A creak sounded in the hallway, and panic welled inside Emma’s chest. What if that was Sutton’s dad? There was another loud creak, definitely a footstep. Emma stifled a small sob. It had been terrifying living under the same roof as Laurel when Emma thought she’d killed Sutton. But Mr. Mercer was twice her size. Emma wouldn’t stand a chance.
The doorknob started to turn. Heart in her throat, Emma waited for the door to open and bang into the oak bureau, but then Drake let out a yelping bark, and the doorknob turned back into place.
Emma’s pulse was still racing as the footsteps retreated along the hall. She stared up at the ceiling. Moonlight illuminated a miniscule web of cracks that fanned out from the light fixture overhead. Emma counted them over and over, wondering if she’d ever be able to sleep again.
19
ONE BIG UNHAPPY FAMILY
Emma stayed like that for the rest of the night, with the covers pulled up to her chin. Every clang of a pipe or swish of air inside a vent made her heart race. When she’d heard Mr. Mercer’s alarm sound at 6 A.M., followed by the creak of the stairs as he walked down in his running shoes, she’d leapt to the window to watch him jog down the street casually and easily. Like he wasn’t a murderer. Like he hadn’t tried to come into Emma’s room last night to possibly kill her, too.
By ten, Emma desperately had to use the bathroom. Reluctantly she climbed from bed and stumbled down the hall, locking the door behind her. She got in the shower, letting the sound of rushing water drown out her sobs. When she finally collected herself, she turned off the tap and used her palm to clear the steam from the mirror. She stared at her reflection and for a second pretended it was Sutton’s periwinkle eyes staring back. “I need you, Sutton,” she whispered. She knew it was crazy to talk to her dead twin, but she felt a little crazy right now. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to solve your murder. Tell me how to incriminate him.”
I stared back, wishing I could download my memory onto a DVD and play it for Officer Quinlan. But I couldn’t. All I could do was watch and hope my sister didn’t end up like me.
After Emma dressed, she opened the bedroom door to find Laurel standing with her hand poised to knock. “There you are,” she said. “Ready for breakfast, or are you still too sick?”
Emma stared blearily at Sutton’s sister. Out of habit, her muscles tensed, and she tightened her jaw, but then she realized—Laurel wasn’t a suspect anymore, for real. All of a sudden, she wanted to throw her arms around Laurel simply for not killing Sutton.
But then she registered Laurel’s question. Breakfast meant facing Mr. Mercer. “Um, I’m still feeling pretty bad,” she mumbled.
“Oh, come on.” Laurel linked her arm around Emma’s elbow. “Dad’s famous pancakes will fix you right up.”
Before Emma could protest, Laurel dragged her down the stairs and into the kitchen. When Emma saw Mr. Mercer’s tall, straight back at the stove, pouring pancake batter into a frying pan, she froze. Murderous Father Plays the Part of Doting Family Man, she thought, picturing a grainy, black-and-white photograph of Mr. Mercer holding a spatula and grinning maniacally into the camera.
I watched my father, too, wishing I could grab him from behind and shake him hard. “How could you?!” I screamed at his back. “I trusted you! I loved you!” But as usual, my voice instantly evaporated, like I’d yelled into an airless tunnel.
Mr. Mercer turned and stared at Emma. His lips spasmed slightly, as though the effort of holding back his anger in front of Laurel was too much for him. “Oh. Sutton. You’re awake.” He awkwardly scratched a spot by his nose. “Feeling better?”
Emma cast her eyes down, feeling her cheeks burn. “Uh-huh,” she mumbled.
Laurel slumped into her regular breakfast seat. “You missed the best part of Dad’s party, Sutton—the cake. It was ah-may-zing. Then again, you seem to be ditching all kinds of parties these days, including your own.” She rolled her eyes.
“It was a nasty case of food poisoning,” Emma mumbled, clutching her stomach for effect. “In fact, I should probably go upstairs and lie down some more. I’m still feeling dizzy.”
“Nonsense. A little food in your stomach will do you good,” a sharp voice said to Emma’s left. She looked over and saw Grandma at the table, a mug of coffee before her. Her eyes were cold, and she looked Emma up and down with pursed lips. “Funny, you don’t look sick.” Her gaze shifted to Mr. Mercer. “Does she?”
Mr. Mercer flinched, dropping the ladle into the batter bowl. Emma’s heart was pounding so hard she was sure everyone could hear it.
“What do you think poisoned you?” Laurel asked, looking a little worried. “I hope I don’t get sick, too.”
Emma shifted her weight, suddenly not remembering a single morsel of food that had been served at the party. “Uh, a hot dog, maybe,” she blurted, thinking of the time she’d gotten food poisoning from a hot dog she’d bought at a Vegas street stand.
Grandma gave Emma a pointed look. “Hmm. I thought the food was delicious. Are you sure it wasn’t something else that…upset your stomach?”
“She said it was the food, Mom,” Mr. Mercer snapped. “Just drop it.”
Grandma’s wrinkled lips flattened into a frown, but she stayed quiet.
Laurel swiveled back and forth, staring at all of them. “Uh, does someone want to let me in on the joke?”