost called out for him to stop—if Nisha had left evidence that Garrett had killed Sutton, Dr. Banerjee was the only person who could help her find it. Then she saw the look on his face. His eyes were hard slits, his mouth twisted in disgust. Her hand dropped limply back to her side. He thought she was a murderer—just like everyone else did. He backed out of his driveway, shaking his head slowly as he did. His lips moved like he was muttering to himself. Then he turned out onto the street and screeched away.
Her shoulders slumping, Emma turned away in defeat. It looked like Dr. Banerjee was skipping town, and with him, her last chance to find out the secret Nisha had died for.
She let herself into the Landrys’ house with Ethan’s key. As she pushed the door open, she wondered if she should have knocked instead. But inside, everything was dark and still. The sounds of a daytime talk show came from under Mrs. Landry’s closed bedroom door, and Emma sighed in relief. She hated to admit it, but running into Ethan’s mom—seeing the startled, nervous look in her mousy eyes—set her on edge.
Emma got a Coke Zero from the fridge and trudged to Ethan’s room. His bed was perfectly made, with hospital corners and everything, his plain white pillows stacked neatly at the top—she’d watched him make it that morning, his lip between his teeth in concentration. His OCD side was kind of adorable. She blushed a little as she settled onto the bed, thinking that she and Ethan had been cuddling here just a few hours earlier.
Propping herself up against the headboard with some pillows, she pulled his laptop onto her legs. She chewed on the end
of a lock of hair, then typed “Emma Paxton” into the search field—and regretted it almost immediately. The case was everywhere, and Emma herself was the star of the show. It was like a horrible, nightmare version of the headlines she used to write about herself—only now they were real. Rags to Riches, one news site proclaimed in enormous type, and underneath: Emma Paxton lived in squalor and dreamed of escape. How far would she go to get what she wanted? Every bad picture anyone had ever taken of her was now online, looking somehow sinister. She recognized Clarice’s house in several of them—Travis had obviously been snapping photos of her without her knowledge. One even showed her sleeping, her mouth open and her tank top’s spaghetti strap hanging off one shoulder.
A website called On the Q-T had interviewed Clarice herself. Emma scrolled down the page, full of pictures of her old room and stories about how disturbed Emma had seemed. She told me she was working at a roller coaster, but I heard afterward that she was involved with some kind of exotic dance troupe. She used to flounce around here in short-shorts and halter tops, but I’m so naïve I didn’t realize what was going on.
Emma clicked through link after link, her heart sinking. Not one person seemed to even consider that she might be innocent. A task force called CIT—Coalition of Identical Twins—called her a monster and demanded her immediate arrest. Former classmates from Vegas, most of whom Emma didn’t remember ever talking to, portrayed her as a shady, calculating thug. Another blog interviewed Hollier students who swore up and down that they’d suspected her all along.
Meanwhile, someone at Hollier had put up a Sutton Mercer remembrance page, filled with pictures of Sutton, Elton John’s “Candle in the Wind” playing as background music. A guestbook was already filled with comments from Sutton’s classmates.
I read the page over Emma’s shoulder. Would everyone talk about what a bully I’d been? Would they say I’d deserved what I got? Would anyone even miss me? But most of the comments were superficial. I will always remember how pretty she looked for Junior Prom, someone named wildcat_chick had posted. I had such a crush on her in eighth grade, another comment read, and Remember her sixteenth birthday party? That night made Hollier history! It seemed like no one really knew me underneath my shiny, popular exterior. Then again, I hadn’t exactly let many people see past that part of me.
Emma seemed to realize the same thing. She opened Twitter, certain that she would find something from Gabby and Lili. Sure enough, they’d been commenting on the whole situation.
@LILI_FIORELLO: Calling it now: It’s a prank. This is too crazy to be real.
@GABBY_FIORELLO: Sutton Mercer wouldn’t let herself be taken out by some flimsy black market knock-off bitch.
@LILI_FIORELLO: Joke is getting stale. Cross your heart and hope to die?
And then, a few hours later, simply:
@GABBY_FIORELLO: Sutton, we love you and will miss you forever.
Both of them had changed their user pictures to black squares. Emma’s heart ached. She knew Sutton and her friends had never been touchy-feely, but she also knew that below the surface, they cared deeply about one another. Then she suddenly realized: Gabby and Lili were twins, too. She wondered if they believed the rumors that Emma had killed her own sister. Maybe they were joining CIT at that very moment.
For hours Emma sat bent over the computer, reading story after story and searching for clues. When a car door slammed outside, Emma was shocked to see it was already three. Tiptoeing to the window that looked over the front of the house, she pulled aside a slat in Ethan’s Venetian blinds—and froze.
A cop car had pulled into the driveway, and Ethan was getting out of the passenger door. He paused to say something to the officer in the front—Corcoran again. She recognized the buzzed auburn hair. Then Ethan nodded and walked toward the house.
She met him in the entryway. He looked tired but calm, his backpack slung across one shoulder behind him.
“What happened?” she exclaimed.
