by Sara Shepard
She stood in the shade of a mesquite tree, uncertainty coiling inside her. Why was he still here? He didn’t know anything about the killer—did he?
But her head snapped up as Ethan’s words came drifting back to her. If we had access to Garrett’s texts or e-mail, we’d be able to see if he sent the link.
They didn’t have Garrett’s phone. But the message might still be somewhere on Travis’s.
With another glance around, she climbed the stairs to his door and knocked. For a moment nothing happened. She knocked again, louder. From the parking lot, a middle-aged couple in matching Hawaiian shirts paused as they climbed out of their station wagon, staring up at her. Emma swallowed, sweat gathering on the back of her neck. She lifted her hand to knock one more time, but before she could, the door jerked open.
Travis stood in the doorway, his hat off. He wore a white tank top snug across his meaty chest, and a thick gold chain dangled from his neck. His chin jutted belligerently at her. Behind him, Arnold Schwarzenegger filled the TV screen, roaring up the freeway on a motorcycle. “What do you want, lady?”
For a moment, she didn’t remember that she was in costume. She blinked, then pulled off her glasses. “It’s me. Emma.”
His jaw fell slack. He looked her slowly up and down, his piggy little eyes bulging. The smell of stale tobacco and sweat hung around him.
“I need your help,” she said, putting on the sweetest expression she could muster. “Everyone thinks I killed my sister.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, grinning. “That one cop, Quinlan or whatever? He’s been trying to get me to tell him all about you.”
She chewed on her thumbnail, knowing she had to play this just right. “What have you told him so far?”
Travis shrugged, bracing himself against the door frame so he loomed over her.
“So far just about your freaky little habit,” he said.
“You mean that video someone sent you?” she said, choosing her words carefully.
“Yup,” he said. “Man, I liked watching that. Such a bummer they took it down.”
Bingo. Garrett had sent him that link. Her heart swelled with excitement. If she could get her hands on his phone, she could prove it. She took a deep breath.
“I didn’t kill Sutton,” she said, a soft, pleading note entering her voice. “You believe me, don’t you?”
He smirked. “I don’t know, Emma. You were pretty violent with me. Always had a nasty temper.”
Emma tensed, fighting the angry retort that was rising in her chest. She’d kneed Travis in the groin once after he’d tried to cop a feel. That was what had led to his framing her for the theft of Clarice’s money.
Travis’s voice dropped conspiratorially. “Besides, Tucson’s a pretty nice place. The cops have me set up here all week—free HBO, room service. All for telling them anything I can about you.”
She looked up at him, blinking through her thick lashes, her eyes wide and vulnerable. I was impressed—back in the day, I’d been a master of the puppy-dog-in-the-rain look. If only she could make herself cry on command, Emma would give me a run for my money.
“Why are you doing this to me?” She gave her voice the slightest tremble, pretending to wipe at the corner of her eye.
Travis glanced left and right as if looking for eavesdroppers. Then he leaned forward, putting his mouth right by her ear as if to share a secret. His breath was rancid with sugar and pot. “The thing is, Emma, you’re a real bitch.”
It took all her willpower not to slap him in the face. But she had to play nice. Her lips slightly parted, she rested a hand on his bare bicep. Travis’s eyes flickered down to where she was touching him.
“I’m desperate,” she whispered, ignoring the surge of bile at the back of her throat. “I’ll do anything. You have to help me, Travis. You’re the only one who can.”
He stared at her blankly for a moment, his malice overcome by surprise. She ran her eyes appraisingly over his body, trying to look seductive, hunting for the telltale rectangular outline of his phone. There. It was in his front pocket, just against his hip.
A slow smile spread across his face. “Anything, huh?” He stepped back from the door, holding it open for her. As she stepped past him, he slapped her on the butt, and she jumped. Her stomach lurched. For a moment, she wondered if she was making a huge mistake. Travis was dangerous.
But Emma was tough, too. And she needed that phone.
