The Lying Game #6: Seven Minutes in Heaven

by Sara Shepard

  It was like I was losing them all over again.

  21

  SHELTER FROM THE STORM

  Emma gripped the sides of the squad car’s passenger seat as the officer sped around a corner. She craned her neck to look behind them at the reporters trailing in their wake, news vans and cheap rental cars harrying the cop’s bumper like a pack of hungry wolves. She glanced at Corcoran. His lips were pursed in a tight, stoic line.

  “Is there any way to keep them from following us?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  Corcoran didn’t answer. His eyes flickered up to the rearview mirror. Then, without warning, he jerked the steering wheel into a hairpin turn, down an alley that ran behind a Starbucks and a Mediterranean deli. Emma watched three vans streak past. His hands steady on the wheel, he then floored the gas, and with an angry squeal of tires the squad car shot through the intersection just as the light turned red.

  I thought suddenly of the times that Mads and Thayer and I had played Grand Theft Auto on our old PlayStation, back before I ever even thought Thayer was cute. This was even better. But Emma didn’t seem so happy. Her pulse throbbed wildly in her ears, and she was clutching the door handle, her eyes wide. “That was some driving,” she mumbled.

  The hint of a smile flitted across Corcoran’s lips, but he didn’t say a word.

  They drove the rest of the way to Ethan’s in a circuitous route, making a wide loop to get back to the Catalina Foothills where he lived. Emma watched Corcoran out of the corner of her eye as he drove. She wasn’t sure what to make of him, but he’d certainly gone out of his way to protect her from the reporters, which was more than Quinlan would have done.

  Corcoran pulled up outside of Ethan’s house and put the car in park. She sat for a moment, staring up at the faded bungalow, the porch light casting a feeble glow over the steps and the swing.

  “I’ll wait until you’re inside,” Corcoran said.

  “Thanks,” she said softly. She let herself out of the car and started up to the house.

  Before she’d made it halfway up the walk, the door burst open. Ethan ran down the steps to meet her, a worried frown on his face. His hair looked ink-black in the darkness, but his face was pale. “What’s going on?”

  “The cops know.” She stumbled, suddenly feeling faint. Ethan grabbed her in his arms and steadied her. “Quinlan figured out that I’m not Sutton, using my dental records. He has my friend Alex from Henderson—he knows I’ve been texting her as Emma all this time.”

  Ethan gave a sharp intake of breath. “And they think you did it?”

  She nodded, rubbing her eyes with a fist. His arms were strong around her, her cheek pressed flat to his chest. His T-shirt had a Mexican sugar skull screen-printed across the front, and she found herself staring into its hollow eyes. It made her think of the crime scene pictures all over again, of her sister’s body ravaged by time and elements. She squeezed her eyes shut against the thought, breathing in Ethan’s warm vanilla smell.

  “Who’s that?”

  She looked up to see that Corcoran’s car was still there. She felt a little rush of gratitude. It was too dark to see the man’s face behind the windshield, but she knew he was waiting to make sure she was all right.

  “They kept Sutton’s car to search for evidence, so he tried to take me home. But . . . the Mercers . . .” Her lip trembled. “They’re furious, Ethan. They think I killed Sutton.”

  His chest rose and fell beneath her as he sighed. “Come on,” he said, leading her up the stairs and through the front door.

  Ethan’s house gave off an aura of genteel neglect. The hardwood floors were scuffed but squeaky clean. The décor was dated—the floral wallpaper had a “grandma’s house” kind of feel—and the air smelled stale, as if the windows had been closed for a long time. There was no clutter anywhere, no piled-up mail or half-folded stack of laundry. Emma felt dizzy, and her knees buckled. “Let’s go into the kitchen,” Ethan said quickly, catching her. “You look like you need a glass of water.”

  He led her down a short hallway into the Landrys’ kitchen. Unlike the Mercers’ pineapple-themed, cheerful kitchen, this one felt empty and soulless, with a few mismatched tea towels and a plain gray countertop. A two-year-old calendar featuring a picture of a Persian cat hung on the wall, flipped to March.

  They didn’t notice Ethan’s mother until they turned on the light. She’d been sitting in the dark at a square table by the window, still and silent. She was bone-thin, her hair flat and dull, the corners of her eyes crumpled like parchment. When they came in she gave a small, startled jump.

