Ethan’s lips turned downward as he grabbed her by her shoulders. “If Garrett sees you over there, he’ll kill you. Emma, please.” He took a deep, shaking breath, and then exhaled. “Besides, Garrett’s not the only one watching you. If the cops catch you trying to break in, they’ll find a way to put you in jail. You said yourself they’re just looking for a reason.”
Emma glanced back at the widow, frustration mounting inside of her. The answers were so near, and yet she still couldn’t get them. But maybe Ethan was right. She was being watched too closely. Reluctantly, she sank into the sofa, her hands curled into fists.
But at least there was hope.
In the window, the ghost of Sutton blinked back at her, hopeful and terrified. I promise we’ll solve this, she thought desperately, hoping her sister could hear her. And then, as she watched, tiny patches of Sutton’s face began to fall away, as though she were decomposing.
Emma stood and took a step forward to the window. It was raining. The raindrops were hitting the window, breaking up her reflection in the glass and destroying the tentative moment of connection she’d felt with her dead twin. You’re being silly, Sutton wasn’t here at all, she tried to tell herself, though she couldn’t shake the sudden and acute sense of loss.
“I’m with you,” I whispered. As always, my voice disappeared into the wide breach between us. But it made me feel better to say it out loud. Now that she was barred from my home, Emma was all I had. We were in this together—whether she knew it or not.
22
EMMA NON GRATA
Emma and Ethan spent the weekend mostly in hiding. It seemed like Corcoran’s defensive driving had worked; none of the media showed up on the Landrys’ doorstep. Still, they didn’t want to tempt fate, so they drew the blinds and avoided the windows, curling up on the couch to watch a Star Trek marathon on cable. Every now and then they’d stop to sift through the details of the case or get a snack. The kitchen wasn’t very well stocked, but they had enough for stacks of sandwiches, and on Saturday Emma showed Ethan her secret recipe for making jarred pasta sauce taste homemade: olive oil, a sprinkle of sugar, and a tiny splash of vodka.
On Sunday, they disguised Emma in an old flowered shirtdress that belonged to Ethan’s mother so they could go to Goodwill incognito. Ethan even produced a blonde Farrah Fawcett–style wig from the back of Mrs. Landry’s closet. They both laughed at her reflection in the mirror—she looked like she’d been stuck in a bomb shelter since the late seventies. But when they went out she was glad for the disguise. For the first time in a long while, no one paid any attention to her at all, either as super-popular Sutton or as accused-murderer Emma.
But on Monday, Emma knew there would be no disguise that could get her through the day at Hollier. She stood at the mirror of the Landrys’ hallway bathroom, braiding her hair into a long side plait, a style she would never have worn as Sutton. For the first time in months she was dressed like herself, in a faded blue-and-white raglan T-shirt and a pair of perfectly distressed Rag & Bone jeans she’d scored for five bucks. As she looked at her reflection, she felt somehow vulnerable and exposed. She’d been hiding behind Sutton’s persona for months now, her real self a secret that she revealed only to Ethan. Now everyone would see the real her. The thought was strangely terrifying.
She hadn’t had the guts to reach out to any of Sutton’s friends. Her relationship with them was built on a lie—and now they knew it.
A soft knock came at the door. “Are you ready?” Ethan asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied, opening the door. He smiled at her, grabbing the end of her braid and tugging lightly.
“It’s kind of weird, seeing you like this. Like seeing Sutton in Emma-drag.”
“I know,” she admitted. “I feel like I’m still playing a role.”
Ethan shrugged. “We all play roles. You just have to find the one that you like best.”
She poked him in the ribs. “What role are you playing?”
He put on a mock-hurt expression. “Prince Charming, obviously.”
Laughing, Emma followed him down the hall to the entryway. Staying with Ethan was the silver lining to this whole nightmare. She’d never spent so much time with a boy before, but it just felt . . . right. A perfect fit.
On the way to school Ethan played an old Arcade Fire album, humming under his breath. Emma idly opened and closed the glove compartment. She tried to steel herself for whatever would come.
The area around the student parking lot was clotted with news vans. Emma had anticipated this. She put on her shades and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head.
“You look like the Unabomber,” Ethan said.
“At least they won’t be able to see my face,” she replied.
Dozens of students milled about among the reporters, trying to get on TV. Emma saw Celeste Echols speaking into a microphone that Tricia Melendez held under her chin, and she groaned aloud. Celeste had been saying something was wrong with her “aura” since they first met. She would be insufferable now.
Ethan parked the car, and they stepped out into the pallid winter morning. A crescent moon still hung low on the horizon. She met Ethan’s questioning glance with a determined, let’s-get-this-over-with nod.
The students loitering in the parking lot stared at her baldly. A crowd of muscular guys hanging out around a Ford F-250 stopped body-slamming each other to gawk as she walked past. Two twiggy freshman girls scuttled out of her way as if she’d menaced them. She caught sight of a half dozen girls from the tennis team clustered near the flagpole. They fell silent as she approached, their faces pale and eyes wide. Ethan took her hand, and she squeezed back, trying not to look right or left. She focused on walking slowly and deliberately, though a part of her just wanted to bolt toward the glass double doors to the school.
Then she saw who was waiting in the entryway. Principal Ambrose stood with her arms crossed over her chest and her legs planted wide. She wore a zebra-striped suit coat and a pair of purple trousers. Her skin was usually dull and sagging, but today she’d put on turquoise eye shadow up to her eyebrows.
I had the distinct impression that Ambrose had dressed up for the media attention. I could just hear her saying Sutton Mercer was such a special girl, with tears in her eyes. So effervescent! I’d like to think I was something of a mentor to her. Never mind that the only times Ambrose talked to me were the handful of times I’d been busted for a Lying Game stunt.
Emma stopped uncertainly a few feet in front of the principal. She glanced at Ethan, who’d gone strangely pale, then back to Ms. Ambrose. The principal’s lips were pressed into a single thin line.
“You will not be allowed on the premises,” she said in a smug voice. “Emma Paxton is not registered at Hollier.”
Emma blinked, stunned. “But . . . what about school?”
Ms. Ambrose shrugged. “I expect they’ll let you get your GED in prison. Now please leave, before I report you for trespassing.”
The crowd surrounding Emma went absolutely quiet, a hundred pairs of ears straining so that they could later report everything they’d seen and heard.
“Can I at least clean out my locker?” she asked quietly. Her palms were suddenly moist with sweat. She let go of Ethan and grabbed her backpack straps in each hand.
“Those aren’t your things,” Ms. Ambrose said simply. “The police have confiscated the contents of Miss Mercer’s locker.”