Seven Minutes in Heaven

11 REALITY TV BITES

“The girl’s body was found just a half-mile off Upper Sabino Canyon Road, at the bottom of this scenic overlook.” The newscaster, the same woman who had covered Nisha’s death just a few days earlier, was now wearing a poofy yellow North Face vest. Emma guessed that must be her “outdoorsy” look. She stood in front of a picnic area with green-painted benches and an awning, wisps of hair flying free from her ponytail in the breeze.

Mrs. Mercer passed a basket of steaming rolls to Emma, her eyes never leaving the fifteen-inch television they’d propped at the end of the island. The Mercers almost never ate dinner in front of the TV, but there seemed an unspoken consensus to do so tonight.

Emma and Laurel had both been surprised when the Mercers said they would be missing school that day—until they looked out at the front lawn and saw the crowd of news vans gathered outside. The Mercers had refused to open the door, but any time they saw someone in front of a window the reporters started shouting questions. “Sutton! Sutton, did you know Emma? What do you think happened to her, Sutton?” So Laurel and Emma had spent most of the day in the kitchen, baking cookies and flipping through magazines. “You are looking for answers in the wrong places,” Emma’s horoscope had said, and she rolled her eyes. Tell me something I don’t know.

For most of her life, Emma had wanted to be an investigative reporter when she grew up. But now that she was experiencing a media siege firsthand, she wasn’t so sure. The reporters felt like nothing so much as vultures, circling her family, waiting for one of them to show signs of weakness.

The TV screen cut to a young man with glasses and a long blond ponytail, standing in front of a dormitory building on campus. “She was covered up with leaves and branches,” he said, his voice breaking. “All I could see was her . . . her foot, sticking out at a weird angle.” He looked terrified, blinking in the bright light like a nocturnal creature out during the day. This will haunt him for the rest of his life, Emma thought sadly.

The reporter returned. “The body has been identified as Emma Paxton from Las Vegas, Nevada.” The previous year’s school photo flashed on the screen. Emma had worn a vintage wrap dress she’d scored from a garage sale in Green Valley. Her bangs were shorter then; she’d grown them out to match Sutton’s longer hairstyle. Her smile was maybe a little more guarded than Sutton’s, a little less confident. Still, the image made the Mercers stir in their seats. Mr. Mercer dropped his fork onto his plate of untouched lasagna, and Mrs. Mercer stared at the screen with a rapt, shocked expression.

“It’s so weird,” Laurel said. “She looks just like you.”

All Emma could do was nod.

Watching news coverage of her own death was dizzyingly surreal. She felt weirdly exposed every time her picture appeared on-screen, as if the Mercers would suddenly be able to see that the girl in the photo was sitting right in front of them. The newscasters had said her name so many times it was almost easy to believe that poor Emma Paxton, foster kid, was dead—that she really was Sutton Mercer now.

It was weird for me, too. I watched as my parents grieved for a girl they’d never met when their own daughter was gone. Would I be buried in Vegas, far away from my family and friends? Would my headstone say my sister’s name? What if Emma never found my killer—would she live as me forever, until she was finally buried as Sutton Mercer at the ripe old age of ninety?

“Paxton went missing almost three months ago from Las Vegas, after an argument with her foster family. Clarice Lambert, her guardian at the time, spoke with our Nevada correspondent.”

Emma choked on a mouthful of water, sending it down the wrong pipe. She coughed, clutching her throat.

“Honey?” Mrs. Mercer put a hand on her back.

“I’m okay,” she said quickly. “Just drank too fast.” She took a deep breath, wiping the corners of her eyes. There on the screen, in front of the little bungalow house she’d stayed in for a few short weeks, stood Clarice and her son, Travis. Clarice was wearing a strappy sundress meant for someone much younger than she was, her platinum hair piled high on top of her head. She had a mildly shocked, scandalized expression on her face. Travis slouched next to her, a baseball cap pulled askew across his ear and a sanctimonious expression on his wide, fishy lips.

“She was obviously a troubled girl,” Clarice said. “She stole from me, she lied to me, and when I tried laying down the law, she took off in the dead of night. Never a note or a message saying where she was going. Of course I worried, but there wasn’t anything I could do. She was almost eighteen.”

