Seven Minutes in Heaven (24 page)

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“There’s been yet another twist in the sensational case of the Tucson Twin Murderer,” Tricia Melendez’s voice reported from Sutton’s laptop. “On Wednesday night, eighteen-year-old Ethan Landry was arrested for kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder. The victim? Emma Paxton, Sutton Mercer’s twin sister, and, until Wednesday, the chief suspect in Sutton’s murder.”

Emma lay curled on Sutton’s bed Saturday morning, staring dully at the screen. She’d propped the computer on Sutton’s nightstand, where she could see it from the nest of pillows. She’d been watching since she’d woken up, clicking through different blogs and news agencies to hear twenty different versions of the same event—the fact that Emma Paxton had been cleared of all charges, and that Ethan Landry had allegedly killed Nisha Banerjee and Sutton Mercer.

In just a few minutes she’d have to move. She’d have to get up, even though her body felt like it was made of lead, and go downstairs to join the Mercers. That afternoon, Sutton would finally be buried—and finally be at peace.

Would I? I’d been imagining my funeral for months, but now that it was here, I wasn’t so sure. Would this last good-bye from my friends and family finally lay me to rest? Or would I linger in Emma’s shadow for the rest of her life, voiceless and powerless and utterly alone?

“Police are now saying that Landry lured Paxton to Tucson under the pretense that she’d meet her long-lost twin.” Tricia Melendez couldn’t keep a note of glee out of her voice. She stood in front of the police station, wearing a tweed Armani jacket that was a step up from her usual polyester—it looked like she’d gotten a pay raise. “When she arrived, he sent her notes and threatening messages to force her to impersonate her sister so he could cover up his crime. The investigation is still ongoing, but one source told Channel Five that a storage unit on the outskirts of Tucson was raided on Wednesday night, and while it’d been registered under a false name, the attendant was able to ID Landry as the person who opened the account. No word yet on what the unit contained, but at this time it seems safe to assume police found some damning evidence inside.”

Emma smiled slightly, wondering what Tricia Melendez would say if she had opened the unit to find a threadbare stuffed animal waiting patiently inside. Socktopus was still being held as “evidence,” but she wished she had him here. She knew it was childish, but she wanted to tie him around her neck for protection, the way Becky had so long ago. A part of her still felt like she needed all the protection she could get. Maybe a part of her always would.

Ethan
. A dark, fathomless chasm opened in her chest every time she thought of him—his earnest, lake-blue eyes; his laughter; his lips on hers. Every time a fragment of their conversation came floating through her mind, their flirtations and their promises, a cold, empty space opened inside her where something had been torn away—something pure and trusting and fragile. She didn’t know if she would ever trust anyone again.

“Yesterday, I spoke with Beverly Landry, the mother of the accused, as she left the courthouse,” Tricia Melendez continued. Emma bolted up on the bed, staring at the screen. Mrs. Landry stood uncertainly on the steps of the courthouse, her mousy hair tied in a lopsided bun. In the bright light of day, she seemed more scared than hostile, her eyes wide and vulnerable in a thin, sunken face. “I saw him cross the yard to the Banerjee girl’s house at around three in the afternoon the day she died,” Mrs. Landry said, leaning nervously toward the microphone. “And a few weeks ago I found a green duffel bag shoved in a back corner in the attic. It had a journal and some girls’ clothes in it. I tried to tell myself he’d just stolen it. But . . . but it scared me. I was afraid to ask what else he’d done.”

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.