Seven Minutes in Heaven (13 page)

19

FACE OFF

The heavy tread of footsteps sounded outside the door. Emma quickly shoved the pages back into the folder just as Quinlan stepped inside.

Without hesitating, she shot to her feet. “Detective Quinlan, I think I know who killed my sister.”

“Yes, tell him,” I urged. I was still reeling from the sensation of Garrett holding me out over the precipice.

He stopped in his tracks. One eyebrow crept up his forehead in a skeptical arc. “That’s interesting. I was just coming back in here to tell you the same thing . . .
Emma
.”

For a moment what he said didn’t register. Emma stood rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle as her mind raced to catch up with what was happening.

Quinlan gave her a cool smile. “When I swabbed your cheek, I couldn’t help but notice you have two fillings in your molars. The thing is, Sutton Mercer has never had a cavity in her life. Must be all that nice organic food the Mercers buy. But according to the dental records we got from Las Vegas, Emma Paxton has two fillings. Right where yours are, as a matter of fact.” He threw a set of dental X-rays down on the table.

Emma stared at them dumbly, adrenaline churning through her body. For one wild moment she thought about making a break for it. But then what? She might make it as far as the hallway, but she was surrounded by cops. The awful realization unfolded: There was no way out of this. She slowly lowered back to her seat.

Quinlan pulled out his chair and sat as well. He watched her for a moment, his face softening visibly. Emma had the impression that he felt almost sorry for her. “It’s time to tell the truth, Miss Paxton. Come on, why not make this easy on yourself?”

Emma looked down at her fingers on the table in front of her, her mind racing. How much did he already know?

Quinlan sighed, pressing his fingertips together thoughtfully in front of him. “Come on, Emma. I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.” He opened Emma’s file, pulling out the crime scene photos and dropping them on the table in front of her.

“Maybe it was just an accident,” Quinlan said gently. “You girls were in the canyon, you got into some kind of argument. Things turned physical, and Sutton just . . . fell. You didn’t mean for it to happen. But you have to help me out, Emma. You have to tell me the truth.”

I watched warily. I knew what he was doing from long hours spent in the hot seat myself. He’d pulled this on me more than once—
it must be so hard for you, Sutton, being adopted, not knowing who your family is. Why don’t you just tell me the truth?
He was trying to manipulate my sister into talking.

Quinlan’s stone-gray eyes were implacable. Before Emma had time to process what he was saying, he threw his hands up as if he’d tried his hardest to reason with her. “All right. Let’s see what’s behind door number one, then.” His knees popped as he slowly stood up, pushing his chair in behind him. He opened the door a crack and looked outside, holding a low conference with someone in the hall. Emma craned her neck, trying to see who was out there, but his body obstructed her view.

Then the door opened wider, and a female officer propelled Alex Stokes inside.

She was in handcuffs.

Emma’s jaw dropped. Her best friend stood awkwardly in front of her, staring down at the familiar checkerboard-patterned Vans she’d worn every day for the past two years. She was a short, elfin girl, tiny next to the Amazonian officer escorting her. She’d been crying, and her trademark turquoise Urban Decay liner had smeared across her cheeks. When Quinlan gave her a little nudge, she stumbled forward, lifting her tear-filled eyes to meet Emma’s.

A lead weight seemed to drop on Emma’s heart in that moment. Alex was in trouble, all because of her.

Quinlan’s lips curled up in a cruel smile. “We can get your friend here on a half dozen charges. Aiding and abetting, obstructing justice, concealment of a crime. Hell, if the judge is feeling creative I might be able to get her as an accomplice to murder one.” He made a
tsk
ing sound. “We got a search warrant for her phone, and it turns out she’s been in contact with her dear friend Emma Paxton for the past
three
months. And Emma had all kinds of interesting stories about life in Tucson. How close she was with Sutton, how great life was with the Mercers. The most recent one was . . .”—he made a show of looking at a pile of papers in his hands—“. . . one day ago! Look at that!”