Emma’s body twitched involuntarily. Clarice had all but kicked her out of the house after Travis had framed her for stealing from her purse. Why was the news even talking to her? She didn’t know anything about Emma.

Travis had the microphone now. “Emma was a wild girl,” he said with a smirk. “She was into all kinds of crazy stuff. I found a video of her online, getting held down and strangled and . . .” His next word was replaced with a loud beep. “She always had money, too. Maybe she was involved with some kind of fetish dungeon or something.”

I goggled at the TV—would they show the snuff video? I didn’t want my parents to see me like that. They both stared at the screen, my mom with a disturbed grimace, my dad looking confused. I wondered if he’d ever even heard the phrase “fetish dungeon” before, much less in connection with anyone he might be related to.

Across the table, Laurel set her glass down with a loud thunk. Emma glanced up at her, her mind shooting back to what she’d learned of the snuff video. Laurel had masterminded that prank—and she’d been the one with the movie saved on her hard drive. What if she recognized what Travis was describing? But Laurel just toyed with her food, a distracted look on her face.

The newscaster’s voice came back. “When investigators tried to find the video, they found no trace. Whether it’s been since taken down, or was a case of mistaken identity, is still under investigation. Meanwhile, LVPD, who is assisting the Tucson police with the investigation, discovered a locker checked out to the missing girl at the Greyhound station, containing clothes, what seem to be journals, and around two thousand dollars in cash.”

Emma’s insides lurched. They had her journals? Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. She imagined the police flipping through the cheap composition books, guffawing over the phase in junior high when she’d dotted all her i’s with hearts, or reading her fake headlines out loud to a room of beat cops. Girl Goes Stag to Homecoming, Stands by Refreshment Table All Night—she imagined Quinlan and his buddies reading it aloud and erupting in laughter. The very thought made her want to hide her face in her hands.

The cameras jumped back to the newscaster, who held her microphone to her lips and looked seriously into the camera. “Meanwhile, the Tucson Police Department has refused to give an official cause of death, saying the case is still under investigation. But our sources tell us Paxton was hoping to meet up with her biological family in Tucson. Whether she made it to them is unknown. The family has so far declined our requests for an interview.” At that, Mrs. Mercer hit the remote, and the sound muted.

“Requests?” she snapped, curling her lip. “You spent most of the day on our front lawn, you gargoyle.” Then she sighed, and started gathering dishes. “Poor Emma. It sounds like she could have used our help.”

“What do you mean?” Emma asked, glancing up at her grandmother.

“Just, if she was as troubled as those people said . . .” Mrs. Mercer trailed off, then shook her head. Her face darkened. “I wish we’d known about her sooner. This is all Becky’s fault. It’s always Becky’s fault. She lies, she steals, she keeps secrets, and she doesn’t care who she hurts along the way.”

“Kristin,” Mr. Mercer said softly. But his wife scowled, grabbing the Pyrex dish of lasagna from the center of the table. She moved so violently a small splatter of sauce flew free and landed on her sweater, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“You know it’s true. She kept us in constant agony, wondering where she was and if she was okay. And for some insane reason, she didn’t tell us about this other little girl who we could have . . .” Tears sprang to her eyes. “This little girl we could have saved.”

Mr. Mercer stood up and gently pried the dish from her hands. He set it back on the table and pulled his wife into his arms. She broke down then, sobbing against his chest as he patted her back. Laurel and Emma looked at each other with wide, frightened eyes. Emma had never seen Mrs. Mercer this emotional, and from the look on Laurel’s face, she hadn’t either.

Emma couldn’t help but agree with Mrs. Mercer. She wanted to forgive Becky—Becky was her mother, after all—but sometimes she was so angry she could scream. What had been the point of keeping Emma if she was only going to abandon her five years later? What had been the point of separating the twins?

