“What am I going to do?” she asked softly, tracing a line of condensation on her glass. “I don’t have any money, anywhere to go. The few things I brought to Tucson are now evidence, and everything else was Sutton’s. I don’t even have a change of clothes.”

Ethan put a hand on her knee, squeezing it almost painfully. “You’re going to stay here. At least until we can get this sorted out.”

“Ethan, no. I can’t put you in any danger. Alex is already in trouble for helping me. And what about your mom? She doesn’t want me here.”

Ethan set down his glass and gazed at her, an earnest, tender expression on his face. “Emma, I love you. I know no one has ever stood beside you when you were in trouble, but no matter what it takes, I’m going to make you believe that I’m the one who will do that. I’m not leaving you.”

Her heart gave a violent thump. Ethan was right—she had never depended on anyone in her life. After being abandoned by Becky, and surviving the stream of disappointing foster parents who followed, Emma had learned early on to rely on no one but herself. Her friendships and relationships had mostly been short and shallow, easily made and easily broken. Until Ethan.

“I don’t want you involved,” she whispered. “They’re going to charge Alex with aiding and abetting—maybe even conspiracy. They could get you on the same things.”

He pulled her close. “Nothing will happen to me.” He tilted her chin up gently, gazing into her eyes. “Stay with me. Let me help you through this, and protect you.”

Emma sighed and curled up against his chest contentedly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Are you kidding? I don’t know what I’d do without you. God, Emma . . .” His dark-blue eyes were wide and earnest. “I don’t think I ever understood love until I met you.”

She laced her fingers through his, her heart singing in her chest.

“So you’ll stay?” he asked, stroking her wrist with his fingertips. She shivered, and for the first time in days it wasn’t in fear.

“I’ll stay,” she murmured.

“It’s settled then.” His face broke into a crooked grin, and he took her hand. “Want to go watch some TV, to take your mind off things?”

As she followed Ethan down the hall, Emma suddenly wondered—where would she be sleeping tonight? Her cheeks grew warm as she pictured Ethan’s full-sized bed with its smooth, carefully tucked covers. Would they be sharing it?

The living room’s walls had been painted a dusty rose color, a fussy vine pattern stenciled along the top in dark green. A clock with pictures of different American birds in place of the numerals hung over the TV, and an ornate gilded mirror loomed above a drafty fireplace, doubling the room in its reflection. Like the rest of the house, the room was spotlessly clean, though bare patches showed on the arms of the blue chintz sofa, and the flowered rug was mottled with stains.

Emma sat down next to Ethan, curling her legs up under her and snuggling into his shoulder. The TV popped on with a loud hum—and almost immediately, Nisha Banerjee’s pictures came into focus on the screen. Emma’s breath caught in her chest at the sight.

“Police say the intruder knew the alarm code to the Banerjees’ house, so the alarm was not triggered. However, Mr. Banerjee was home at the time, and he saw the masked intruder before he or she managed to escape,” said a familiar brisk voice. It was Tricia Melendez, reporting the evening news.

A scowl creased Ethan’s forehead. “I wanted to take your mind off this,” he muttered, fumbling for the remote. She grabbed his arm.

“Wait,” she whispered.

Tricia Melendez continued. “Officers responded to the scene within minutes, but the perpetrator had already fled the premises. The only information Dr. Banerjee could provide was that the figure looked at least six feet tall and was wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt.”

The camera cut to Quinlan, his face deeply lined beneath the camera’s bright lights. “It’s possible this was some kind of prank. Miss Banerjee’s death was a high-profile case, and unfortunately that can occasionally attract some petty harassment. Luckily nothing was taken or disturbed.”

Emma gaped openmouthed at the screen, then jumped suddenly to her feet, running to the window and fumbling at the avocado-colored curtains. The Banerjee house stood silent and dark next door. She could see Nisha’s window, the drapes pale and ghostly in the moonlight.

“Do you know what this means?” Emma exclaimed. Her reflection stared excitedly back at her. She felt Ethan move behind her and turned to meet his eyes. “This means Garrett still doesn’t have whatever Nisha was hiding.” She gripped the sleeve of Ethan’s shirt. “The evidence is still there!”

Ethan blanched, the color leaching from his cheeks. “Jesus,” he murmured. “Emma, I hope you’re not thinking of breaking in, too. Dr. Banerjee will never let you in now that he knows who you are.”

But a flash of energy flared through Emma. Finally, after being helpless for so long, she’d found the break she’d been looking for. Whatever Nisha had, Garrett had murdered her because of it. Surely it would prove he had killed Sutton, if not both girls.

“We have to go over there,” she said. “We should go now, before Garrett figures out a way back into the house.”

She was halfway to the door when Ethan’s hand gripped her wrist, spinning her back around to face him. “Are you crazy?” he asked, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Emma, Garrett was here. One house away. He ran away once he realized Dr. Banerjee was home, but he’s not going to make the same mistake again. And if he sees you trying to get into Nisha’s house, who knows what he’ll do?”

She stared at him incredulously. “There’s something in Nisha’s house that could end this. It’s worth the risk!” She pressed his hand in both of hers. “If I can solve this case, I’ll be free. You and I can be together without all this . . . this craziness hanging over our heads.”

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.