“You’re wrong,” Emma said, slamming her hands on the table. She almost surprised herself with the force of her anger. As Emma Paxton she’d never talked back to an authority figure. She’d always been the get-along girl, the foster kid who didn’t make trouble, a chameleon who could turn into whatever kind of person the adults in her life needed her to be. Now, though, she was possessed of a righteous fury all her own. “While you’re busy harassing me, the real murderer is getting away with it. Don’t you see? Someone’s setting me up.”
Quinlan gave her a long, measured look. Then he squared his jaw.
“I’m not going to lie. Sutton Mercer was a pain in my ass.” His gravelly voice was almost deadly calm. Suddenly the room was so quiet she could hear the second hand on Quinlan’s watch ticking. “But she was just a kid. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. I can’t prove you killed her. Not yet, anyway. But I’m going to make it my mission to dog your steps until you slip up. Because you will, Emma. Criminals always do.”
“So can I go?” Emma asked, her voice shaking but clear.
Quinlan nodded. “Sure. We need both your BlackBerry and Sutton’s iPhone, though. And we’re impounding Sutton’s car for clues. Someone at the front desk can give you a ride wherever you’re heading tonight. I hope it goes without saying that you shouldn’t think about skipping town.”
Emma gave a jerky nod. “What about Alex? Are you going to charge her with anything?”
“We haven’t decided yet.” He shrugged. “That’ll depend on how well you cooperate with us. Tonight she’s probably going home to her mom. We’re not planning to charge her yet. But we’re keeping an eye on her.”
Another surge of guilt swept through Emma at the thought of Alex’s mom worrying, her face tight and anxious. She stood up and picked up her purse. From behind her, Quinlan’s voice came again, this time with a taunting edge.
“I believe this is the part of your prank where everyone jumps out and says ‘Gotcha,’ Miss Paxton.”
She turned to stare at him, and saw that he was smiling again. “The cat’s out of the bag. Everyone in town is about to find out about the lies you’ve been telling—and that includes the Mercers. This game you’ve been playing, it’s over.” He opened the door to the interrogation room and bowed her out into the hall.
I would have been almost touched by Quinlan’s determination to bring my killer to justice, if he hadn’t been acting like such a total moron. It was bad enough that I was dead. Now the cops were going to go after the wrong person on top of that.
20
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
Emma didn’t know how she’d made it to the front desk a few minutes later. All the fury had leached out of her, and her limbs felt like they were made of stone, so heavy and stiff she couldn’t believe she was able to move them at all. She stood in a fog while a receptionist with purple acrylic nails paged an officer to take her home. Finally, a tall cop with buzz-cut auburn hair seemed to appear out of nowhere. His name badge said CORCORAN. “Emma Paxton?”
She nodded silently. He gestured for her to follow him, and together they walked through the double glass doors. The sun had set. Beyond the parking lot, rush-hour traffic crawled past, brake lights glinting red in the gloom.
Corcoran didn’t talk much as he drove Emma to the Mercers’. As they glided past shops and salons decorated in green and red for the holidays, she stared out the window, half listening to the crackle of chatter from the cop’s radio. “. . . report of vandalism at the Snack ’n’ Shack on Valencia,” a muffled female voice was saying. “Unit fifty-three, please report.”
“So did you do it?”
She turned to look at the officer, giving him an are-you-serious grimace. Did he think she was going to offhandedly confess to a beat cop—if she had done it—after Quinlan had already interrogated her? But he was staring straight ahead at the road with an earnest frown, like some part of the situation just didn’t add up.
“I was a foster kid, too,” he said matter-of-factly. “Here in Tucson.”
She nodded mutely, unsure what he was getting at.
“I don’t know why it is, but people don’t trust you if you don’t have family. Even if it isn’t your fault.” He shrugged. “You become a scapegoat for everything that happens, just because you don’t fit into the natural order.”
Emma swallowed hard. She looked back out the window, not trusting herself to speak. Were they trying to good-cop her now, trying to get her to confess just because some cute guy, close to her own age, was acting like he understood what she was going through? But Corcoran had fallen silent, like he’d said his piece and that was all he had to say.
When they turned the corner onto the Mercers’ street, Emma’s jaw dropped. The place was swarming with reporters. The whole street was lit up like a ballpark, a dozen vans lining either side of the road. Reporters checked their makeup in the side mirrors on cars and ran through their lines, beard-stubbled men with giant cameras hoisted on their shoulders trailing in their wake. It looked like the Mercers’ neighbor, Mr. Paulson, was being interviewed in his driveway by a man with his hair plastered in a Ken-doll coif. Other reporters seemed to be mid-broadcast, using the Mercers’ house as a backdrop.
I’d always dreamed of being famous, of having paparazzi follow me home and beg me for interviews. But this definitely wasn’t what I had in mind.
“Stay where you are,” Corcoran said to Emma, putting the car in park in the middle of the street. He opened his car door. The moment he did, the cacophony of dozens of voices filled the squad car.
“Are you Emma Paxton, or Sutton Mercer?”
“Emma, why’d you do it?”
“Did anyone help you kill your sister?”
Corcoran didn’t even look at them. He walked around to the passenger-side door and opened it, standing protectively in front of Emma to keep the shouting reporters at a slight distance.
She met the officer’s eyes. They were calm, clear blue, and while she couldn’t tell if he believed her story or not, she could see a stubborn conviction there. This guy wanted her to be treated fairly, she realized. Whether or not she was innocent, whether or not she had lied, he wanted her to have a fair shake.
“Ready?” he asked. She nodded, suddenly feeling a little stronger. He might not be her ally—but for the moment, he was close enough.
He helped her to her feet, then guided her quickly through the crowd.
“Emma! Did you really think you’d get away with it?”
“Do you think your mom’s mental illness is genetic?”