She picked up the small black-and-white clutch she’d packed with tissues. “I’m ready to go.”
Her grandfather nodded. “Why don’t you come down to the living room first, Sutton? I think it’s time to have a family meeting.”
“Family meeting?”
Mr. Mercer nodded. “Laurel and Mom are already waiting.”
Emma bit her lip. She’d never been to anything like a family meeting before and didn’t know what to expect. She stood unsteadily on Sutton’s black wedges and followed Mr. Mercer down the staircase and through the bright entryway. Crisp, early-afternoon light flooded through the high window.
The Mercers’ living room was decorated in luxe Southwestern colors—lots of earthy reds and tans paired with Navajo chevron prints. Paintings of desert flowers hung on the walls, and a Steinway baby grand stood gleaming beneath one window. Mrs. Mercer and Laurel were already there, sitting close together on the wide leather couch.
As with Mr. Mercer, Emma could see her own resemblance to her grandmother now that she knew to look for it. They had the same marine-blue eyes, the same slender frame. Mrs. Mercer looked nervous, her lipstick torn where she’d been biting her lip. Next to her, Laurel sat with her legs crossed, jiggling one foot up and down anxiously. Her honey-blonde hair was twisted back in the exact updo Emma had been trying to pull off. She’d chosen a black pencil skirt and a button-down blouse for the occasion, and she wore a tiny gold bracelet with a charm shaped like a tennis racket. She was pale beneath the light freckles across her nose.
Emma sat down carefully on the suede wing chair across from Laurel and her grandmother. From the entryway, the clock gave a single resonant bong.
“The funeral starts in an hour,” Laurel said. “Shouldn’t we get going?”
“We will, in just a minute,” said Mr. Mercer. “Your mother and I wanted to talk to you first.” He cleared his throat. “Nisha’s death is a reminder about what’s really important in this life. You girls are more important to us than anything.” His voice caught as he spoke, and he paused for a moment to regain his composure.
Laurel looked up at Mr. Mercer, her forehead creased in a frown. “Dad, we know. You don’t have to tell us that.”
He shook his head. “Your mother and I haven’t always been honest with you girls, Laurel, and it’s hurt our family. We want to tell you the truth. Secrets only drive us apart.”
Emma suddenly realized what he was talking about. Neither Mrs. Mercer nor Laurel knew that she and Mr. Mercer had been in contact with Becky. Laurel didn’t even know Becky existed. As far as she knew, Sutton had been adopted from an anonymous stranger. As for Mrs. Mercer, she’d banished Emma’s mother from the household years before. Emma shot a panicked look at Mr. Mercer. He clung to the back of the chair as if bracing himself.
Mrs. Mercer seemed to notice Emma’s anxiety and gave her a weak smile. “Honey, it’s okay. Your father and I have talked about this. I know everything. You’re not in trouble.”
Laurel looked sharply at her mother. “What are you talking about?” Her gaze shifted to Mr. Mercer. “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on?”
An awkward silence descended on the room. Mrs. Mercer stared down at her lap, while Mr. Mercer adjusted his tie uncomfortably.
Emma swallowed hard, meeting Laurel’s eyes. “I finally met my birth mother.”
Laurel’s jaw fell open, her neck jutting forward in surprise. “What? That’s huge news!”
“That’s not all, though,” Mr. Mercer broke in. His mouth twisted downward unhappily. “Laurel, honey, the truth is, Sutton is our biological granddaughter.”
Laurel froze for a moment. Then she slowly shook her head, staring at her father. “I don’t understand. That’s impossible. How could she be your . . .”
“Her mom—Becky—is our daughter,” continued Mr. Mercer. “We had her when we were very young. Becky left home before you were even born, Laurel.”
“But . . . why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?” Angry pink spots appeared in Laurel’s cheeks. “This is insane.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry we never told you before.” Mr. Mercer’s voice had a pleading note to it. “We thought we were making the right decision. We wanted to protect you girls from our own mistakes.”
“She’s my sister!” Laurel snapped, her voice shrill. For a moment, Emma thought she was talking about Sutton—but then she realized Laurel was referring to Becky. “You kept my sister from me!”
Emma’s fingers clutched her dress, her knuckles pale from the force. After everything she’d been through, she was startled to find she was still afraid of a Class Five Laurel Tantrum. But she couldn’t blame Laurel for her reaction. Emma had spent so much time thinking of Becky as her missing mother that she’d almost forgotten Becky and Laurel were sisters. Laurel was right; it wasn’t fair that she’d never been given the chance to know her.
“Where is she? What’s she like?” Laurel demanded. Emma opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, Mrs. Mercer spoke.
“Troubled.”
That one soft word seemed to fill the room. They all looked toward Mrs. Mercer, who was quietly crying, her hand pressed to her lips. The sight of her mother in distress seemed to derail Laurel’s anger. She bit her lip, and her eyes softened.
