Hide and Seek (15 page)

Emma stayed like that for the rest of the night, with the covers pulled up to her chin. Every clang of a pipe or swish of air inside a vent made her heart race. When she’d heard Mr. Mercer’s alarm sound at 6
A.M.
, followed by the creak of the stairs as he walked down in his running shoes, she’d leapt to the window to watch him jog down the street casually and easily. Like he wasn’t a murderer. Like he hadn’t tried to come into Emma’s room last night to possibly kill her, too.

By ten, Emma desperately had to use the bathroom. Reluctantly she climbed from bed and stumbled down the hall, locking the door behind her. She got in the shower,
letting the sound of rushing water drown out her sobs. When she finally collected herself, she turned off the tap and used her palm to clear the steam from the mirror. She stared at her reflection and for a second pretended it was Sutton’s periwinkle eyes staring back. “I need you, Sutton,” she whispered. She knew it was crazy to talk to her dead twin, but she
felt
a little crazy right now. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to solve your murder. Tell me how to incriminate him.”

I stared back, wishing I could download my memory onto a DVD and play it for Officer Quinlan. But I couldn’t. All I could do was watch and hope my sister didn’t end up like me.

After Emma dressed, she opened the bedroom door to find Laurel standing with her hand poised to knock. “
There
you are,” she said. “Ready for breakfast, or are you still too sick?”

Emma stared blearily at Sutton’s sister. Out of habit, her muscles tensed, and she tightened her jaw, but then she realized—Laurel wasn’t a suspect anymore, for
real.
All of a sudden, she wanted to throw her arms around Laurel simply for not killing Sutton.

But then she registered Laurel’s question. Breakfast meant facing Mr. Mercer. “Um, I’m still feeling pretty bad,” she mumbled.

“Oh, come on.” Laurel linked her arm around Emma’s
elbow. “Dad’s famous pancakes will fix you right up.”

Before Emma could protest, Laurel dragged her down the stairs and into the kitchen. When Emma saw Mr. Mercer’s tall, straight back at the stove, pouring pancake batter into a frying pan, she froze.
Murderous Father Plays the Part of Doting Family Man,
she thought, picturing a grainy, black-and-white photograph of Mr. Mercer holding a spatula and grinning maniacally into the camera.

I watched my father, too, wishing I could grab him from behind and shake him hard. “How
could
you?!” I screamed at his back. “I trusted you! I
loved
you!” But as usual, my voice instantly evaporated, like I’d yelled into an airless tunnel.

Mr. Mercer turned and stared at Emma. His lips spasmed slightly, as though the effort of holding back his anger in front of Laurel was too much for him. “Oh. Sutton. You’re awake.” He awkwardly scratched a spot by his nose. “Feeling better?”

Emma cast her eyes down, feeling her cheeks burn. “Uh-huh,” she mumbled.

Laurel slumped into her regular breakfast seat. “You missed the best part of Dad’s party, Sutton—the cake. It was ah-
may
-zing. Then again, you seem to be ditching all kinds of parties these days, including your own.” She rolled her eyes.

“It was a nasty case of food poisoning,” Emma
mumbled, clutching her stomach for effect. “In fact, I should probably go upstairs and lie down some more. I’m still feeling dizzy.”

“Nonsense. A little food in your stomach will do you good,” a sharp voice said to Emma’s left. She looked over and saw Grandma at the table, a mug of coffee before her. Her eyes were cold, and she looked Emma up and down with pursed lips. “Funny, you don’t
look
sick.” Her gaze shifted to Mr. Mercer. “Does she?”

Mr. Mercer flinched, dropping the ladle into the batter bowl. Emma’s heart was pounding so hard she was sure everyone could hear it.

“What do you think poisoned you?” Laurel asked, looking a little worried. “I hope I don’t get sick, too.”

Emma shifted her weight, suddenly not remembering a single morsel of food that had been served at the party. “Uh, a hot dog, maybe,” she blurted, thinking of the time she’d gotten food poisoning from a hot dog she’d bought at a Vegas street stand.

Grandma gave Emma a pointed look. “Hmm. I thought the food was delicious. Are you sure it wasn’t something else that…
upset
your stomach?”

“She said it was the food, Mom,” Mr. Mercer snapped. “Just drop it.”

Grandma’s wrinkled lips flattened into a frown, but she stayed quiet.

Laurel swiveled back and forth, staring at all of them. “Uh, does someone want to let me in on the joke?”

No one answered. Emma shrank against the wall, wishing Grandma would keep her mouth shut. She was playing with fire—and she didn’t even know the half of it.