  “Hi, Mrs. Landry,” Emma said nervously. She wasn’t sure how much Ethan’s mother knew—did she follow the news? Would she welcome someone at the center of so much drama into her home?

  The woman didn’t say anything but stared silently at Emma for several beats. Emma didn’t know if it was her imagination or not, but she thought she detected a glint of fear in the woman’s eyes. She knows, Emma thought, her heart sinking. Or at least she knows what I’ve been accused of.

  After a moment, Mrs. Landry got slowly to her feet and scuttled wordlessly toward the hall. Ethan didn’t even look at his mother as she nudged past. He pulled out a chair for Emma and gently pushed her into it.

  “Are you going to be in trouble for having me here?” she asked tremulously.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “My mom just . . . isn’t used to having guests. She’ll get over it.”

  Though they rarely talked about it, Emma knew Ethan had a strained relationship with his mom. His dad had basically bailed when Mrs. Landry got cancer, and Ethan had taken care of her throughout the whole ordeal. But when his dad started abusing Mrs. Landry, and Ethan hit his father to make him stop, she called the cops on Ethan, not on his dad. Emma knew all of this only because she’d found Ethan’s psych file a few weeks ago while looking for Becky’s, and he’d confessed the whole story. So many unhappy families, she thought sadly.

  As Ethan started to pour her a cup of water, Emma turned away—and saw Sutton’s ghost looking back at her. She nearly jumped out of her chair.

  But then she looked again—and of course it wasn’t Sutton’s ghost. It was Emma’s reflection, haunted and pale in the glass of the window that looked out into the dark night. Her hair was tangled, her face smeared with tears.

  Ethan handed her the water. It was in a keepsake glass printed with a picture of Miss Piggy on a motorcycle. “There’s more,” Emma said. “Ethan, Garrett was in the canyon that night. I saw the file for the murder case while Quinlan was out of the room. His car was in the parking lot.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re sure it was his?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “And this afternoon, before I went to the cops, I went to his house.”

  Ethan sputtered, spitting out the mouthful he’d just sipped. “You what?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first,” she said quickly, “but I’m done playing the game by Garrett’s rules. It’s time to go on the offensive. Anyway, I talked to Louisa. She said that he came home really upset the night Sutton died, that he was out of control. And Ethan . . . he has a prescription for Valium.” She dropped her voice again. “That’s what was in Nisha’s bloodstream when she died.”

  My mind flashed back to the look of rage on Garrett’s face, that night in the canyon. I knew why he’d killed me—he was in a jealous rage after he caught me with Thayer. But Nisha’s death seemed less of a heat-of-the-moment act; drugging her and pushing her in the pool would have required deliberation and planning. What made him decide she needed to die?

  A worried frown creased Ethan’s brow. “You shouldn’t have gone to his house. He’s been warning you to stop looking for answers. What’s he going to do when his mom or his sister tell him you were there?”

  Emma smacked her palm on the table in frustration. “Ethan, what else can he do to me? I’m already wanted for Sutton’s murder. If I can’t prove that he killed her soo
n, I’m going to jail . . . and he’ll walk free. I can’t let that happen.”

  “I know,” he said, rubbing his face roughly with his hands. “I just hate that you took a risk like that.” He stared down into his water glass. “Everything points to Garrett, doesn’t it?”

  Emma nodded. All of the pieces fit—and from what she’d seen of Garrett’s temper, it was easy to believe that he was capable of murder. “But I still don’t have anything to take to the cops.”

  “What about that key?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. Emma felt in her jeans pocket, where the tiny silver key hugged her hip. She held it in the palm of her hand, squinting to try to make out what was etched on the metal tag it was attached to.

  “It’s too small for a car or a house. What could this go to?” She sighed. “For all we know it could be for his bike chain or something.”

  “I don’t know, Emma.” Ethan tapped the back of the tag, where the unmistakable S.M. was scratched. “Those are her initials.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, the key on the table between them. The events of the evening swirled furiously around Emma’s head. In just a few hours, she’d lost the place she’d learned to call home, and the family she had come to love.

