Seven Minutes in Heaven (The Lying Game #6)

Emma felt an unwilling lurch of sympathy for the woman. No wonder Mrs. Landry had been so uncomfortable with Emma. She’d known all along who Emma was, what her son was capable of—and she either didn’t want to believe it or was too scared to intervene.

The camera cut back to the reporter. “The Tucson District Attorney’s office plans to charge Landry with two counts of murder and one count of attempted murder, along with fraud, conspiracy, blackmail, kidnapping, and assault,” she said. “The request for bail has been denied. This is Tricia Melendez, signing off.”

Emma walked to Sutton’s desk and snapped the laptop shut. The day before, she’d met with the Tucson District Attorney, a stout, brisk woman in a red power suit. She’d agreed to testify in court and to provide any evidence she could in the case. They’d offered her immunity from prosecution—the D.A. told her they could have charged her with fraud and identity theft if they wanted to—but that wasn’t why she’d agreed to testify. She’d sworn to bring her sister’s killer to justice, and she planned to follow through to the end. The idea of being in a room with Ethan again, even separated by the witness box and a dozen burly bailiffs, made the hollow place inside her feel even more raw. But the trial was months away. She had time to steel herself, to try to heal, before then.

According to the D.A., Ethan’s laptop showed hacks into Sutton’s and Emma’s personal information—their phones, their computers, their medical files. There were also copies of all the photos he’d taken of Emma on his Las Vegas trip, and dozens upon dozens of Sutton. He’d encrypted everything, but the forensics lab had some guy who was more or less a savant, and he’d managed to retrieve it all.

She lay back in the nest of pillows, suddenly exhausted again. It had been so easy for Ethan to fool her, to make her love him. He’d been her perfect boyfriend, funny and sensitive and thoughtful. Had the entire thing been an act to keep her in Tucson? Was there any small part of it that had been real? And did she even want it to be? She wasn’t sure what was worse: getting played by a monster—or being in love with a killer.

A soft tap came at her door. Emma gave a little start and glanced at the bean-shaped clock over Sutton’s window. It was just after one—soon they would have to leave. “Come in.”

Mrs. Mercer opened the door a crack and peeked in. Her smile was almost shy, but her blue eyes were warm. “How are you doing?”

“I’m almost ready,” Emma said. They stood in awkward silence for a moment, Mrs. Mercer’s face framed by the barely opened door.

“Can I come in?” she finally asked. Emma blinked. She hadn’t realized her grandmother was waiting for an invitation.

“Of course! Sorry, I . . . of course. Come in.”

Mrs. Mercer opened the door and entered the room, sitting carefully on the bed. She was wearing a neat black suit, and her bobbed hair had been combed sleekly back. If not for the creases at the corners of her eyes, she could have been Becky’s older sister. She crossed her ankles and looked around the room, the ghost of a smile playing around her lips.

“It feels so strange in here. It’s like she’s just around the corner—in the bathroom, or in her closet. And then you’re here, looking just like her.”

Emma wasn’t sure what to say. In the past few days, she and the Mercers had been tentative and polite with one another, like they were approaching each other slowly from a great distance. Emma knew that they needed space to grieve for Sutton, and she’d tried not to intrude. But at the same time they seemed to want to get to know her. Yesterday Mrs. Mercer had asked what her favorite meal was, and that evening at dinner a chicken pot pie had sat steaming in the middle of the table, along with a leafy side salad and a carafe of sweet tea. Mr. Mercer had invited her to go on a walk with him and Drake, and as they’d walked he’d asked questions about her life before Tucson. They all seemed to be gently avoiding the topic of Sutton or Ethan—Emma assumed their grief and anger were still too fresh—but their overtures were sincere, and it was a start.

The one holdout was Grandma Mercer, who’d flown in the night before for the funeral. When she’d come in, she’d stared at Emma for a long time, her eyes red and glassy, before heading up the stairs to the guest room with cold dignity. “She was fond of Sutton,” Mr. Mercer whispered to Emma. “This is all a shock to her. But she’ll come around.” So far, though, Grandma Mercer hadn’t shown any signs of “coming around.” She referred to Emma only as “that girl” and had made a point of sitting as far from her as possible at dinner. Emma tried not to take it to heart, but it was hard.

“I know this is difficult for you, too,” Mrs. Mercer said now, meeting Emma’s eyes. “You have no idea how much I wish we’d known about you before all this happened. We would have come for you a long time ago.” She smiled sadly. “But there’s no sense in wishing for what can’t be changed.”

“I wish I could have met her,” Emma blurted out. She hugged herself, clutching at the gray wool cardigan she’d put on for the funeral. When she looked up, Mrs. Mercer was wiping away a single tear.

“I know.” She patted the bed next to her, and Emma sat down. Her grandmother took her hand and squeezed it. “And I hope you know this was no one’s fault but Ethan’s.”

Emma didn’t answer. Her own lies had almost allowed him to get away with murder. If only she’d tried harder that first day, insisted to the police that they check her records. If only she hadn’t been so afraid.

