Cross My Heart, Hope To Die

Then Emma realized something: Becky had called her Sutton. Not Emma. Either she was a very good actress, or she truly didn’t know Sutton was gone.

Relief and suspicion mingled inside of her. Maybe Becky was innocent, or maybe Emma was just lying to herself again, wanting to believe in her mother despite the evidence to the contrary. She bit her lip.

“Where are you going this time?” she asked.

Becky shrugged. “I don’t know. I just need to get out of Tucson. This place has a lot of bad memories for me. There are too many people here that I can hurt. That I do hurt,” she said, swallowing hard.

Emma tensed again. “People you hurt?”

Becky looked up at her, her long lashes still damp with tears. She took a deep breath.

“I know you probably won’t believe me, but I don’t remember much from the hospital. They had me pumped full of so many drugs I didn’t know what was going on. But I remember enough to know that I must have really scared you. I’m so sorry.” She rolled a pebble back and forth under the toe of her shoe. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t explain sooner, Sutton. I was too scared to tell you the truth, about my history, about my illness. That night we met here, it was so hard to leave you with all your questions. I almost came back to explain, but I was afraid.”

Emma turned away from Becky, pacing in a little circle, trying to clear her head. Leave you? Come back? It sounded like when Becky left, Sutton was still safe. But could she take Becky at her word? She was crazy.

But Becky looked so much more lucid now, her eyes focused, her breathing even and calm. All of the memories Emma had clung to over the years seemed to crowd in around her. Becky singing off-key along with the radio, teaching her the words to all the Beatles songs. Becky taking her to the free shows along the Vegas strip, her face reflecting the light from the Bellagio fountain. Becky stroking her hair out of her face, carrying her into the apartment after an afternoon playing outside, and tucking her into bed, Emma pretending to be asleep so she could lay against her mother’s shoulder. And here she was, right now, telling Emma she had walked away from a still-living Sutton in the canyon the night they’d met.

“Becky didn’t kill me,” I whispered urgently. “Believe her, Emma.”

And suddenly, as though she had heard me, Emma did.

But just to be certain, she asked Becky another question. “Where did you go, after that night?”

Becky sighed. “Vegas, actually. I had a feeling your sister might be there. I even got a job at the diner in the Hard Rock, so that I could stay longer and look for her. But I never found her.” She stopped, suddenly looking hopeful. “Have you made any headway in tracking her down?”

Vegas, Emma thought. If things had been different, Becky might have come for her and reunited the twins herself. Then she realized what Becky’s words meant: Becky had told Sutton about Emma. The knowledge brought a fresh crush of sadness over her. In her last few hours of life, Sutton had known she had a sister.

“Yes and no,” Emma said softly.

Becky’s hand squeezed hers in the darkness. “I loved her so much. Giving both of you up was the biggest mistake of my life. Find her, Sutton. Her life hasn’t been as easy as yours. Give her the chances you’ve gotten.”

Emma took a deep breath. “You have another daughter, too, don’t you?”

Becky’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping open for a moment. She blinked several times, then nodded. “Yes,” she said softly. “How’d you …”

“Where is she?” Emma pressed.

“California. With her father. I was declared unfit to care for her five years ago. I haven’t seen her since.”

“How old is she now?”

“Twelve,” Becky said. “I was pregnant with her when I gave up your sister.” She shook her head sadly. “I know it doesn’t make any sense. All I can tell you is I wasn’t in my right mind. I was off my meds, and it seemed like a good decision at the time.” She was quiet for a moment. “I haven’t stopped feeling guilty about it ever since.”

Emma’s heart twisted in her chest. She knew she’d been abandoned for another child, but it was even harder hearing Becky say it aloud.

Then she imagined Becky’s life: traveling from town to town, unable to go home, to see the people she loved. Yes, she’d been destructive. She was alone because she’d hurt the people in her life too much. But Becky hadn’t chosen to be mentally ill. And in her own twisted way, she’d tried to do what was right.

Emma stepped toward Becky. She looked her mother up and down again. She’d call the Hard Rock Hotel later and confirm that Becky had been working there after Sutton died—if she was in Vegas, she couldn’t exactly be leaving Emma threatening notes and rigging light fixtures to crash on her head. But she already knew what they would say. Becky was telling the truth.

Under the smell of tobacco, she caught a whiff of the same cheap herbal shampoo Becky had always used when Emma was a child, chamomile and mint. She remembered that fragrance washing over her when her mom leaned down to kiss her good night. Her lip quivered, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Mom,” she said hesitantly. “Did you see anyone else in the canyon that night? Someone stole my Volvo and hit my—and hit Thayer with it. I need to know who has it out for me.”

Becky frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Dad and I got out there early in the evening and it was pretty crowded, but by the time you and I talked it was empty.”