  “What am I going to do?” she asked softly, tracing a line of condensation on her glass. “I don’t have any money, anywhere to go. The few things I brought to Tucson are now evidence, and everything else was Sutton’s. I don’t even have a change of clothes.”

  Ethan put a hand on her knee, squeezing it almost painfully. “You’re going to stay here. At least until we can get this sorted out.”

  “Ethan, no. I can’t put you in any danger. Alex is already in trouble for helping me. And what about your mom? She doesn’t want me here.”

  Ethan set down his glass and gazed at her, an earnest, tender expression on his face. “Emma, I love you. I know no one has ever stood beside you when you were in trouble, but no matter what it takes, I’m going to make you believe that I’m the one who will do that. I’m not leaving you.”

  Her heart gave a violent thump. Ethan was right—she had never depended on anyone in her life. After being abandoned by Becky, and surviving the stream of disappointing foster parents who followed, Emma had learned early on to rely on no one but herself. Her friendships and relationships had mostly been short and shallow, easily made and easily broken. Until Ethan.

  “I don’t want you involved,” she whispered. “They’re going to charge Alex with aiding and abetting—maybe even conspiracy. They could get you on the same things.”

  He pulled her close. “Nothing will happen to me.” He tilted her chin up gently, gazing into her eyes. “Stay with me. Let me help you through this, and protect you.”

  Emma sighed and curled up against his chest contentedly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Are you kidding? I don’t know what I’d do without you. God, Emma . . .” His dark-blue eyes were wide and earnest. “I don’t think I ever understood love until I met you.”

  She laced her fingers through his, her heart singing in her chest.

  “So you’ll stay?” he asked, stroking her wrist with his fingertips. She shivered, and for the first time in days it wasn’t in fear.

  “I’ll stay,” she murmured.

  “It’s settled then.” His face broke into a crooked grin, and he took her hand. “Want to go watch some TV, to take your mind off things?”

  As she followed Ethan down the hall, Emma suddenly wondered—where would she be sleeping tonight? Her cheeks grew warm as she pictured Ethan’s full-sized bed with its smooth, carefully tucked covers. Would they be sharing it?

  The living room’s walls had been painted a dusty rose color, a fussy vine pattern stenciled along the top in dark green. A clock with pictures of different American birds in place of the numerals hung over the TV, and an ornate gilded mirror loomed above a drafty fireplace, doubling the room in its reflection. Like the rest of the house, the room was spotlessly clean, though bare patches showed on the arms of the blue chintz sofa, and the flowered rug was mottled with stains.

  Emma sat down next to Ethan, curling her legs up under her and snuggling into his shoulder. The TV popped on with a loud hum—and almost immediately, Nisha Banerjee’s pictures came into focus on the screen. Emma’s breath caught in her chest at the sight.

  “Police say the intruder knew the alarm code to the Banerjees’ house, so the alarm was not triggered. However, Mr. Banerjee was home at the time, and he saw the masked intruder before he or she managed to escape,” said a familiar brisk voice. It was Tricia Melendez, reporting the evening news.

  A scowl creased Ethan’s forehead. “I wanted to take your mind off this,” he muttered, fumbling for the remote. She grabbed his arm.

  “Wait,” she whispered.

  Tricia Melendez continued. “Officers responded to the scene within minutes, but the perpetrator had already fled the premises. The only information Dr. Banerjee could provide was that the figure looked at least six feet tall and was wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt.”

  The camera cut to Quinlan, his face deeply lined beneath the camera’s bright lights. “It’s possible this was some kind of prank. Miss Banerjee’s death was a high-profile case, and unfortunately that can occasionally attract some petty harassment. Luckily nothing was taken or disturbed.”

  Emma gaped openmouthed at the screen, then jumped suddenly to her feet, running to the window and fumbling at the avocado-colored curtains. The Banerjee house stood silent and dark next door. She could see Nisha’s window, the drapes pale and ghostly in the moonlight.

  “Do you know what this means?” Emma exclaimed. Her reflection stared excitedly back at her. She felt Ethan move behind her and turned to meet his eyes. “This means Garrett still doesn’t have whatever Nisha was hiding.” She gripped the sleeve of Ethan’s shirt. “The evidence is still there!”