Just then, Mrs. Mercer swept into the room, all sunshine and happiness. “Everyone’s up!” she trilled. “And we’re all having pancakes! How lovely!” She glided over to Mr. Mercer at the stove. “And how’s the birthday boy? Did you enjoy your party last night?”

Mr. Mercer swallowed hard and mumbled a less-than-enthusiastic yes.

Mrs. Mercer poked his side. “You’d better be happier about it than that! I thought it was a resounding success! Didn’t you, Gloria?”

She looked at Grandma. Grandma Mercer’s gaze was still on Emma. “I think it had its good moments and its bad moments,” she said in a pinched voice.

Mrs. Mercer paused and stared from Grandma to her husband to Emma. “Did I miss something?” she asked tentatively.

“That’s what
I
want to know,” Laurel said. “They’re all acting really weird.”

“We’re acting fine,” Mr. Mercer said quickly, flopping several pancakes on the plate so forcefully that one nearly
flipped onto the floor. He carried the plate over and set it on the table. “Voilà. Enjoy.”

Mrs. Mercer reached for a pancake, the chipper expression returning to her face. “So, girls, I found out last night from Mr. Banerjee that the school dance was canceled because of some kind of vandalism,” Mrs. Mercer said. “What happened?”

Laurel grabbed the syrup, which was in a striped ceramic jug. “Oh, it was just a stupid thing. Some freshman girls did it, but because they won’t fess up the dance is off.” She poured the syrup onto her stack of pancakes. “I heard that it’s really canceled, though, because the teachers wanted to use the money they set aside for the dance to go to some off-site conference at a spa in Sedona.”

“Really?” Mrs. Mercer said, her brow crinkling. “Well, I’ll be sure to bring that up at the next PTA meeting.”

Laurel took a big bite of her pancake and washed it down with orange juice. “Sutton and I will be home late that night, though. The tennis team is having a get-together after practice.”

She was lying, of course. But the Mercer parents weren’t likely to go along with their daughters breaking into the school gym to throw a dance. “It’ll be fun to do some team bonding off the court,” Laurel chirped. “Don’t you agree, Sutton?”

Emma glanced up from her plate of pancakes. “Um, yeah,” she mumbled. “Really fun.”

“And the get-together was Nisha’s idea,” Laurel went on, meeting eyes with Emma.

Mrs. Mercer’s eyes lit up. She had Nisha on a pedestal like some teenage version of Mother Teresa. “That girl is always thinking about what’s best for the team,” she murmured.

Grandma Mercer stared at Emma. “Just like you, Sutton. Remember last year, when you made those team T-shirts? Your father told me about how clever your wording was. What was it again?”

Emma looked up and felt four pairs of eyes on her. Mrs. Mercer, Laurel, and Grandma just looked inquisitive, interested. But Mr. Mercer’s gaze was cold and threatening. She could practically hear his thoughts:
Keep playing along. Keep your mouth shut.

Emma jumped up abruptly, nearly upending the jug of syrup. She couldn’t stand another second of this. “Um, can I be excused?”

Mrs. Mercer looked surprised. “Are you still not feeling well?”

Emma shook her head, careful to avoid eye contact with everyone.

Mrs. Mercer let out a note of concern. “Oh, you poor thing!” she said, following Emma out of the room. “Is
there anything I can do for you? Get you some ginger ale? Bring you up some of your favorite DVDs?”

Emma stared at Mrs. Mercer. Her face was so kind, open and giving. All of a sudden, she felt a swell of sympathy for her.
Your husband is cheating on you
, she wanted to say.
And I think he killed your daughter
.

“Thanks,” she murmured, standing on her tiptoes and wrapping her arms around Sutton’s mom. When she pulled away, Mrs. Mercer looked surprised, but also touched.

Sadness settled in my chest. It was, I realized, exactly what I’d yearned for the last night I was alive, when I was lost in the canyon. All I’d wanted was the safety of my mom and dad.

Little had I known that my dad was the one I should fear the most.

Sunday evening, Emma pulled into the dusty parking lot of Sabino Canyon. As she cut the engine, she looked at Sutton’s Volvo with disgust. Normally, Sutton’s car calmed her—there was something so special about the shiny chrome, the buttery leather, even the effort she had to put into turning the steering wheel since automatic steering hadn’t been invented when this car was built. But now, all she could think of was Mr. Mercer behind the wheel, using this car to mow down Thayer. The police had fingerprinted the car when it was impounded last week. At the time, Emma had thought nothing of it when
Quinlan said the only prints in the car belonged to Sutton and her father. But she knew better now.