She reached up to take the itchy wig off her head, but Travis grabbed her hand. “Leave it,” he murmured, his breath hot on her face. “I like it.”
Emma dropped her hands to Travis’s hips, leaving the blonde wig where it was. Slowly, she slid her hands into his pockets. His eyes closed, his breath coming quicker. Her fingers searched past stray coins and a baggie of something she was sure was pot before closing around the hard plastic form of his phone. As she wrenched it from his pocket, his eyes shot open.
“What—” But he didn’t get to finish his question. She brought her knee up as hard as she could between his legs. His eyes crossed, and he fell backward onto the bed, clutching at his groin.
She was out the door and slamming it behind her before he could even move, taking the stairs three at a time, adrenaline coursing through her veins. By the time he wrenched the door open, she was already at the bottom.
“You crazy bitch!” he screamed, limping after her. “I’ll kill you!”
“You’ll have to get in line!” Emma yelled over her shoulder as she took off running. She zigzagged around an acne-scarred man dressed in the polyester blazer of a hotel staffer, then sprinted across the parking lot, leaping over medians and dodging cars. The muscles blazed in her legs, but she barely noticed. For a moment, she felt like she could fly.
And I was flying right next to her, chanting her name like a cheer. Finally, my sister had gotten her hands on something that might be able to clear her name. And finally, she’d been able to hit Travis exactly where it hurt.
26
SHOW US YOUR TEXTS
Emma burst into Ethan’s room thirty minutes later, the phone pressing sharply into her palm. He jumped up from where he’d been sitting at his desk, his mouth open round in surprise. She whipped the wig off her scalp and threw it down in victory, unable to wipe the grin from her face.
Ethan stared at the BlackBerry in her hand, then looked up at her wonderingly. “What . . .”
“It’s Travis’s phone!” She quickly explained what had happened, leaving out the fact that she’d had to faux-seduce him.
“Emma, you’re amazing!” Ethan took the phone, a smile spreading across his face. She sank to the edge of his bed, running her fingers through her mussed-up hair. There wasn’t enough soap in the world to get the memory of Travis off her skin—but it was worth it. She’d gotten the phone.
Ethan’s fingers danced over the BlackBerry’s keys, and she held her breath, watching him carefully. After a minute, he shook his head. “It looks like his text history and his e-mails have been cleared pretty recently.”
Emma’s heart sank. “So it was all for nothing?”
“Not necessarily.” Ethan popped the SD card out of its slot and held it pinched between his thumb and index finger. “That stuff stays forever, if you know how to look for it. And it just so happens that your boyfriend is sort of a techno-geek.” He shot her a grin as he stepped toward his computer.
“What are you doing?” Emma said.
Ethan stopped. “Plugging it in. Don’t you want to see what’s on it?”
“But . . . shouldn’t we take it to the library or something?” Anxiety streaked through her. “What if someone can trace it to your computer? I don’t want it to look like you had anything to do with stealing it.”
He shook his head impatiently. “The nearest branch is closed for the night. We can’t wait for tomorrow. Emma, this could answer all our questions. This could be the solution we’ve been looking for!”
She rubbed her palms into her eyes.
Then she nodded. “Okay. You’re right. Plug it in.”
Ethan turned back to his laptop, inserted the card into a small device, and plugged it into the USB port. Instantly a window popped open on his screen, listing the contents of the phone. Ethan clicked to view all the files at once—and blushed a vibrant red as Travis’s entire pornography collection opened on his desktop.
He lunged forward, covering the monitor with his torso to shield it from her view. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, fumbling to close all the images. Emma’s own face was burning, too, but she couldn’t keep a nervous giggle from escaping.
“That was all on his phone?” she exclaimed. “Like, that’s what he takes with him everywhere he goes?”
“Just let me . . .” Ethan kept hiding the monitor from her with his body, typing furiously. The back of his neck was scarlet. And suddenly, Emma couldn’t help herself—she laughed. After all she’d been through, after everything that had happened, they were so close to finding out the truth. The only thing stopping them was a few hundred pictures of boobs.
