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.

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 soon, 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.