The lot was empty and dark, the only light from the half moon shining overhead. Emma locked the Volvo behind her and made her way across the gravel to the bench where she’d sat on her very first night in Tucson. The world had felt so full of promise then. She’d thought she’d meet the twin she never knew she had and maybe, just maybe, become part of Sutton’s family. How ironic that her new life had begun in the exact same place her sister’s life had ended—and that she’d only become part of Sutton’s family because Mr. Mercer killed his adoptive daughter.

All day, Sutton’s dad had continued to be sharp with Emma, and so had Grandma. The two of them had been snippy with each other, too, making everyone else in the family uncomfortable. By the time Grandma had left, she and Mr. Mercer were barely speaking. Grandma had given Emma a big hug before she got in her car, squeezing her tight. Then she’d leaned in and whispered, “Don’t go getting into any trouble.”

Emma hadn’t known what to make of Sutton’s grandmother’s warning. Did Grandma
know
what her son had done to Sutton? But that seemed inconceivable. Grandma might have been tough as nails and as prickly as a cactus, but she wasn’t a killer.

Emma kept picturing Mr. Mercer hitting Thayer with Sutton’s car, then abandoning it for the cops to find. Had he disposed of it before or after he’d killed Sutton? How exactly had he killed Sutton? And where had he stashed her body?

I was wondering all the same things. And I kept racking my brain for clues that my dad had been having an affair. Had I ever seen him skulking around, acting weird? I remember having a flicker of us not being so close anymore—could that be why? Maybe I’d sensed something was off before Thayer and I had come upon my dad and the woman at Sabino Canyon. Maybe I’d even confronted my dad, and then kept my distance. But frustratingly, I couldn’t put my finger on a specific memory.

Footsteps crunched toward the bench, but Emma didn’t flinch. She’d texted Ethan on her way over, asking if he’d meet her here. His and Nisha’s houses were just a few blocks away. He sat down next to her, slipped his hand into hers, and tipped his face skyward.

“How are you holding up?” he asked softly.

“Not great,” Emma admitted.

“You look exhausted.” Ethan shut his eyes. “I’m guessing you didn’t sleep at all?”

Emma shook her head. “How can I? He’s right down the hall. I think he tried to come into my room last night,” she said, fiddling with the cuff of her jacket.

Ethan’s jaw dropped. “But he didn’t?”

“No. Drake stopped him.”

For a while they were just silent. A brisk wind whipped through the canyon, brushing Emma’s hair off her shoulders. She glanced at the myriad of trails leading up into the mountain range. It was so beautiful in daylight, but now it looked like a hulking mass, ready to swallow whole anyone who dared hike it.

“I can’t believe it all happened here. I can’t believe that Mr. Mercer hit Thayer, then went after his daughter
right here
,” Emma whispered, looking around cautiously, like Mr. Mercer might leap out at them at any moment. But aside from a roadrunner darting across the lot, they were alone. “I need real proof. Only…how?”

Ethan swallowed, looking sick to his stomach. “There has to be some hard evidence somewhere,” he said. “Research he did on you before contacting you. Or maybe someone else knows about what he did—like this woman he’s having an affair with. Maybe he wrote an incriminating email. Or maybe he plans to see this woman again, and we could follow them.”

Emma nodded. “She was there that night in the canyon. What if she helped him cover it up? If I could figure out who this woman is, maybe I could get her to corroborate the story.” Then she frowned. “But how do I find out that stuff?”

Ethan thought for a moment. “Does your dad use Gmail?”

Emma shrugged. “I think so.”

“He might have a calendar on there.” Ethan asked for Sutton’s cell phone, logged into her email, and then looked at the shared calendars she had with the rest of the Mercer family. “Here,” he said, showing her the screen. “Your dad shares his work schedule with your mom and you. It looks like he’s out of the office Thursday afternoon for a conference.”

“So?” Emma asked, peering at the screen. “He really
could
be going to a conference. Not meeting with a woman.”

“Yeah, but either way, he’s
not
in his office—that’s a perfect opportunity for
you
to sneak in. You don’t think he’d keep that kind of information at home, do you?”

Emma paused. She’d never thought about that. “I guess someone having an affair would want to hide it, wouldn’t they?” she murmured. “Will you come with me?” The idea of breaking into Mr. Mercer’s office freaked her out.

Ethan gave the phone back to Emma, looking chagrined. “I can’t. I have to take my mom to another doctor’s appointment that afternoon.”

Emma bit her lip, not wanting to complain. “Okay. But can I call you after?”

Ethan squeezed her hand. “Of course.”

“I wish it was sooner. I don’t know how to make it until Thursday,” Emma said softly.

“You can do it, Emma. You’re so close.”

Emma closed her eyes. “After my mom left, I wished every night that she would come home and pick me up. She used to love treasure hunts,” Emma said, remembering the little notes Becky would leave under her pillow or in the egg tray in the fridge. “I thought if I could just figure out the clues, I’d find her again. We’d move into our very own house, get a golden retriever, and be a real family. We’d be happy. But I’ve lived with dozens of families now, and not one of them seems happy.”