By the time Ethan managed to close all the pictures, Emma had reined in her laughter. She moved closer to his desk and put a hand on his shoulder. He was still bright red with discomfort and was looking carefully away from her. “That was like my worst nightmare come true,” he muttered.
She looked at the monitor over his shoulder. “Was there room for anything else on his phone?”
“We’ll find out.” Ethan’s fingers flew deftly over the keyboard. He typed in several commands she didn’t understand, then paused for a moment before striking hard on the “enter” button with his index finger. Pages of texts and e-mails immediately shot open. Her jaw dropped.
“Now who’s amazing?” she breathed, leaning down to kiss his cheek. His flush, which had started to drain away, brightened again.
The most recent texts included an exchange between Travis and a girl named “Sapphire” that started with the line HEY GIRL WHUT U WEARIN? Ethan made a disgusted face. “You lived with this guy?”
“Child Protective Services didn’t exactly give me a lot of choice,” Emma said, leaning over. “What’s in his e-mail from back in August?”
He hesitated. “We’re not accidentally going to find naked pictures of him on here, are we?”
She grimaced. “I never said this would be easy.”
Emma watched as Ethan scrolled down to the e-mails from August. All of Travis’s friends had e-mail addresses like markdogg69 or bluntmeister. She rolled her eyes. Then she saw it. On August twenty-ninth, someone named hollier_hell had sent a message with the subject line Check this out.
She lifted a trembling finger to point to it. Ethan’s eyes widened. “‘Hollier_hell’?”
She tucked her hair behind her ears, catching a lock in her hands and twirling it around her finger. “Open it.”
Ethan double-clicked on the message.
Hey man, thought you might like this video of your sweet little foster sister. Do me a favor and show her, too.
Below that was a link. Emma was willing to bet it would be dead now, but she was certain that back in August, it had led straight to the Sutton in AZ video that started it all.
“This is two days before the murder,” she said, a clammy feeling descending over her body. That meant that Sutton’s murder had been premeditated—not a crime of passion or an accident. And it meant that Garrett had been watching Emma, too; had known where she lived and with whom. It meant she’d been a part of his plan all along.
Travis had replied: That is some freaky shit, bro. Thanks for the link. But what’s in it for me if I show her?
Hollier_hell answered: $5K sound good to you? But don’t tell anyone about this. Delete these messages. If Emma leaves town you’ve done your job. Then meet me at 5784 W. Speedway in Tucson on September 15. I’ll be there with the money.
The last e-mail in the thread was from Travis: I’m game. Sept. 15. Be there.
Emma clenched her fists, her fingernails digging into her flesh. Travis had sold her to her sister’s murderer for $5,000. “Ethan. Do you know that address?”
“I’m on it.” A map flew open on the browser when he searched for the address. It was on the outskirts of Tucson, on the west side of town. When Ethan selected the pin on the map, the name of the business sprang up.
“Holy shit,” Ethan muttered.
The address the murderer had given Travis was for Rosa Linda Storage.
Slowly, Emma reached over him. She slid open his desk drawer and pulled out the tiny silver key they’d found in Garrett’s locker, holding it up next to Ethan’s monitor. She stared at the scratched-out second word again.
Emma’s blood went still in her veins. The glittering key dangled motionless between her and Ethan, catching the bright overhead light. There it was: Under the scratches and the scars on the metal, the second word was suddenly clear. It couldn’t be anything but LINDA.
Emma pulled the burner cell out of her tote. Wordlessly, she keyed in the number on the website. Ethan opened his lips to ask what she was doing, but she held her finger to her lips. The line rang five times before someone finally answered.
“Rosa Linda Storage,” croaked a man’s voice in the receiver. Emma took a deep breath.
“Hi, this is the tenant of unit three-fifty-six,” she said, using a brisk, important voice. “I’m calling to find out when my next payment is due.”