It was so unfair. If Sutton hadn’t died, if Emma hadn’t come out to Tucson to find her, the wheels might have been set in motion on their own, by Becky’s confession to Mr. Mercer. What would it have been like if the Mercers had come for her as a family? She imagined being called out of class in Henderson, just like she had been the day they found Sutton’s body. But in this alternate reality, she was summoned to meet her family. Her real, blood family. She pictured it: Mr. Mercer, gentle and reassuring; Mrs. Mercer, a nervous but excited smile twitching the corners of her lips; Laurel, wary at the possibility of a new rival but hopeful, eager to be liked. And Sutton. Her sister. Her twin.

“What was she like?” Laurel asked softly, breaking Emma’s thoughts. Emma gave a start, her mind racing to come back to the present. To the reality where Sutton was gone, and she was alone.

“What was who like?” she asked.

“Emma,” she said. “You talked to her, right?”

Emma ran her finger along the condensation on the outside of her glass. “Just a little bit. I didn’t know much about her.” Then, because she couldn’t resist, she added, “I know her foster mom had just kicked her out of the house. She sounded kind of awful.”

“Who, that woman with the tacky lounge-waitress hairdo?” Laurel said. “She looked awful.”

“Now, girls,” Mr. Mercer said, frowning at them from where he still stood with Mrs. Mercer in his arms. “You don’t know that. It can be hard to know what to do for someone who’s troubled. I’m sure that woman did her best for Emma.”

Emma knew he was speaking more about his own relationship with Becky than anything, but she was glad that Laurel at least had sided with her.

Mrs. Mercer wiped her eyes with a pineapple-print cloth napkin, then let go of her husband. “Did anyone want dessert? There’s some ice cream in the fridge.”

“No thanks, Mom.” Laurel threw her own napkin down in front of her. Emma shook her head, too. Her stomach felt like a lead weight.

Mr. Mercer pulled a chair out for his wife. She sat down, her eyes still damp, and he set about clearing the rest of the dishes. The plates and silverware clattered together, echoing around the silent kitchen. On the muted TV Santa Claus delivered pizzas in his sleigh, the phone number for a regional pizza chain painted on the side.

“Do we have to go to school tomorrow?” Laurel asked, sucking her lower lip anxiously. Mr. and Mrs. Mercer exchanged uneasy glances from across the room. Then Mr. Mercer came back to the table, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“I wish I could hide you girls from this forever,” he said, “but I don’t know if you should miss any more school. We talked to the principal this afternoon, and she promised me there would be no press allowed on campus. I know it won’t be easy. I’m sure your friends have a lot of questions for you.”

Emma rolled her eyes. That was an understatement. All day long she’d been fielding texts from Madeline and Charlotte. WHAT IS GOING ON???? Charlotte had asked, while Madeline had seemed excited that a “mega-foxy” reporter had cornered her outside campus to ask if she knew Sutton. THIS IS SO CRAZY, she’d texted, along with a photo taken from her phone of a line of news vans just off campus.

The Twitter Twins’ updates had been the most useful real-time description of the school day. Early in the morning Gabby had tweeted:

Media circus at Hollier. How’d the paparazzi find me again?

Lili had followed up shortly after:

Life expectancy of teen girls seems to be plummeting in Tucson. Be careful, everyone.

They’d chronicled each rumor as it circulated and had live-blogged the school assembly at which the principal had announced the discovery of another body. Gabby’s last post had read:

Hollier High needs a hero. Sutton Mercer, come back and lead your people!

She knew the halls were going to be buzzing with rumors the next day, and she would be at the center of it. Even imagining it made her heart beat faster—but not nearly so fast as it did a moment later when the news came back from commercials.

A male reporter with a shellacked helmet of hair stood in front of a coffee shop, talking to a girl wearing an apron over a vintage Bad Religion T-shirt. She wore a pair of black plastic-frame glasses, and her dark hair was spiked in a short, edgy pixie cut. Tears glittered in her eyes. Emma hurried to turn the volume back up.

“—just don’t understand how this could happen,” the girl was saying, wiping at her eyes. “Emma was my best friend.”

Before she could stop herself, Emma jumped to her feet, banging her knee on the table leg. Vibrations of pain shot up through her hip, but she ignored them.

The girl on the screen was Alex Stokes—Emma’s best friend from Henderson. The one person she’d been in contact with since coming to Tucson. She was standing outside of Sin City Java, where she was a part-time barista.

