Emma mentally swore. Gossip always flowed freely at Hollier, and the one time she needed it, it dried up entirely.
“I’m not trying to pry,” she backpedaled. “I just think you should be careful. I mean . . . Garrett’s pretty volatile, Celeste.”
Celeste narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Sutton Mercer wasn’t exactly known for her concern for others.
“Well, um, take care,” Emma said, recognizing her cue to leave. She tucked Sutton’s purse under her arm and walked away.
“Hey, Sutton?”
Emma paused and turned around. Celeste stood in the middle of the hall, hugging her shoulders.
“I heard about your sister,” she said. “I’m sorry.” Then she turned and disappeared, leaving Emma with more questions than answers.
But something Celeste said had awoken a strange, tingling memory at the back of my mind. It stayed maddeningly out of reach, just beyond my memory, but I could feel it there. Something had happened to Garrett’s little sister—something very, very bad.
Maybe bad enough to turn her brother into a killer.
15
BEHIND ENEMY LINES
Garrett’s house was a small hacienda on a quiet street near the country club, surrounded by slate tile, low stone benches, and succulents in earthen pots. Enormous golden fish drifted lazily in a koi pond beneath a small cluster of paloverde trees. A dark blue Subaru Outback was parked in the drive, but Garrett’s silver Audi was nowhere to be seen. Emma sat in Sutton’s car across the street for nearly ten minutes, taking deep, steadying breaths and watching the house. Finally, she braced herself and got out of the car.
School had just let out. Garrett would be in the Hollier weight room with the rest of the soccer team for the next two hours—the season was over, but they worked out together year-round. Thoughts of Garrett had haunted Emma all day. His face red and angry as he screamed at Celeste; the smirk on his lips as he’d held up the sign that read BITCH; the small, shiny key with her sister’s initials scratched on the tag. She’d wandered through all of Sutton’s classes in a fog, waking up only during fourth-period German to stare intently at the back of Garrett’s head as if she could read his thoughts if she just tried hard enough. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. She was going to hunt for answers—even if it meant putting her own life at risk.
She was going to try to get into Garrett’s bedroom.
No one knew she was here. She hadn’t told Ethan she was coming. He would have figured out a way to stop her. But she couldn’t find the proof she needed if she never tried.
Garrett’s street had felt strangely vacant as Sutton’s GPS led her to his house. No traffic rushed by, and no one in the neighborhood seemed to be outside doing yard work or enjoying the golden November sun. The only thing she could hear was the soft, constant chatter of birds overhead. A few blocks away, someone at the country club yelled, “Fore!” It was punctuated by the soft pock of a ball being smacked in the distance.
As she set foot in the Austins’ yard, a bizarre, high-pitched cry tore through the air. Emma jumped, panic surging in the pit of her stomach. Another cry broke out, and then another, again and again, echoing off the flagstones. It sounded like a girl’s voice, wailing in pain.
Each keening cry seemed to cut through Emma’s chest. She spun in circles, looking for the source of the sound. For a split second she was sure that Garrett had another victim here, somewhere on his property. But then two enormous peacocks came hustling out from the backyard, their tails dragging behind them. One of them tossed its head back, its throat shuddering as it gave the cry she’d mistaken for human. Emma shrieked as they beelined for her. She jumped up onto a stone bench next to the pond just as the birds swooped toward her. They flanked her, angling their heads to glare at her with their beady eyes.
The front door opened, and a thickset woman with sandy blonde hair stuck her head out, calling, “Rocko! Salvador!” Then she saw Emma cowering on the bench. Her eyes widened, and she bustled through the doorway. The peacocks pivoted their heads on their long necks to look at her, and one stalked toward her, looking hopefully at her hand. “Shoo!” she said. “I don’t have any corn, you wretched things.”
This had to be Garrett’s mom. She had the same hair, the same molasses-brown eyes—though where her son was all muscle, she had the rounded corners of a teddy bear under her loose linen pants and brown sweater. Amber rings glittered on every finger, amber drop earrings hung from her lobes, and a pair of cat-eye glasses hung at her chest from a chain made of amber beads.
Emma held her breath as the woman made warding-off motions with her hands while the birds stood and stared balefully. She didn’t know what Garrett might have told his mother after their breakup, or what kind of relationship Sutton had with her boyfriend’s mom to begin with. But when the peacocks had finally strutted away around back, the woman broke into a warm smile.
“Sutton!” she exclaimed. She extended a hand to help Emma down from the bench. “It’s been so long! Sorry about the boys,” she said, sighing toward the peacocks. “They’ve been so aggressive lately. I don’t know what’s gotten into them.”
Emma gave the woman a tentative smile. “I’m sorry I, uh, got them all riled up. Thanks for saving me, Mrs. Austin.” As soon as the words left her mouth a cloud moved over the woman’s expression.
“That’s Garrett’s stepmother’s name, dear,” she said coolly. “Remember? My maiden name is Ramsey.”