Emma shot to her feet again, anger bubbling up from beneath her fear. “Alex had nothing to do with this. That should be obvious, if you read the texts.”

Quinlan shrugged. “Maybe it’s obvious. Or maybe you two are talking in code. How can I know, if you haven’t told me the truth?”

Emma stared at him, suddenly hot with anger. She clenched her fists, digging her fingernails into the soft skin of her palms. “I tried to tell you the truth, the day I got here.” She didn’t even have to channel Sutton for the attitude; cold fury squeezed her chest. “Maybe if you’re going to charge Alex with anything, you should charge yourself too—with negligence, for not even bothering to look into my story way back in September.”

The room went silent. Somewhere down the hall a phone rang over and over. The female officer glanced at Quinlan uncertainly. His smirk died away, but as he spoke he didn’t break eye contact with Emma.

“Get her out of here,” he muttered, jerking his head at Alex. The officer hesitated, but when Quinlan didn’t move, she took Alex by the arm and guided her back to the door. Emma wanted more than anything to call after her friend, to ask her forgiveness, but she knew she couldn’t show weakness in front of Quinlan now.

“So what’s your story, then?” Quinlan asked finally, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Aren’t you going to turn on your little tape recorder for this part of the interview?” she snapped. He scowled, reaching down to turn on the machine. She leaned back in her seat. “I came here to meet Sutton at the end of the summer. But she was the one who stood me up in Sabino Canyon, or so I thought. I waited forever, but she never showed up. Madeline Vega and the Fiorello twins found me on the bench and thought I was Sutton. The message had warned me not to say who I was, so I played along. I kept thinking Sutton would show up any minute and clear everything up.” A lump formed in Emma’s throat as she thought back to the hopes she’d had that first night, of meeting Sutton, of finding family. Of finally fitting in somewhere. Tears stung her eyes, but she kept her chin high, refusing to break Quinlan’s gaze. “Then I got a note, one that said Sutton was dead and I had to play along. I still have the note—that, and the others the killer left. I stitched them inside a purple pillow on Sutton’s bed. You can check.”

Quinlan gave an impatient grunt. His eyes glittered darkly as he leaned across the table toward her. “Let me tell you what I think. I think you’ve been stalking your sister for a long time. I think you’ve been watching her on Facebook and on Twitter. Maybe you even took a little road trip here to Tucson to watch her. She had everything you wanted, everything you never had yourself—money, popularity, a nice house, a loving family. And you decided to take it. You came out here without luggage, without ID, because you knew you wouldn’t need it, because you planned to take over her life.” Emma shook her head violently, but he stabbed at the crime scene photos between them with his index finger. “You pushed your sister down that ravine. And then it was easy. All you had to do was step into her shoes. You waited one night, then headed to Nisha Banerjee’s party, calling yourself Sutton. Luckily for you, your twin was a notorious practical joker, so if anyone suspected anything off, they could chalk it up to some kind of prank. You even came in here pretending to be yourself, so that you could have some semblance of an alibi if you got caught. A smart move, trying to make the truth look like a lie. But not smart enough.”

“You’re wrong,” Emma said, slamming her hands on the table. She almost surprised herself with the force of her anger. As Emma Paxton she’d never talked back to an authority figure. She’d always been the get-along girl, the foster kid who didn’t make trouble, a chameleon who could turn into whatever kind of person the adults in her life needed her to be. Now, though, she was possessed of a righteous fury all her own. “While you’re busy harassing me, the real murderer is getting away with it. Don’t you see? Someone’s setting me up.”

Quinlan gave her a long, measured look. Then he squared his jaw.

“I’m not going to lie. Sutton Mercer was a pain in my ass.” His gravelly voice was almost deadly calm. Suddenly the room was so quiet she could hear the second hand on Quinlan’s watch ticking. “But she was just a kid. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. I can’t prove you killed her. Not yet, anyway. But I’m going to make it my mission to dog your steps until you slip up. Because you will, Emma. Criminals always do.”