The Mercers gawked at Emma, alarm plain on their faces. She’d knocked her chair over, and she stood gripping the side of the table, her knuckles white. Her grandfather looked from her to the TV set, and then back to Emma, his eyes round and baffled. “Do you know that girl?”

Emma sat down slowly, shaking her head no, but they still stared. Laurel’s glass hovered halfway to her lips, frozen in midair. Mrs. Mercer gave her a worried look. Emma cleared her throat and forced herself to speak. “It’s just that that girl seemed to care about Emma a lot. No one else seems to miss her. It’s just so sad.”

Emma stared at her friend’s face. Alex was the only person from her old life who actually cared about her; she also happened to be the only person who could blow Emma’s cover.

Since coming to Tucson, Emma had been lying to Alex, just like she’d been lying to everyone. She’d told her friend back home that she and Sutton were getting along perfectly, that the Mercers had welcomed her to stay with them for a while. She’d been texting Alex on and off for the past three months—long after “Emma Paxton” was supposed to have died.

And now Alex could blow all of her lies wide open. All she had to do was mention the texts she’d gotten from her best friend, apparently from beyond the grave, and Emma would be through.

“We were joined at the hip,” Alex said. And then she looked directly into the camera, tears hanging from her long, dark eyelashes. “We used to meet at the rec center and talk for hours.”

And just like that, relief flooded Emma’s body. Alex wasn’t going to expose her. Alex was covering for her. The “rec center” had been their own private code for any kind of rule-breaking. It started when Emma was staying with the Stokeses; one night Alex had slipped out past her curfew for a date with a boy from UNLV. When Alex’s single mom came home early and asked where her daughter was, Emma had stammered out that Alex was swimming at the rec center. They both laughed about it later. Good thing my mom’s internal clock is all screwed up from working nights, Alex had teased, or she’d have wanted to know why that pool is open at midnight on a weeknight. From then on, “rec center” was synonymous for “I’ve got your back.”

Emma suddenly missed her old best friend more than ever. Hearing the news of her own death had made her feel horribly alone—as though she were a living ghost, invisible to the people around her. But here was Alex, clear as day, telling her she was on her side.

“I think I need to lie down for a little while,” Emma said cautiously. “May I be excused?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Mercer was still watching her with concern evident on her face. “Do you need anything, sweetheart?”

“No, I’m all right.” Emma gave a wan smile. “Just tired.” She stood up and carefully pushed her chair in against the table. She could feel their eyes follow her out the kitchen door.

It was all she could do to keep from taking the stairs three at a time. She forced herself to walk slowly, passing the gallery wall of family photos that ran up the stairwell. She knew the pictures by heart now, every smile, every outfit, the patterns on the wrapping paper in birthday and Christmas photos. It was a highlight reel of Sutton’s life, not hers—and yet after so much pretending, sometimes it was hard to remember that.

When she got to Sutton’s room, Emma rummaged at the bottom of the biggest desk drawer, where she’d hidden the old BlackBerry she’d brought with her from Vegas. Sure enough, Alex had messaged her. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? ARE YOU OK?

Emma winced, wishing Alex were in front of her right that minute so she could throw her arms around her with relief. She hit the button to reply.

I CAN’T EXPLAIN RIGHT NOW. DON’T CONTACT ME AGAIN—IT’S DANGEROUS. THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING. LOVE YOU ALWAYS.

Her heart was sick at the knowledge that she was about to cut off one of the few people in the world who really knew her, but she forced herself to hit SEND, then powered down the BlackBerry. In Sutton’s underwear drawer she found a box of tampons—her go-to hiding place from her foster kid days. No one ever thought to look in someone else’s tampon box. She shoved the phone inside and stuck it in the back of the drawer.

There. Hopefully Alex would keep a low profile until this was all over and Emma could explain. The last thing she needed was for her best friend to end up on the murderer’s hit list—or get Emma herself thrown in jail.

But I couldn’t help wishing Emma had broken the BlackBerry and thrown away the pieces. After all, they’d found the Greyhound locker. Nothing was safe, not anymore. Emma needed to hurry up and prove that Garrett killed me—before he pinned it on her.