Emma cursed herself inwardly. Of course—Garrett’s parents were divorced. But as quickly as it had appeared, the woman’s darkened expression passed. “Besides, why are you calling me Mrs. anything? You always used to call me Vanessa.”
Vanessa. Something stirred at the back of my mind. As usual, it was almost impossible to nail down a specific memory, but I could grasp at fragments. I remembered having dinner with Garrett’s family, picnic-style on the floor of their living room. I remembered the impression that there was a lingering sadness around her, though I wasn’t sure why. Was it a remnant of a bitter divorce, or something darker? I struggled again to conjure up a memory of Garrett’s sister—what had happened to her?—but nothing came to me.
Emma took a deep breath. “Sorry, Vanessa. It’s been a long time.”
The woman patted Emma’s shoulder, smiling wistfully. “It has, hasn’t it? But I’m so glad to see you now. Does this mean you and Garrett are friends again?”
Emma hesitated. Garrett’s mom was nothing like she’d expected. She seemed so sweet; the idea of lying to her made Emma a little nauseated. But she had to get into Garrett’s room somehow.
“We’re trying,” she said evasively. Vanessa nodded, and for a moment, she looked tired.
“I know how difficult he can be sometimes,” she said, her voice low. “But you meant so much to him. I’m glad you’re trying to stay in each other’s lives. I always thought you were good for him, Sutton.”
Emma bit her lip. “You did?”
“Of course.” Vanessa had a dimple in her left cheek, the same as Garrett’s. When she smiled, the years peeled off her. “You were the only girlfriend he ever had who didn’t let him get away with murder.”
Emma forced a hollow laugh at Vanessa’s choice of words. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” She cleared her throat. “I stopped by because I think Garrett has my Wildcats sweatshirt. Is he here?”
Vanessa shook her head, her amber earrings swaying with the movement. “No, I’m afraid he’s still at school. Pumping iron, I think he calls it?” She had a gasping, breathless laugh. “He won’t be home for a few hours.”
Emma pretended to be disappointed, pursing her lips in a pout. “Oh, man. I was really hoping to wear it this weekend. They’re playing New Mexico, and I always wear that shirt when I watch the game with my dad.”
“Why don’t you run up to his room and see if you can find it?”
Emma felt a pang of guilt at how easily the woman suggested it. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. If you’re brave enough to enter that mess, you have my blessings.” Vanessa opened the front door with another laugh. Emma followed her into an entryway with cherry-wood parquet flooring and antique bronze light fixtures. The window over the door was a stained-glass image of the sun coming up over the mountains, and the light filtering through it cast an orange glow over the room. She stared around for a moment. This wasn’t what she’d expected Garrett’s house to look like at all. The decorations were luxurious and eccentric. Garrett had always seemed so bland to her.
Then again, she clearly didn’t know anything about Garrett at all.
Emma turned and gave Vanessa her best impress-the-adults smile. “Thank you so much. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Take your time, sweetie.” Garrett’s mother enclosed her in a quick hug that smelled like jasmine perfume and potting soil. Emma’s heart ached a little. Vanessa reminded her of her best friend Alex’s mom, who’d always treated her like family.
She gave Garrett’s mom another little wave and took the steps two at a time, her heart picking up speed. The stairs opened onto a landing that looked over the living room. The high, slanting ceiling was made of red tin, stamped with an elaborate vine pattern. Creepy ambient music seeped out from under one of the closed bedroom doors. A large collage hung on the door at eye level—it looked like the artist had ripped up pictures of fashion models and then pieced them back together into surreal, alien forms, some with animal bodies, others with machine parts replacing arms or eyes. Emma thought it was safe to assume that was Louisa’s room. The room after that was a blue-and-yellow tiled bathroom—and the one after that, she guessed, would be Garrett’s. She tentatively cracked the door and peered inside.
Bingo.
Vanessa hadn’t been exaggerating. Garrett’s room looked like a bomb had gone off in it. His dark green bedspread slumped half on the bed, half on the floor. Dirty clothes were strewn around on every square inch of the floor, and a pervasive smell of sweaty socks filled the air. PowerBar wrappers and empty Gatorade bottles collected on every surface. Pictures of soccer players and Italian race cars were tacked all over the walls, and a jock strap dangled from the little gold figurine topping an MVP trophy on his desk.
Emma’s eyes darted uncertainly around the room. If Garrett were hiding something about the murder, where would it be—and what would it be? She opened his desk drawers, sorting through unorganized piles of paper clips, highlighters, and thumbtacks. There was evidence of his current romance with Celeste, in the form of a chunk of violet quartz next to his computer—Emma assumed it was for focusing his chi or something like that. A photo of Celeste sitting on a swing and gazing off into mid-distance sat behind it.
A few picture frames lay facedown on the desk, where they’d been knocked over by a hastily flung windbreaker. She picked them up and turned them over—and as she did, her heart started to slam against her chest.
