“I’m there,” she said, laughing.
As I watched them, it was almost like my heart came unclenched for a moment. Even with all the madness in her life, my sister had found someone who really cared for her. When I saw the way he looked at her, it made me hope that someday, when this was all over, they would be able to move on.
And I was glad they’d have each other when—if—that time came.
25
EMMA PAXTON: MASTER OF DISGUISE
“Have a nice afternoon, miss.” A thin, white-bearded man wearing a flannel shirt and an apron handed Emma her bag of groceries and gave her a quizzical look.
Emma tugged self-consciously at her skirt. It was Wednesday, and she was incognito again, in Mrs. Landry’s blonde wig, a denim jumper embroidered with butterflies, and a red turtleneck sweater she’d gotten at Goodwill. Plastic dime-store glasses completed the look—she was a dead ringer for the Sunday school teacher she’d had during her few weeks with the Morgans, a particularly pious foster family back in Nevada. She couldn’t believe it had come to this to just buy milk; but the reporters—or Garrett—could be anywhere.
She exited the store and walked across the parking lot toward Ethan’s car, her shadow flickering across the asphalt at her feet. Next to the home improvement store was a Burger King, a line of cars stretching around the drive-through. Just as she dropped the groceries in the car, someone laid on his horn, impatient to make an order.
What she saw next made her stop in her tracks.
Travis had just stepped out of the Burger King, a thirty-two ounce soft drink in his hand. He paused in the doorway, pulling a pair of cheap aviators down over his eyes, before slouching up the street in the opposite direction.
Emma didn’t waste any time. Slamming the car door shut, she followed him on foot.
The area was a cheap commercial zone, lined with big-box stores and chain restaurants. A thin strip of weeds ran between the road and the sidewalk, dotted with overflowing trash cans. She walked slowly, letting Travis stay several feet ahead but keeping him in her line of sight. He wore a backward-facing baseball cap and saggy jeans hanging down almost off his butt. A wallet chain went from his belt loop to his back pocket. When he glanced behind him, she ducked into a crowd of people at a bus stop, trying to keep her face as bored as all the other commuters’ expressions. When she was sure he’d turned away, she followed again.
Travis passed an abandoned mechanics’ garage tagged with graffiti, then cut across the parking lot to a Days Inn Hotel. The pool shone behind the cast-iron gate, three small children in inflatable water wings squealing in the shallow end. Emma hung back and watched as Travis climbed the steps and let himself into one of the rooms.
She stood in the shade of a mesquite tree, uncertainty coiling inside her. Why was he still here? He didn’t know anything about the killer—did he?
But her head snapped up as Ethan’s words came drifting back to her. If we had access to Garrett’s texts or e-mail, we’d be able to see if he sent the link.
They didn’t have Garrett’s phone. But the message might still be somewhere on Travis’s.
With another glance around, she climbed the stairs to his door and knocked. For a moment nothing happened. She knocked again, louder. From the parking lot, a middle-aged couple in matching Hawaiian shirts paused as they climbed out of their station wagon, staring up at her. Emma swallowed, sweat gathering on the back of her neck. She lifted her hand to knock one more time, but before she could, the door jerked open.
Travis stood in the doorway, his hat off. He wore a white tank top snug across his meaty chest, and a thick gold chain dangled from his neck. His chin jutted belligerently at her. Behind him, Arnold Schwarzenegger filled the TV screen, roaring up the freeway on a motorcycle. “What do you want, lady?”
For a moment, she didn’t remember that she was in costume. She blinked, then pulled off her glasses. “It’s me. Emma.”
His jaw fell slack. He looked her slowly up and down, his piggy little eyes bulging. The smell of stale tobacco and sweat hung around him.
“I need your help,” she said, putting on the sweetest expression she could muster. “Everyone thinks I killed my sister.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, grinning. “That one cop, Quinlan or whatever? He’s been trying to get me to tell him all about you.”
She chewed on her thumbnail, knowing she had to play this just right. “What have you told him so far?”
Travis shrugged, bracing himself against the door frame so he loomed over her.
“So far just about your freaky little habit,” he said.
“You mean that video someone sent you?” she said, choosing her words carefully.
“Yup,” he said. “Man, I liked watching that. Such a bummer they took it down.”
Bingo. Garrett had sent him that link. Her heart swelled with excitement. If she could get her hands on his phone, she could prove it. She took a deep breath.
“I didn’t kill Sutton,” she said, a soft, pleading note entering her voice. “You believe me, don’t you?”
He smirked. “I don’t know, Emma. You were pretty violent with me. Always had a nasty temper.”
Emma tensed, fighting the angry retort that was rising in her chest. She’d kneed Travis in the groin once after he’d tried to cop a feel. That was what had led to his framing her for the theft of Clarice’s money.
Travis’s voice dropped conspiratorially. “Besides, Tucson’s a pretty nice place. The cops have me set up here all week—free HBO, room service. All for telling them anything I can about you.”