Emma stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Becky in a tight hug. For a moment Becky seemed frozen in shock. Then she put her arms around Emma, too. Emma held her mother for the first time in thirteen years. So the investigation was at a dead end again. No new leads, no new suspects. But at least her mother had been crossed off the list. And she’d finally gotten some answers about her family, about her own history.

Minutes ticked by as they stood there, embracing. Emma’s tears came hot and silent and soaked into Becky’s T-shirt. Over the years she’d kept a list of Things She’d Say to Mom if her mother appeared again. But now that Becky was here, she didn’t want to say any of them. Hateful, angry words wouldn’t solve anything right now.

I moved nearer to my mother and my sister, hovering close to pretend that I was part of their hug, too. I knew neither one of them felt it, but for a moment I was there with them, mother and twins reunited after eighteen years.

Then all three of us let go.

Becky scratched at her earlobe awkwardly. “I should leave, Sutton. I need to get out of here.”

For a second Emma thought about asking her to stay. They could go to the Mercers’ house together. They could talk to Mrs. Mercer and make her understand. Emma could help Becky get better—she could look after her, just like she had when she was a little girl. She’d make sure she took her meds every day, and they could move in together. They could be a family.

But even as she pictured it, she knew it could never happen.

Emma nodded, her throat dry. “Take care of yourself, Mom. For me.”

Becky just smiled and turned away. And then she was gone, slipping into the shadows, her footsteps crunching on the ground and fading out of earshot.

My mother—strange, sad, damaged beyond repair—but not my murderer.

33

THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY

Emma woke up the next morning with her stomach growling. Early-morning light poured through the half-closed drapes. The clock read 5:57. She buried her head under the pillow, smelling the lingering wood smoke on her hair and skin from the bonfire the night before. She didn’t have school for another two hours. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will herself back to sleep.

But her stomach growled traitorously, and Emma realized she’d been picking at her food for over a week, ever since that first night she and Mr. Mercer went to the hospital. She rolled out of bed and went to the closet, pulled on a sweater dress, and raked a brush through her hair.

The house was dark and quiet as she crept down the stairs to the kitchen. Outside, the sky was the dusky violet of just before sunrise. In spite of the early hour, in spite of the fact that she was back at square one yet again, Emma felt almost buoyant. Becky hadn’t killed Sutton. And for the first time since she was a little girl, Emma had gotten to sit next to Becky, to talk to her. She was starting to understand her own family history. It wasn’t simple, and it wasn’t pretty. But it was hers.

Mr. Mercer was already sitting in the breakfast nook, dressed in chinos, a button-down shirt, and a blue silk Burberry necktie Laurel and Emma had given him for his birthday a month earlier. The New York Times was spread across the table in front of him. He was always an early riser, from all the years of keeping odd hospital hours. When Emma came into the room he pushed his reading glasses up on his forehead and blinked at her. “You’re up early.”

“I’m starving,” she admitted.

He folded his newspaper and set it aside. “Well, what kind of father would let his little girl go hungry? Let’s go out for some breakfast.”

Once inside, Emma rolled down the window of Mr. Mercer’s SUV. She let her hand catch the air as they drove, and nodded her head absently to the music he had on the radio. The sun poked its head above the mountains, casting orange light over everything. She didn’t know the last time she’d seen a sunrise. She’d forgotten how beautiful they could be.

Mr. Mercer looked at her out of the corner of his eye, a smile playing around his lips. “I haven’t seen you this happy in a while,” he said.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “It’s been a confusing … month, I guess. Year.”

They pulled into the parking lot of an adobe bistro. Inside there were fresh pink flowers on every table and the smell of bacon and hash browns in the air. The restaurant was already bustling with the early-bird crowd. A half dozen senior citizens in tracksuits laughed loudly from a booth at the back. At a table by herself, a bleary-eyed college girl wearing a sweatshirt and glasses nursed a steaming cup of coffee while typing furiously at a laptop, probably trying to finish a paper at the very last minute. Emma’s mouth watered as she watched plates laden with pancakes, eggs, French toast, and home fries swirl around the room in the waitstaff’s hands. She and Mr. Mercer took a seat next to the window, where the early-morning sun filtered in around the clean white curtains.

Mr. Mercer looked at her over the top of the menu, then sighed and set it down. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

“Sutton,” he said carefully, “Becky came to see me yesterday.”

Emma nodded slowly. She folded and refolded the napkin across her lap. “I saw her, too.”

He nodded. “I thought you might have. She wanted to know where you were. I told her I didn’t know, that I could call you and set up a meeting—but Becky doesn’t like things to get too set in stone. She doesn’t do well when people expect anything of her.”

“Maybe it’s because she’s let people down so much she’s afraid she’ll fail,” said Emma.