Emma swallowed hard. She looked back out the window, not trusting herself to speak. Were they trying to good-cop her now, trying to get her to confess just because some cute guy, close to her own age, was acting like he understood what she was going through? But Corcoran had fallen silent, like he’d said his piece and that was all he had to say.
When they turned the corner onto the Mercers’ street, Emma’s jaw dropped. The place was swarming with reporters. The whole street was lit up like a ballpark, a dozen vans lining either side of the road. Reporters checked their makeup in the side mirrors on cars and ran through their lines, beard-stubbled men with giant cameras hoisted on their shoulders trailing in their wake. It looked like the Mercers’ neighbor, Mr. Paulson, was being interviewed in his driveway by a man with his hair plastered in a Ken-doll coif. Other reporters seemed to be mid-broadcast, using the Mercers’ house as a backdrop.
I’d always dreamed of being famous, of having paparazzi follow me home and beg me for interviews. But this definitely wasn’t what I had in mind.
“Stay where you are,” Corcoran said to Emma, putting the car in park in the middle of the street. He opened his car door. The moment he did, the cacophony of dozens of voices filled the squad car.
“Are you Emma Paxton, or Sutton Mercer?”
“Emma, why’d you do it?”
“Did anyone help you kill your sister?”
Corcoran didn’t even look at them. He walked around to the passenger-side door and opened it, standing protectively in front of Emma to keep the shouting reporters at a slight distance.
She met the officer’s eyes. They were calm, clear blue, and while she couldn’t tell if he believed her story or not, she could see a stubborn conviction there. This guy wanted her to be treated fairly, she realized. Whether or not she was innocent, whether or not she had lied, he wanted her to have a fair shake.
“Ready?” he asked. She nodded, suddenly feeling a little stronger. He might not be her ally—but for the moment, he was close enough.
He helped her to her feet, then guided her quickly through the crowd.
“Emma! Did you really think you’d get away with it?”
“Do you think your mom’s mental illness is genetic?”
“Did Sutton put up a fight?”
Corcoran stood at the edge of the yard, his arms crossed over his chest. “Go on, then,” he said. “I’ll stay here ’til you get inside.”
She nodded, staring longingly at the Mercers’ front door. All she wanted was to be inside, to sit down with her family and tell them everything, as they’d already done with her. As she walked up the driveway, she could hear the manic clicking of the photographers’ cameras all around her. A man in a dark red blazer tried to launch himself past Corcoran, microphone stretched out toward her—but the officer grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and jerked him back.
Emma reached the porch and stood in front of the oak door with its lion-shaped knocker. She pulled out her keys, then fumbled and dropped them with a resounding clatter on the porch. Cheeks burning, she bent to pick them up.
But when she went to unlock the door, the key wouldn’t fit.
Her heart tightened in the half second before she consciously understood. The locks had been changed. She wasn’t welcome.
I stared down at the keys in my sister’s hand. My house key had purple nail polish painted across the top, so I could always differentiate it from the others. How many times had I used it without ever realizing how lucky I was to have a home to go to? How many times had I let myself in, never realizing what a privilege it was?
Her hand trembling, Emma rang the doorbell. Inside she could hear Drake barking, deep and hoarse. The blinds were all drawn tight, but it looked like every light in the house was blazing—blades of yellow cut through the slats.
Something rustled behind the door. She waited. Behind her, the reporters were yelling questions, drowning each other out so they generated a loud, indeterminate roar. Corcoran stood at the curb with his arms crossed over his chest, staring stoically out at the crowd.
Suddenly a voice came from behind the door. “You can’t stay here.” Mrs. Mercer’s voice was nasal and stuffy. It was obvious she’d been crying.
“Please, Mrs. Mercer, I just want to explain.” She didn’t want to plead her case here on the doorstep, with the press watching and taking pictures. She leaned toward the door, hoping to hide her face from their cameras. “Please just give me a chance to explain.”
The door jerked open without warning.
My heart wrenched at the sight of my mother standing in the light-filled entryway, her face blotchy with tears. A frenzied, wild expression contorted her features, grief and rage twisting together. She still wore her work clothes, gray tweed slacks and a pink shell top, but she was barefoot and disheveled. She stared at Emma like she barely recognized her.
“I want you gone,” she said shrilly, her eyes blazing.
“Mrs. Mercer, please . . .”
“You’re just like your mother,” hissed the older woman. Emma took an involuntary step back. “You’re both liars. You’re both insane. You don’t care who you hurt, as long as you get your way.”
“I’m not like Becky!” Emma gasped. A sense of desperation clawed at her chest. She had to make her grandmother understand. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m so sorry, but I had no choice!”
Mrs. Mercer gave a strangled sob, tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. “You had a choice, and you made it.”