A long and awkward silence followed this speech. Mrs. Mercer was still hiding her face in her hands, weeping silently. Laurel seemed to be examining the brown mosaic tile on the floor. Emma swallowed hard.
“Okay,” Quinlan said, drawing out the second syllable skeptically. “So can you explain why you walked into the station two days later calling yourself Emma Paxton?”
The question dropped like a bomb. Mrs. Mercer’s hand flew away from her face as she whipped around to stare at Emma. Next to her, Laurel went rigid. Mr. Mercer blinked at Quinlan.
“She did what?” he asked, his face sheet-white.
“Yup. First day of school, Sutton came into the station insisting that she wasn’t Sutton but Emma, and that something terrible had happened to her twin. I blew it off as another prank. Now, though . . .” He shook his head. “Now I’m not so sure.”
Emma’s collar suddenly felt like it was choking her. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to hold Quinlan’s gaze.
“Well, yeah,” she said softly. “It was a prank. I’d just found out I had a twin. It wasn’t like I knew anything had happened to her. Like I said, she didn’t show up when we were supposed to meet.” She held his gaze, trying to channel a little of Sutton’s attitude, trying to imagine how Sutton would handle being interrogated when her long-lost sister had just died. “I was mad. Mad at my parents, mad at Becky, mad at Emma for standing me up. I was hoping you’d call me on it. That you’d tell my parents, and then I’d find out if Emma was even real.”
She looked away from Quinlan to her grandparents. Mrs. Mercer stared miserably at her, her eyes glassy with tears. Mr. Mercer looked stern for a moment, like he might chastise her, but then he looked away as though ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Mercer said, blowing air heavily out through his mouth. “You’re right, Sutton. We should have told you the truth much sooner.”
Not bad, I thought, oddly proud of Emma’s performance. She did a good angry Sutton Mercer. I must have been rubbing off on her after all.
A stab of shame shot through Emma’s chest. Now Mr. Mercer thought he was in the wrong, when none of this was his fault. I hope someday you can forgive me, she thought. But all she said was, “It’s not important anymore.”
Quinlan sat very still in the chair, watching her evenly. He let the silence stretch out a heartbeat too long before speaking again. “I have one more question, and then I’ll get out of your hair for the evening. Sutton, we’ve been looking at Nisha Banerjee’s phone records to try to figure out what may have happened in the hours leading up to her death. It looks like she called you and texted you . . .”—he glanced at his notes—“. . . eight times all together.”
Emma nodded. She’d been expecting this ever since the funeral. “I was busy and didn’t answer. I tried to call her back later, after tennis, but by the time I called her . . .” She trailed off helplessly.
The detective raised an eyebrow. “So you have no idea what she was messaging you about?”
“No. I wish I did.” Emma’s voice broke. “Maybe I could have helped her.” Laurel gave Emma a stricken look and squeezed her arm. “I asked Dr. Banerjee about it, but he didn’t know either.”
“What does that have to do with Sutton?” Mr. Mercer asked, frowning at Quinlan. The detective shook his head.
“Probably nothing,” he said. “But it seemed unusual. Nisha didn’t make a habit of calling anyone that frantically. I’m just trying to make sure we have all the facts.” The detective stood up, closing his notebook and sliding it back into his breast pocket. “Sutton, I really need to see those Facebook messages. We’re trying to come up with a timeline of what happened to Emma, and they’ll help. Can you come by the station on Friday?”
Emma wanted to ask Quinlan some questions, too—about the state of the body, whether there was any evidence of murder or footprints nearby or anything—but he was already looking at her strangely, and she didn’t want to set off any more alarms in his head. Instead, she just nodded. “Sure. I’ll come after school.”
Quinlan paused where he stood, looking around at each of them. His gaze lingered longest on Emma. “I should warn you, this is going public tomorrow.”
“Public?” Emma asked, frowning.
“There’s a press conference scheduled for eight A.M. I’m guessing the media are going to have a field day with it. You should be prepared for that.”
Mrs. Mercer rose from her seat. “Can’t we keep this quiet?” she asked pleadingly. “We haven’t even had time to take this in.”
Quinlan looked sympathetic, but he shook his head. “There’s already a half dozen news helicopters circling over the spot where we found her. I’m afraid the story’s going to hit pretty hard.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and removed a business card. “I’ll leave this here. Give me a call if you remember anything else that you think might be of use.”
“Of course,” Mr. Mercer murmured. “I’ll see you out, Detective Quinlan.”
The detective followed Emma’s grandfather back to the front door. As they passed her, Quinlan flashed her a sharp look, his eyes glittering brightly. Then he was gone.
Emma braced herself against the kitchen island, the strength flooding out of her all at once. She’d managed to dodge the truth one more time. But she had a feeling Quinlan wasn’t done with her yet. How much longer would she be able to conceal her identity, now that the cops had found Sutton’s body?