“So can I go?” Emma asked, her voice shaking but clear.

Quinlan nodded. “Sure. We need both your BlackBerry and Sutton’s iPhone, though. And we’re impounding Sutton’s car for clues. Someone at the front desk can give you a ride wherever you’re heading tonight. I hope it goes without saying that you shouldn’t think about skipping town.”

Emma gave a jerky nod. “What about Alex? Are you going to charge her with anything?”

“We haven’t decided yet.” He shrugged. “That’ll depend on how well you cooperate with us. Tonight she’s probably going home to her mom. We’re not planning to charge her yet. But we’re keeping an eye on her.”

Another surge of guilt swept through Emma at the thought of Alex’s mom worrying, her face tight and anxious. She stood up and picked up her purse. From behind her, Quinlan’s voice came again, this time with a taunting edge.

“I believe this is the part of your prank where everyone jumps out and says ‘Gotcha,’ Miss Paxton.”

She turned to stare at him, and saw that he was smiling again. “The cat’s out of the bag. Everyone in town is about to find out about the lies you’ve been telling—and that includes the Mercers. This game you’ve been playing, it’s over.” He opened the door to the interrogation room and bowed her out into the hall.

I would have been almost touched by Quinlan’s determination to bring my killer to justice, if he hadn’t been acting like such a total moron. It was bad enough that I was dead. Now the cops were going to go after the wrong person on top of that.

20

THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

Emma didn’t know how she’d made it to the front desk a few minutes later. All the fury had leached out of her, and her limbs felt like they were made of stone, so heavy and stiff she couldn’t believe she was able to move them at all. She stood in a fog while a receptionist with purple acrylic nails paged an officer to take her home. Finally, a tall cop with buzz-cut auburn hair seemed to appear out of nowhere. His name badge said
CORCORAN
. “Emma Paxton?”

She nodded silently. He gestured for her to follow him, and together they walked through the double glass doors. The sun had set. Beyond the parking lot, rush-hour traffic crawled past, brake lights glinting red in the gloom.

Corcoran didn’t talk much as he drove Emma to the Mercers’. As they glided past shops and salons decorated in green and red for the holidays, she stared out the window, half listening to the crackle of chatter from the cop’s radio. “. . . report of vandalism at the Snack ’n’ Shack on Valencia,” a muffled female voice was saying. “Unit fifty-three, please report.”

“So did you do it?”

She turned to look at the officer, giving him an are-you-serious grimace. Did he think she was going to offhandedly confess to a beat cop—if she
had
done it—after Quinlan had already interrogated her? But he was staring straight ahead at the road with an earnest frown, like some part of the situation just didn’t add up.

“I was a foster kid, too,” he said matter-of-factly. “Here in Tucson.”

She nodded mutely, unsure what he was getting at.

“I don’t know why it is, but people don’t trust you if you don’t have family. Even if it isn’t your fault.” He shrugged. “You become a scapegoat for everything that happens, just because you don’t fit into the natural order.”

Emma swallowed hard. She looked back out the window, not trusting herself to speak. Were they trying to good-cop her now, trying to get her to confess just because some cute guy, close to her own age, was acting like he understood what she was going through? But Corcoran had fallen silent, like he’d said his piece and that was all he had to say.

When they turned the corner onto the Mercers’ street, Emma’s jaw dropped. The place was swarming with reporters. The whole street was lit up like a ballpark, a dozen vans lining either side of the road. Reporters checked their makeup in the side mirrors on cars and ran through their lines, beard-stubbled men with giant cameras hoisted on their shoulders trailing in their wake. It looked like the Mercers’ neighbor, Mr. Paulson, was being interviewed in his driveway by a man with his hair plastered in a Ken-doll coif. Other reporters seemed to be mid-broadcast, using the Mercers’ house as a backdrop.

I’d always dreamed of being famous, of having paparazzi follow me home and beg me for interviews. But this definitely wasn’t what I had in mind.