“It’s okay.” He went to her, dropping his backpack on the floor next to him. As he straightened back up, she saw a scar on his temple she’d never noticed before, curving out from his hairline. She wanted suddenly to kiss it. “I went in willingly.”
Emma’s jaw fell open. “What?”
“I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. They need to know you’re innocent.” He raised his hand and cupped her cheek in his palm. “I told them I was blindsided by the news that you were really Emma but that I didn’t care. I said that I love you, whoever you are—and that I believed you were innocent.”
His touch on her face made her feel momentarily light-headed. The chill that had swept across her skin when she saw the cop car was replaced by a warm tingle.
Ethan’s voice dropped low. “And I told them I’d seen Garrett running up to the canyon, the night Sutton died.”
She blinked. “Wait, what? If you saw Garrett the night of the murder, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
He looked from side to side, though they seemed to be completely alone in the hall. “I didn’t really. But it was the only way I could think of to get the cops to look at him more closely. You saw his car in the parking lot security stills, right? I may not have seen him, but he was out there.”
“Ethan, do you realize how deep a hole you’re digging for yourself?” she hissed. “Don’t lie to the cops again—not for me. Isn’t it bad enough that I’ve been lying to everyone?”
His hand dropped away from her cheek, and he looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry. I just—I thought it would help.”
A door opened somewhere in the house, the quick patter of a local used-car commercial drifting through. Ethan glanced furtively into the hallway. After a moment there was the sound of a toilet flushing, and then the door closed again and the TV became muffled and distant once more. Mrs. Landry had retreated back to her cave.
Emma took a deep breath. Garrett had been in the canyon, after all. Maybe Ethan was right—now the cops had to look into Sutton’s ex. “You’re right,” she said, touching his shoulder. “Thank you. I’m sorry for snapping. I’m just so afraid that the cops are going to pull you into this, too.”
He shook his head. “Emma, I’d do anything for you. I want to keep you safe.” He stooped to unzip his backpack, and when he stood back up he shoved something in her hands. She looked down to see a burner cell phone, still in the package. “I also swung by Radio Shack and got this for you.”
She shifted her weight. The box felt strangely heavy in her hands. “You’ve already spent so much money on me, Ethan.”
“Yeah, but you need a phone,” he said. “Now I’m just a call away. If you need me, I’ll come running.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him. The contact sent a warm glow through her body, and she hugged his neck.
“So, I really need to catch up on my calculus,” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “But when I’m done, how about we grab some takeout and have a picnic? I know a great little spot just a few feet from here where the paparazzi will never find us. It’s right behind my house, in fact.”
She smiled. “You mean your yard?”
“You’ve heard of it!” he teased. “Come on. You, me, the mood lighting of the citronella candle. The best tom kha gai in town . . .”
“I’m there,” she said, laughing.
As I watched them, it was almost like my heart came unclenched for a moment. Even with all the madness in her life, my sister had found someone who really cared for her. When I saw the way he looked at her, it made me hope that someday, when this was all over, they would be able to move on.
And I was glad they’d have each other when—if—that time came.
25
EMMA PAXTON: MASTER OF DISGUISE
“Have a nice afternoon, miss.” A thin, white-bearded man wearing a flannel shirt and an apron handed Emma her bag of groceries and gave her a quizzical look.
Emma tugged self-consciously at her skirt. It was Wednesday, and she w
as incognito again, in Mrs. Landry’s blonde wig, a denim jumper embroidered with butterflies, and a red turtleneck sweater she’d gotten at Goodwill. Plastic dime-store glasses completed the look—she was a dead ringer for the Sunday school teacher she’d had during her few weeks with the Morgans, a particularly pious foster family back in Nevada. She couldn’t believe it had come to this to just buy milk; but the reporters—or Garrett—could be anywhere.
She exited the store and walked across the parking lot toward Ethan’s car, her shadow flickering across the asphalt at her feet. Next to the home improvement store was a Burger King, a line of cars stretching around the drive-through. Just as she dropped the groceries in the car, someone laid on his horn, impatient to make an order.
What she saw next made her stop in her tracks.
Travis had just stepped out of the Burger King, a thirty-two ounce soft drink in his hand. He paused in the doorway, pulling a pair of cheap aviators down over his eyes, before slouching up the street in the opposite direction.
Emma didn’t waste any time. Slamming the car door shut, she followed him on foot.
The area was a cheap commercial zone, lined with big-box stores and chain restaurants. A thin strip of weeds ran between the road and the sidewalk, dotted with overflowing trash cans. She walked slowly, letting Travis stay several feet ahead but keeping him in her line of sight. He wore a backward-facing baseball cap and saggy jeans hanging down almost off his butt. A wallet chain went from his belt loop to his back pocket. When he glanced behind him, she ducked into a crowd of people at a bus stop, trying to keep her face as bored as all the other commuters’ expressions. When she was sure he’d turned away, she followed again.
Travis passed an abandoned mechanics’ garage tagged with graffiti, then cut across the parking lot to a Days Inn Hotel. The pool shone behind the cast-iron gate, three small children in inflatable water wings squealing in the shallow end. Emma hung back and watched as Travis climbed the steps and let himself into one of the rooms.