Mrs. Mercer shook her head, seeming to read her thoughts. “We don’t blame you, Emma. How many of us have made mistakes in our lives? If Ted and I had been able to support Becky better, maybe she wouldn’t have kept you a secret. If Becky hadn’t made such a mess of her own life, maybe she could have cared for you both, or she could have had the sense to give you both to us. If you hadn’t been a secret from everyone, Ethan never could have used you the way that he did. Of course it hurts that you felt like you had to lie to us. But you were carrying a terrible, painful burden, all by yourself. I don’t know that any of us would have done differently than you did.” Mrs. Mercer’s lip trembled for a moment. “We’ve all made mistakes. But it was Ethan who chose to take my daughter’s life. No one else.”

Emma swallowed hard. She wanted to believe Mrs. Mercer. She wanted to forgive herself. Maybe, with time, she’d be able to.

I laid my hand over Emma’s. “I forgive you,” I whispered, wishing I could absolve her of her guilt.

Mrs. Mercer cleared her throat again. “Ted and I have been discussing things, and we’d like you to stay here—if that’s what you want, of course.” Her lashes fluttered. “You can finish up high school at Hollier. We’ll meet with Principal Ambrose so you can adjust your schedule to be your own. And we’ll help you look at colleges. Your grades from Las Vegas are very impressive.”

Emma turned pink. She suddenly realized that this was the first compliment Mrs. Mercer had given her as herself, as Emma. Somewhere in the hollow ache of her chest, a tiny ember glowed to life.

Mrs. Mercer went on. “Sutton had a college fund. I think she’d understand if we used it for you.”

Of course I understood. After all that had happened, after everything Emma had done for me, she deserved this.

Emma glanced up to meet her grandmother’s eyes, so like her own. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I just—I never knew, before coming here, what it was like. To have a family.”

Mrs. Mercer hugged her tightly. Emma could smell her Elizabeth Arden perfume and a faint whiff of Earl Grey tea.

After they pulled apart, they sat for a moment in silence. Emma glanced around the familiar bedroom. Half-melted candles sat in glass jars on the white wood desk, wine bottles full of dried flowers lining the windowsill. Sutton’s pillows crowded every surface, thick and plush. On the dresser, trinkets and mementos were arranged carefully around the large-screen LCD TV—luminous shells, a tiny box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a white ceramic owl. The room smelled of mint and lily of the valley, just as it had on the first night Emma had arrived. She hadn’t changed much of it since she’d returned to the Mercers’ home as herself. A small pile of books stood on the nightstand, and a vintage Hermès scarf she’d bought at Goodwill lay where she’d draped it over the back of a chair. She’d left all of Sutton’s old photographs pinned to the corkboard behind the desk—but she’d added a few of her own, too. One of Alex standing in front of the Bellagio fountain, the colored lights playing across her face. And one of Emma and Laurel, arms around each other’s shoulders.

So much had happened to her here—in this house, in this room. So much of it had been painful, but that didn’t erase the good. She’d finally found her family. She’d finally found where she belonged.

Mrs. Mercer followed her gaze. “This is your room now,” she said softly, running her hands over Sutton’s pink comforter. “We could redecorate it, however you want it.”

Emma shook her head. “I want to keep it this way, just a little longer. It makes me feel close to her.”

Mrs. Mercer smiled. “Me, too.” She went to the door and put a hand on the frame. “We’ll leave in about a half hour. Come on down when you’re ready.” With that, she was gone.

Emma sat in the silent room for a moment. Next door she could hear Laurel’s music through the wall, the bass line thumping. Downstairs, Grandma Mercer and Mr. Mercer bickered about the tie he’d chosen to wear.

These were the sounds of a normal family—one that she actually belonged to. And that would hopefully grow by one more, eventually. She thought of the secret she’d told the Mercers as soon as they’d gotten home from the police station: that Becky had another child, somewhere in California. She’d be twelve now. Emma didn’t even know what her name was, but the Mercers had vowed to track her down, too. Hopefully she was happy, wherever she was, but if she wasn’t—well, the Mercers had a big house.

But that could wait. Today, finally, Emma could say good-bye to one sister. She’d worry about her other one tomorrow.

34

THE QUEEN IS DEAD (LONG LIVE THE QUEEN)

Sutton’s funeral was held in a beautiful Spanish Revival church in the Catalina Foothills. Cream-colored adobe walls arched up from thick red carpets, and bunches of flowers had been arranged on every surface. Every pew was packed—the entire school was there, along with what seemed like half of Tucson. Emma’s eyes scanned the crowd. Sutton’s teachers sat mingled with the students. Principal Ambrose perched awkwardly at the front, a black pillbox hat on her stiff hair. A half dozen police officers were there, too, shining in their dress blues. Quinlan sat next to a pretty Asian woman Emma was shocked to realize must be his wife. Corcoran sat behind them, his face as stoic as always.