“Stay where you are,” Corcoran said to Emma, putting the car in park in the middle of the street. He opened his car door. The moment he did, the cacophony of dozens of voices filled the squad car.

“Are you Emma Paxton, or Sutton Mercer?”

“Emma, why’d you do it?”

“Did anyone help you kill your sister?”

Corcoran didn’t even look at them. He walked around to the passenger-side door and opened it, standing protectively in front of Emma to keep the shouting reporters at a slight distance.

She met the officer’s eyes. They were calm, clear blue, and while she couldn’t tell if he believed her story or not, she could see a stubborn conviction there. This guy wanted her to be treated fairly, she realized. Whether or not she was innocent, whether or not she had lied, he wanted her to have a fair shake.

“Ready?” he asked. She nodded, suddenly feeling a little stronger. He might not be her ally—but for the moment, he was close enough.

He helped her to her feet, then guided her quickly through the crowd.

“Emma! Did you really think you’d get away with it?”

“Do you think your mom’s mental illness is genetic?”

“Did Sutton put up a fight?”

Corcoran stood at the edge of the yard, his arms crossed over his chest. “Go on, then,” he said. “I’ll stay here ’til you get inside.”

She nodded, staring longingly at the Mercers’ front door. All she wanted was to be inside, to sit down with her family and tell them everything, as they’d already done with her. As she walked up the driveway, she could hear the manic clicking of the photographers’ cameras all around her. A man in a dark red blazer tried to launch himself past Corcoran, microphone stretched out toward her—but the officer grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and jerked him back.

Emma reached the porch and stood in front of the oak door with its lion-shaped knocker. She pulled out her keys, then fumbled and dropped them with a resounding clatter on the porch. Cheeks burning, she bent to pick them up.

But when she went to unlock the door, the key wouldn’t fit.

Her heart tightened in the half second before she consciously understood. The locks had been changed. She wasn’t welcome.

I stared down at the keys in my sister’s hand. My house key had purple nail polish painted across the top, so I could always differentiate it from the others. How many times had I used it without ever realizing how lucky I was to have a home to go to? How many times had I let myself in, never realizing what a privilege it was?

Her hand trembling, Emma rang the doorbell. Inside she could hear Drake barking, deep and hoarse. The blinds were all drawn tight, but it looked like every light in the house was blazing—blades of yellow cut through the slats.

Something rustled behind the door. She waited. Behind her, the reporters were yelling questions, drowning each other out so they generated a loud, indeterminate roar. Corcoran stood at the curb with his arms crossed over his chest, staring stoically out at the crowd.

Suddenly a voice came from behind the door. “You can’t stay here.” Mrs. Mercer’s voice was nasal and stuffy. It was obvious she’d been crying.

“Please, Mrs. Mercer, I just want to explain.” She didn’t want to plead her case here on the doorstep, with the press watching and taking pictures. She leaned toward the door, hoping to hide her face from their cameras. “Please just give me a chance to explain.”

The door jerked open without warning.

My heart wrenched at the sight of my mother standing in the light-filled entryway, her face blotchy with tears. A frenzied, wild expression contorted her features, grief and rage twisting together. She still wore her work clothes, gray tweed slacks and a pink shell top, but she was barefoot and disheveled. She stared at Emma like she barely recognized her.

“I want you gone,” she said shrilly, her eyes blazing.

“Mrs. Mercer, please . . .”

“You’re just like your mother,” hissed the older woman. Emma took an involuntary step back. “You’re both liars. You’re both insane. You don’t care who you hurt, as long as you get your way.”

“I’m not like Becky!” Emma gasped. A sense of desperation clawed at her chest. She had to make her grandmother understand. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m so sorry, but I had no choice!”

Mrs. Mercer gave a strangled sob, tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. “You had a choice, and you made it.”

A dark shape moved at the back of the hallway, like someone was around the corner listening. Emma craned her neck to see who it was. “Where’s Da— Where’s Mr. Mercer? Can I talk to him?”

