flew back and forth wildly, and when it hit the accent table at the foot of the stairs, the photos of Laurel and Sutton propped on top collapsed like a set of dominoes. He reared up and pawed at Mr. Mercer, whining with excitement.
“Down!” Mr. Mercer said, trying to sound stern, but the sight made Emma smile. She pulled on a purple Juicy Couture puffer jacket she’d found in Sutton’s closet while Mr. Mercer snapped the leash to the dog’s collar.
The night was crisp and so clear the stars looked like perforations in the sky. Christmas decorations had started to spring up throughout the neighborhood. Poinsettias in terra-cotta planters flanked a few desert-scaped walkways, and one family had strung colored fairy lights around a towering saguaro cactus in their yard. The Paulsons had gone completely overboard—they’d assembled a giant inflatable snow globe, its constantly running fan roaring as it circulated fake snow through a winter scene that featured both Santa and Frosty the Snowman. When Emma and her grandfather stepped close to the yard they activated some hidden trigger that started playing “Deck the Halls” from a tinny speaker behind the mailbox. Drake eyed the production warily, pressing protectively against Emma’s leg as they walked past.
Mr. Mercer seemed surprised by the decorations, as if he’d lost track of months. “I haven’t even had a chance to ask you girls what you want for Christmas,” he said.
“Oh, right,” Emma said, feeling suddenly warm despite the chill. No one had ever asked her what she wanted for Christmas before. She knew Sutton had no problem asking for designer clothes and goods from her parents, but all she wanted was to solve her sister’s murder. And stay a part of this family.
Mr. Mercer sighed, his breath puffing out into the cold night air. “I know it’s hard to even think of presents at a time like this.”
“I’m sure I can come up with something.” She put on a deadpan expression that made him chuckle.
They walked in silence for a little while. Mr. Mercer moved with his shoulders strangely hunched, as if protecting himself from something Emma couldn’t see. He seemed tired and introspective, and she wondered if it was the loss of a granddaughter he didn’t know affecting him so profoundly, or something else entirely.
“Have you heard from Becky?” she asked tentatively.
“No,” he said, his voice low. He looked ahead into the darkness. “I want to try to get word to her, but who knows where she is by now? And maybe it’s better that she doesn’t know. What would it help? She lost track of Emma so long ago. It might be best if she never learns what happened to her.”
The idea put a lump in Emma’s throat. Becky hadn’t been in her life for thirteen years, but the idea that Emma could die and Becky would never even know it made her feel small and alone. She could have suffered terribly every single day since Becky had left her—she could have died hundreds of times over, and Becky wouldn’t have had a clue. She’d never realized it before, but now that she did, the thought sat hard and cold over her heart.
I knew how Emma felt. Every single time I watched my adopted father put an arm around her shoulders, I was sure that would be the time he realized that she was an impostor. That he’d finally see that I was gone. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly—I didn’t begrudge Emma that love—but the world had moved forward, and no one had noticed that the girl living my life wasn’t even me.
Emma played with the zipper pull on her jacket, her voice suddenly small. “Dad, did you suspect? Before Becky told you, I mean? Did you ever think there might have been two of us?”
Mr. Mercer turned to look at her, his lips twisted in thought. “No. But then again, you yourself were such a surprise it was hard to know what to think. Becky was only eighteen when she came home with you. We hadn’t seen her for more than six months. We hadn’t
“Down!” Mr. Mercer said, trying to sound stern, but the sight made Emma smile. She pulled on a purple Juicy Couture puffer jacket she’d found in Sutton’s closet while Mr. Mercer snapped the leash to the dog’s collar.
The night was crisp and so clear the stars looked like perforations in the sky. Christmas decorations had started to spring up throughout the neighborhood. Poinsettias in terra-cotta planters flanked a few desert-scaped walkways, and one family had strung colored fairy lights around a towering saguaro cactus in their yard. The Paulsons had gone completely overboard—they’d assembled a giant inflatable snow globe, its constantly running fan roaring as it circulated fake snow through a winter scene that featured both Santa and Frosty the Snowman. When Emma and her grandfather stepped close to the yard they activated some hidden trigger that started playing “Deck the Halls” from a tinny speaker behind the mailbox. Drake eyed the production warily, pressing protectively against Emma’s leg as they walked past.
Mr. Mercer seemed surprised by the decorations, as if he’d lost track of months. “I haven’t even had a chance to ask you girls what you want for Christmas,” he said.
“Oh, right,” Emma said, feeling suddenly warm despite the chill. No one had ever asked her what she wanted for Christmas before. She knew Sutton had no problem asking for designer clothes and goods from her parents, but all she wanted was to solve her sister’s murder. And stay a part of this family.
Mr. Mercer sighed, his breath puffing out into the cold night air. “I know it’s hard to even think of presents at a time like this.”
“I’m sure I can come up with something.” She put on a deadpan expression that made him chuckle.
They walked in silence for a little while. Mr. Mercer moved with his shoulders strangely hunched, as if protecting himself from something Emma couldn’t see. He seemed tired and introspective, and she wondered if it was the loss of a granddaughter he didn’t know affecting him so profoundly, or something else entirely.
“Have you heard from Becky?” she asked tentatively.
“No,” he said, his voice low. He looked ahead into the darkness. “I want to try to get word to her, but who knows where she is by now? And maybe it’s better that she doesn’t know. What would it help? She lost track of Emma so long ago. It might be best if she never learns what happened to her.”
The idea put a lump in Emma’s throat. Becky hadn’t been in her life for thirteen years, but the idea that Emma could die and Becky would never even know it made her feel small and alone. She could have suffered terribly every single day since Becky had left her—she could have died hundreds of times over, and Becky wouldn’t have had a clue. She’d never realized it before, but now that she did, the thought sat hard and cold over her heart.
I knew how Emma felt. Every single time I watched my adopted father put an arm around her shoulders, I was sure that would be the time he realized that she was an impostor. That he’d finally see that I was gone. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly—I didn’t begrudge Emma that love—but the world had moved forward, and no one had noticed that the girl living my life wasn’t even me.
Emma played with the zipper pull on her jacket, her voice suddenly small. “Dad, did you suspect? Before Becky told you, I mean? Did you ever think there might have been two of us?”
Mr. Mercer turned to look at her, his lips twisted in thought. “No. But then again, you yourself were such a surprise it was hard to know what to think. Becky was only eighteen when she came home with you. We hadn’t seen her for more than six months. We hadn’t
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