A cloud shifted over the moon, momentarily plunging them into complete darkness. “My family certainly isn’t happy,” Ethan muttered. “But I don’t think it’s the way it has to be. At some point, you get to choose who you’re with.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Like we’re choosing to be together.”

Despite her stress and exhaustion, Emma couldn’t help but smile. “Well let’s choose to be together, here, for a little while longer. I’m not ready to go home yet.”

Ethan leaned back into the bench and put his arm around her shoulder, settling in. “We can stay here as long as you want.”

Hours later, Emma lay in bed, glancing every so often at Sutton’s bureau, which she’d once again pushed in front of the door. To stay calm, she’d started a
Cute Couple Stuff I Want to Do with Ethan
list, which included making each other iPod playlists of meaningful songs, and a
Most Romantic Things Ethan Has Ever Said to Me
list, which featured Ethan telling Emma that he would protect her from Sutton’s killer, no matter what.

“Come out and play,” a voice suddenly sang.

Emma sat up straight in bed, looking wildly around.

“Come out…” the voice sang again. But it wasn’t Mr. Mercer. And it wasn’t coming from the hall, either.

Emma went to Sutton’s window and drew back the curtain. And there in the front lawn, standing underneath the large oak tree, was a woman with stringy dark hair and a round face. Emma’s jaw dropped. It was her mother, Becky.

She was so much paler than Emma remembered, her skin a ghostly white against the night sky. Tattered rope bracelets crossed both of Becky’s wrists. Her worn jeans were rolled up at the bottom to expose her long, thin bare feet. Her faded red T-shirt hugged her slim shoulders and flared out at her stomach. The words on it were blurry, but the shirt suddenly felt achingly familiar—Emma knew she’d seen it before.

So had I. I couldn’t place it, but I knew the T-shirt
like it was one of my own—maybe I’d seen it in one of Emma’s dreams?

“Mom?” Emma called. She leaned forward and squinted, trying to get a better glimpse of her mother, but Becky kept her eyes cast down at the wet earth. Emma could barely make out her face in the darkness.

“Hold on, Mom. I’m coming!” Emma said, shimmying out Sutton’s window, grabbing onto a tree branch, and swinging to the ground. Rainwater soaked her feet and ankles, dampening her nightgown. As soon as Becky saw her, she took a step backward, like a scared animal.

“No, Mom,
wait
,” Emma called, pushing through the thick night air. “I want to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk. I want to play,” Becky said in a childish voice.

“Please?” Emma said, reaching out. “I need you to help me. I need you to make sense of all this.”

Becky lifted her gaze to meet Emma’s. Her eyes were an icy, ghostly blue. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “For everything I’ve done. For disappointing you.” She swiped a dark lock of hair away from her eyes, leaving a streak of mud like war paint across her forehead. “For leaving you.”

Emma reached her arms out. “Please hug me,” she begged.

But Becky just stepped back. “I’m watching you. I’ve been watching you this whole time, Sutton.”

Emma blinked. “I’m not Sutton.”

Becky tilted her chin as though she didn’t quite believe what Emma told her. “What do you mean?”

Emma tried to rest her hands on Becky’s arms, but they were too slippery—as though a slick, icy substance covered her skin. “I’m Emma,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”

Becky shook her head vehemently. “You’re in
Sutton’s
house,” she said, inching farther away from Emma. “You have to be Sutton!”

She suddenly looked furious. She stepped forward and grabbed for Emma’s wrists, missing them. “Tell me the truth! Tell me who you are!” She swiped again, this time slashing Emma’s skin with her long nails. But as soon as she touched Emma, Becky disintegrated into a heap of ash. Someone laughed in the distance. It sounded like Mr. Mercer’s throaty, baritone chuckle.

Emma woke with a start, cold sweat soaking Sutton’s pajamas. She was back in Sutton’s bed, nowhere near the windows. The glowing numbers on Sutton’s alarm clock read 2:03
A.M.
She wrapped the covers around her and tried to catch her breath. She rubbed her eyes again and again, but she still couldn’t completely rid her mind of the dream images that flitted behind them. Becky had seemed so close, like she’d been lurking around the Mercers’ house, just waiting for a glimpse of her daughter.

It was the same wish she always had—that Becky was
somehow keeping tabs on her and still cared about her life—especially during times of stress. But it was foolish. Becky didn’t care about her twins. She was reckless and self-absorbed and capricious. She had abandoned both of her girls without looking back.

Now one of her daughters was dead. And the other was living with her killer.