Her grandmother shook her head violently. “No, you can’t. He doesn’t want to speak with
you
. Not after what you’ve done to us.”

“But if you’ll listen for just . . .”

Mrs. Mercer’s breath was fast and shuddering. She moved quickly, lunging toward Emma. Emma flinched, almost anticipating a blow. But instead of striking her, Mrs. Mercer wrestled the Kate Spade hobo bag off Emma’s shoulder.

“This is my daughter’s purse,” she sobbed, tears flooding down her cheeks. Then she grabbed Emma’s jacket in her fists, pulling it out of her arms. “And her coat. Not yours.”

Emma stood motionless, her lip trembling. She didn’t struggle. She didn’t have the heart to. Mrs. Mercer was right. None of this belonged to her. Not the clothes, not the house—and not the family. She had nothing of her own.

“Now get the hell off my property,” Mrs. Mercer spat.

I’d never heard my mother curse before, not even when she was at her most frustrated. The sound of it now filled me with fear. She was acting like a different person. It was like the old Mom, the one I’d loved so much, who had taken me for ice cream the day I got my first period and who’d watched old romantic comedies with me on rainy, lazy Sundays, was gone. All that was left was this bitter, angry shell of a woman. Suddenly I realized that this was what my death would mean to my family—that this wasn’t some adolescent fantasy where I’d get to hear everyone say nice things about me at my funeral and then ride a cloud to heaven. My mother had just realized that she’d lost me, and it was destroying her. This was my murderer’s—Garrett’s—legacy.

Mrs. Mercer started to close the door in Emma’s face, but before she shut it all the way she paused. “Tell me one thing.” Her voice was lower now, very soft.

“Anything,” Emma whispered.

Her grandmother’s eyes flitted over Emma’s face, searching for something. Emma wasn’t sure what.

“Did you do it? What they say you did?”

Emma took a deep, shuddering breath. “No.”

Mrs. Mercer stared at her silently, her blue eyes, so much like Emma’s own, suddenly soft. Emma wanted to say more, but she couldn’t figure out where to start. She wanted to tell Mrs. Mercer how badly she had wanted to meet Sutton. How sorry she was, how scared she’d been, how desperately she’d wanted to tell the truth all this time. More than anything, she wanted to tell her how the last few months had felt like someone else’s dream—that she had never had family like this, and that it’d meant more to her than anything. But before she could speak, Mrs. Mercer’s expression hardened once more, and she gave a strangled cry.

“I just don’t know how I can believe you.” She gave Emma a long, searching look, her eyes wounded. Then she slammed the door. The lock clicked shut.

Slowly, Emma turned to face the street. Corcoran resolutely watched the reporters. They were in a frenzy, microphones bristling from the crowd, her name the only word she could make out in their screams. Step by step, she walked back down the slate path. She felt like she was moving through deep water, her body slow and heavy.

A microphone appeared under Emma’s chin. She looked up to see the local reporter who had been covering both Nisha’s and Sutton’s deaths, now in a cobalt blue suit. Her hair was even bigger in person than it looked on TV. “Tricia Melendez from Channel Five. Can you tell me whether the rumors are true? Are you the girl who was presumed dead?”

Corcoran forced a way through the crowd, looking menacingly at the reporters on either side of him. They parted when they saw his uniform. He put a hand on Emma’s back and pushed her gently toward the car.

Once they were safely inside, he looked at her. “Where can I take you?”

She hesitated. Ethan’s face bloomed in her mind, but involving him was the last thing she wanted. She’d already gotten Alex in trouble. She didn’t want anyone else to suffer because of her.

But she didn’t have anywhere else to go. She gave Corcoran Ethan’s address.

I looked out the rear window. My home receded into the distance, smaller and smaller until finally we turned a corner . . . and it was gone. A sick, empty feeling opened inside of me. My mother didn’t know that in banishing Emma, she was banishing me, too. It had been hard enough, not being able to touch my family or talk to them. Now I couldn’t even watch them.

It was like I was losing them all over again.