Mrs. Mercer continued, her hand lowering to her heart. Her voice was low and shaky, barely louder than a whisper. “Becky hurt your father and me so much, Laurel. She’s a difficult person to care for. We decided that it would be better for all of us if we didn’t have contact with her. She’s done so much damage to this family over the years.”
“It’s not all Becky’s fault,” Mr. Mercer broke in, leaning forward. “She’s mentally ill, Laurel, and your mother and I didn’t really know how to handle that when she was growing up.”
Laurel turned her gaze to Emma again, her face more wounded than angry. “How long have you known all this?”
Emma took a deep breath. She picked up a tasseled pillow from the chair next to her and hugged it to her chest like a stuffed animal, thinking of what Sutton’s answer to this question would be. “I met her that night in Sabino Canyon. The night of Nisha’s tennis sleepover.”
Emma had done her best to piece together the night that I died, and bits of my memory had come back, too. I had seen Laurel that night, when I called her to pick up Thayer Vega, my secret boyfriend and Laurel’s longtime crush, and take him to the hospital after someone—probably my murderer—had tried to run him over with my car. I could see the memory register on Laurel’s face, too, her eyes widening as she made the connection.
“I’m sorry I kept it from you,” Emma said, flinching as she thought of all the other huge secrets she was hiding from the Mercers. “It was really intense, and I just wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.”
Laurel nodded slowly. She toyed with the charm on her bracelet, conflicting emotions flitting across her face. Emma knew how she felt—the discoveries she’d made about Becky and the Mercers were still fresh for her, too.
The room was so quiet they could hear the family’s Great Dane’s breath from where Drake snoozed in a gargantuan dog bed near the fireplace. Mr. Mercer stared out the window, where a pair of cactus wrens were busily building a nest in the desert willow beyond. After a long moment, Laurel laughed quietly.
“What?” Emma asked, cocking her head.
“I just realized,” Laurel said, a half-smile twisting her lips to the side, “this makes you my niece, doesn’t it?”
Emma laughed softly, too. “I guess so.”
“Technically, it does,” Mr. Mercer added. He unbuttoned and rebuttoned his suit coat, looking visibly relieved to hear them laugh. “But since we formally adopted Sutton, she’s also legally your sister.”
Laurel turned to face Emma again, and even though her smile looked a little strained, her eyes were warm. “This is all really crazy . . . but it’s kind of cool that we’re related. Biologically, I mean. You know you’ve always been my sister. But I’m glad we’re related by blood, too.”
Quick flashes of memory crowded my mind of us as little girls. Laurel was right. We had been sisters. We’d fought like sisters, but we’d also taken care of each other the way sisters were supposed to.
Mr. Mercer cleared his throat, running his hand over his jaw. “There’s one more thing,” he said. Emma’s eyes shot up at him. More? “Becky said some strange things to me before she left. It’s hard to know what to believe. Becky isn’t always . . . reliable. But for some reason my gut says she might be telling the truth this time. She says that she had another daughter. That Sutton had a twin.”
Emma’s heart wrenched to a halt in her chest. For one long moment her vision went blurry, the Mercers’ living room turning into a smeared Dali-like landscape around her. They still didn’t know the whole truth. When she’d looked at Becky’s files two weeks before, Emma discovered that Becky had yet another daughter, a twelve-year-old girl who Becky said lived with her father in California.
“A twin?” Laurel squeaked.
“I don’t know if it’s true.” Mr. Mercer looked down at Emma, his face unreadable. “Becky didn’t seem to know where your sister—your twin—was now, Sutton. But her name is Emma.”
“Emma?” Laurel turned an incredulous glance at Emma. “Isn’t that what you called yourself at breakfast the first day of school?”
Emma picked at a snag in Sutton’s dress, playing for time. She was spared answering when Mr. Mercer spoke again.
“Becky told you about her, didn’t she?” he asked softly. “That night at Sabino?”
Her mind churning, Emma managed to nod, grateful that Mr. Mercer had provided an explanation. It was most likely true. When Emma had spoken with Becky last week, Becky had talked about Emma like she’d already told Sutton about her once. Either way, Emma knew she had to be very careful here.
“All she told me was her name,” Emma said softly. “I should have told you. But I was so mad. I was trying to find out if you knew about her, too, see if you recognized the name. I thought maybe I could pick a fight and you’d have to tell me.”
Another tense silence opened in the room. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Drake look up from his bed and glance around, wagging his tail tentatively. The second hand on Mr. Mercer’s Cartier watch clicked audibly. It seemed ploddingly slow compared to Emma’s own racing heart.
Mrs. Mercer finally broke the silence. “I’m so sorry we lied to you, Sutton. To both of you. You both have every right to be angry. I hope someday you can understand, and maybe even forgive us.”
My own heart ached at the look on my mother’s face, full of anguish. Of course I forgave her, even though I could never tell her that. I only hoped she’d be able to forgive herself when the entire truth came out, when she realized how dearly all those secrets had cost our family. That someone had used them against us—against me—by forcing Emma to take my place after my death.