  Ethan blanched, the color leaching from his cheeks. “Jesus,” he murmured. “Emma, I hope you’re not thinking of breaking in, too. Dr. Banerjee will never let you in now that he knows who you are.”

  But a flash of energy flared through Emma. Finally, after being helpless for so long, she’d found the break she’d been looking for. Whatever Nisha had, Garrett had murdered her because of it. Surely it would prove he had killed Sutton, if not both girls.

  “We have to go over there,” she said. “We should go now, before Garrett figures out a way back into the house.”

  She was halfway to the door when Ethan’s hand gripped her wrist, spinning her back around to face him. “Are you crazy?” he asked, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Emma, Garrett was here. One house away. He ran away once he realized Dr. Banerjee was home, but he’s not going to make the same mistake again. And if he sees you trying to get into Nisha’s house, who knows what he’ll do?”

  She stared at him incredulously. “There’s something in Nisha’s house that could end this. It’s worth the risk!” She pressed his hand in both of hers. “If I can solve this case, I’ll be free. You and I can be together without all this . . . this craziness hanging over our heads.”

  Ethan’s lips turned downward as he grabbed her by her shoulders. “If Garrett sees you over there, he’ll kill you. Emma, please.” He took a deep, shaking breath, and then exhaled. “Besides, Garrett’s not the only one watching you. If the cops catch you trying to break in, they’ll find a way to put you in jail. You said yourself they’re just looking for a reason.”

  Emma glanced back at the widow, frustration mounting inside of her. The answers were so near, and yet she still couldn’t get them. But maybe Ethan was right. She was being watched too closely. Reluctantly, she sank into the sofa, her hands curled into fists.

  But at least there was hope.

  In the window, the ghost of Sutton blinked back at her, hopeful and terrified. I promise we’ll solve this, she thought desperately, hoping her sister could hear her. And then, as she watched, tiny patches of Sutton’s fa
ce began to fall away, as though she were decomposing.

  Emma stood and took a step forward to the window. It was raining. The raindrops were hitting the window, breaking up her reflection in the glass and destroying the tentative moment of connection she’d felt with her dead twin. You’re being silly, Sutton wasn’t here at all, she tried to tell herself, though she couldn’t shake the sudden and acute sense of loss.

  “I’m with you,” I whispered. As always, my voice disappeared into the wide breach between us. But it made me feel better to say it out loud. Now that she was barred from my home, Emma was all I had. We were in this together—whether she knew it or not.

  22

  EMMA NON GRATA

  Emma and Ethan spent the weekend mostly in hiding. It seemed like Corcoran’s defensive driving had worked; none of the media showed up on the Landrys’ doorstep. Still, they didn’t want to tempt fate, so they drew the blinds and avoided the windows, curling up on the couch to watch a Star Trek marathon on cable. Every now and then they’d stop to sift through the details of the case or get a snack. The kitchen wasn’t very well stocked, but they had enough for stacks of sandwiches, and on Saturday Emma showed Ethan her secret recipe for making jarred pasta sauce taste homemade: olive oil, a sprinkle of sugar, and a tiny splash of vodka.

  On Sunday, they disguised Emma in an old flowered shirtdress that belonged to Ethan’s mother so they could go to Goodwill incognito. Ethan even produced a blonde Farrah Fawcett–style wig from the back of Mrs. Landry’s closet. They both laughed at her reflection in the mirror—she looked like she’d been stuck in a bomb shelter since the late seventies. But when they went out she was glad for the disguise. For the first time in a long while, no one paid any attention to her at all, either as super-popular Sutton or as accused-murderer Emma.

  But on Monday, Emma knew there would be no disguise that could get her through the day at Hollier. She stood at the mirror of the Landrys’ hallway bathroom, braiding her hair into a long side plait, a style she would never have worn as Sutton. For the first time in months she was dressed like herself, in a faded blue-and-white raglan T-shirt and a pair of perfectly distressed Rag & Bone jeans she’d scored for five bucks. As she looked at her reflection, she felt somehow vulnerable and exposed. She’d been hiding behind Sutton’s persona for months now, her real self a secret that she revealed only to Ethan. Now everyone would see the real her. The thought was strangely terrifying.