A crackling silence came from the other end of the line. After a moment, the creaky voice replied, heavy with skepticism. “This is Arthur Smith?”
Her heart sank. She’d hoped it would be in Garrett’s name—if it had been, all she’d have had to do was turn the key and Travis’s phone over to the cops. But of course Garrett had covered his tracks.
She cleared her throat. “This is Mrs. Arthur Smith, yes.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith.” There was a rustle of paperwork. “It looks like your account is clear through the end of the month. Will you be paying in cash again?”
Emma ended the call, lowering the phone back to her bag. Then she looked at Ethan, his eyes round and questioning.
“Get your coat,” she said. “We’re going to Rosa Linda.”
If I still had fists, I would have punched them toward the sky in excitement.
Finally, we were going to find out what was behind door number two.
27
MEMENTO MORI
Rosa Linda Storage was located on a desolate stretch of road on the outskirts of Tucson, between a run-down motel called the Flamingo and a boarded-up liquor store. A neon sign stood out front, several of the letters burnt out so that it said only OS LIN STOR. A chain-link fence wound around the property, the barbed wire dotted with incongruous red bows for the holidays.
Emma traced her sister’s initials on the key fob as Ethan pulled into the parking lot. She knew that they wouldn’t find old furniture or soccer equipment in that storage unit. Whatever it was, it had something to do with Sutton.
I knew it, too. I could feel the truth just out of my reach, like a dream that fades from memory upon waking.
Ethan parked, and they stepped out into the packed-earth courtyard. Rows of storage units, shuttered and silent, branched off into the darkness in four directions. No one else was there at that hour.
“Are you ready for this?” Ethan asked, his voice low.
“I don’t know,” Emma admitted. She took a deep breath, the dry desert air filling her lungs and calming her. “Come on,” she said, giving Ethan’s hand a squeeze. “Let’s get this over with.”
They started down the aisle of buildings hand in hand. The floodlights that lit each unit made their shadows flicker grotesquely across the ground, misshapen and eerie. Their footsteps echoed in the stillness. Farther into the desert, a coyote gave a shrill yip.
The unit numbers were painted on the doors in bright orange, starting with 100. Emma counted out loud as they walked through the aisles. “One hundred fifty,” she whispered. “Two hundre
d . . . three hundred . . . three fifty—it should be down here, Ethan.” She jerked her head around a corner.
Unit 356 looked like all the others, the numbers stenciled across the folding leaves in the garage-type door. Emma had leaned down to fumble at the padlock when Ethan grabbed her elbow.
“Wait,” he said, handing her a pair of knit pink gloves, which no doubt belonged to his mother, from one of the pockets in his cargo pants. From another he extracted a pair of black climbing gloves and pulled them over his own fingers.
“Good call,” Emma said, tugging on her gloves and grasping the padlock once more. The key was a perfect fit. With an almost inaudible click, the latch sprang free. Emma gripped the door’s handle—and pulled sharply up.
The inside was completely dark. She groped along the wall to find the switch, and a single fluorescent bulb hanging in the center of the unit flickered to life. The unit was large enough to hold an apartment’s worth of furniture or a few hundred boxes—but it was almost completely empty.
Almost.
In the center of the cavernous space, a single manila envelope lay on the floor just under the light. Next to it was a stuffed octopus missing one of its black button eyes. Emma knew that octopus. She’d hugged those blue knit legs countless times as a little girl, whenever she needed comfort. It was her Socktopus, one of the only things she’d brought with her from Vegas.
She slowly walked forward, picking up the stuffed animal and staring down at it. Socktopus had been in the duffel that was stolen from the bench in Sabino Canyon, her first night in Tucson. Whoever took it had acted quickly—it had only been unattended for a few minutes before she’d returned looking for it.
Ethan hung back, glancing at the open door every now and then as if afraid someone would spring out at them. “What is that?” he asked, frowning.
“My mom got it for me,” she said. Her voice sounded far away, even to her. “When I was little.”