The memory rose up in me as Thayer talked. I hadn’t been at that party—it’d been the week of the state championship, and I’d been in Glendale with the rest of the tennis team. Garrett and Louisa had been out of school for a few weeks, but I remembered when he came back. He’d looked so vulnerable, so lost. That made it easy to ignore his mood swings, his temper tantrums—because after each violent flare-up, he looked so anguished. I’d made excuses for him every time.
But he’d been more broken than I’d realized. I pictured his face that night in the canyon, twisted into a mask of rage, the terrible things he yelled at me. How jealous he’d been that I was out there with Thayer. How he called me a slut for wearing shorts, his breath angry and hot with whiskey. He hated the fact that I’d wanted to sleep with him—and hated himself for wanting to sleep with me, too. What happened to Louisa shattered him, and he’d punished me for his own fear and self-loathing about not being able to protect her.
Emma’s stomach curled into a tight little ball inside her, her head spinning. “That’s . . . awful,” she breathed.
Thayer nodded. “Yeah. Garrett never really recovered.”
In spite of everything, a twinge of pity shot through Emma’s chest. She couldn’t even imagine the kind of pain Louisa and Garrett had been through. Then again, she thought, the same thing had happened to her—someone had hurt her sister beyond belief, and she had to live with it. Sutton hadn’t deserved what happened to her any more than Louisa had.
She looked up to see Thayer watching her closely. “So you think what happened to Louisa made him snap?” he asked.
Emma sat up, straightening her legs out in front of her. “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter, does it? He killed my sister, and I don’t care what his excuses are. He’s dangerous, and I have to find a way to prove it.”
Thayer was silent for a long moment, studying her face.
“You know, you’re so much like her.” He gave a sad smile. “Not just the way you look, I mean. When you get that determined gleam in your eyes, you remind me so much of her.”
Emma found that she was leaning slightly against his shoulder, their arms just touching. She knew she should shift her weight, put more distance between them, but she couldn’t seem to move. For just a heartbeat, something magnetic pulled her toward Thayer.
“But I’m not her,” she said softly, forcing herself to move away. “And you have to keep your promise. I don’t know what I’d do if Garrett hurt you, too.”
Thayer’s jaw clenched, and his hands curled into tight fists. But he took a deep breath and stood up, his eyes suddenly clear. “I promise. You know where to find me if you need anything . . . Emma.” Then he turned and strode off toward his car.
I watched him go, hoping against hope that Emma had made the right choice in telling him—and hoping against hope that Garrett wouldn’t kill him, too.
24
GO GOOGLE YOURSELF
Emma drove back to the Landrys’ house slowly, reluctant to spend the day inside and alone. She cruised for a while past organic markets and upscale boutiques, decorated for Christmas with garlands and bows and twinkling lights. For a moment she contemplated going into the public library—she could go online, maybe do some research from there—but the memory of the reporters shouting her name made her shudder. Anywhere she went in public, she ran the risk of drawing down the press.
Soon the storefronts disappeared behind her, replaced by large, elegant homes and the Santa Catalina Mountains beyond. She turned into Ethan’s development and parked beneath the Landrys’ carport. Across the street the entrance to the canyon was still blocked off, police tape draped across the drive. She wondered if the investigators were over there even now, slowly sifting through the dirt. The skin on the back of her neck crawled like it always did when she glimpsed the bench where she’d waited for Sutton that first day. Sometimes it felt like the canyon had eyes.
Movement from across the lawn caught her eye. She paused as she climbed out of Ethan’s car, the keys frozen in her hand. Next door, Dr. Banerjee was shoving a battered suitcase into the hatchback of his car. It looked like there were already a bunch of bags piled haphazardly in the backseat. Nisha’s father still looked haggard, his eyes swollen in exhaustion, but he’d straightened himself up since she’d seen him last. His hair was combed, and he wore a button-down shirt that was wrinkled but clean.
As he climbed into the front seat of his car, Emma caught his eye. She lifted her hand to wave, taking a step toward him. For a moment she almost called out for him to stop—if Nisha had left evidence that Garrett had killed Sutton, Dr. Banerjee was the only person who could help her find it. Then she saw the look on his face. His eyes were hard slits, his mouth twisted in disgust. Her hand dropped limply back to her side. He thought she was a murderer—just like everyone else did. He backed out of his driveway, shaking his head slowly as he did. His lips moved like he was muttering to himself. Then he turned out onto the street and screeched away.
Her shoulders slumping, Emma turned away in defeat. It looked like Dr. Banerjee was skipping town, and with him, her last chance to find out the secret Nisha had died for.
She let herself into the Landrys’ house with Ethan’s key. As she pushed the door open, she wondered if she should have knocked instead. But inside, everything was dark and still. The sounds of a daytime talk show came from under Mrs. Landry’s closed bedroom door, and Emma sighed in relief. She hated to admit it, but running into Ethan’s mom—seeing the startled, nervous look in her mousy eyes—set her on edge.
Emma got a Coke Zero from the fridge and trudged to Ethan’s room. His bed was perfectly made, with hospital corners and everything, his plain white pillows stacked neatly at the top—she’d watched him make it that morning, his lip between his teeth in concentration. His OCD side was kind of adorable. She blushed a little as she settled onto the bed, thinking that she and Ethan had been cuddling here just a few hours earlier.
Propping herself up against the headboard with some pillows, she pulled his laptop onto her legs. She chewed on the end of a lock of hair, then typed “Emma Paxton” into the search field—and regretted it almost immediately. The case was everywhere, and Emma herself was the star of the show. It was like a horrible, nightmare version of the headlines she used to write about herself—only now they were real. Rags to Riches, one news site proclaimed in enormous type, and underneath: Emma Paxton lived in squalor and dreamed of escape. How far would she go to get what she wanted? Every bad picture anyone had ever taken of her was now online, looking somehow sinister. She recognized Clarice’s house in several of them—Travis had obviously been snapping photos of her without her knowledge. One even showed her sleeping, her mouth open and her tank top’s spaghetti strap hanging off one shoulder.
A website called On the Q-T had interviewed Clarice herself. Emma scrolled down the page, full of pictures of her old room and stories about how disturbed Emma had seemed. She told me she was working at a roller coaster, but I heard afterward that she was involved with some kind of exotic dance troupe. She used to flounce around here in short-shorts and halter tops, but I’m so naïve I didn’t realize what was going on.
Emma clicked through link after link, her heart sinking. Not one person seemed to even consider that she might be innocent. A task force called CIT—Coalition of Identical Twins—called her a monster and demanded her immediate arrest. Former classmates from Vegas, most of whom Emma didn’t remember ever talking to, portrayed her as a shady, calculating thug. Another blog interviewed Hollier students who swore up and down that they’d suspected her all along.