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.

“So what now?” Laurel asked, her eyes on Emma. Her jaw was set determinedly. “We have to find this Emma girl, right? I mean, she’s our sister. Our niece. Our . . . uh, whatever.”

Mrs. Mercer nodded firmly. “We’re going to try to track her down. We would at least like to meet her, make sure she’s safe and happy where she is. Maybe make her a part of our family, if she wants to be.” She tilted her head at Emma questioningly. “Did she tell you anything else, Sutton? Where Emma might be, or what her last name was?”

Emma bit hard on the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from escaping. It was so unfair—they wanted to look for her, wanted to make her safe, and she was right in front of them, in as much danger as she’d ever been in. “No,” she whispered. “Becky didn’t tell me anything else.”

Mr. Mercer sighed, then leaned over to kiss the top of Emma’s head. “Don’t worry,” he said. “One way or another, we’ll find her. And in the meantime—I promise that we’ll be honest with each other from now on.”

For one brief, frantic moment, Emma thought about coming clean. The idea terrified her—they’d be devastated. She would have to tell them that the girl they’d raised as their own daughter was dead—and that she’d helped to cover it up. But it would be a relief, too. She would have help in her investigation, maybe even protection. She would be able to let go of the heavy weight that had pressed down upon her since the first morning she’d woken up in Tucson.

But then she thought about the murderer, always watching her—leaving notes on her car, strangling her at Charlotte’s house, dropping lights from the catwalk in the theater at school. She thought about Nisha, calling her over and over, and then, just like that . . . dying. She couldn’t expose her family to that kind of danger. She couldn’t risk it.