Emma felt an unwilling lurch of sympathy for the woman. No wonder Mrs. Landry had been so uncomfortable with Emma. She’d known all along who Emma was, what her son was capable of—and she either didn’t want to believe it or was too scared to intervene.

The camera cut back to the reporter. “The Tucson District Attorney’s office plans to charge Landry with two counts of murder and one count of attempted murder, along with fraud, conspiracy, blackmail, kidnapping, and assault,” she said. “The request for bail has been denied. This is Tricia Melendez, signing off.”

Emma walked to Sutton’s desk and snapped the laptop shut. The day before, she’d met with the Tucson District Attorney, a stout, brisk woman in a red power suit. She’d agreed to testify in court and to provide any evidence she could in the case. They’d offered her immunity from prosecution—the D.A. told her they could have charged her with fraud and identity theft if they wanted to—but that wasn’t why she’d agreed to testify. She’d sworn to bring her sister’s killer to justice, and she planned to follow through to the end. The idea of being in a room with Ethan again, even separated by the witness box and a dozen burly bailiffs, made the hollow place inside her feel even more raw. But the trial was months away. She had time to steel herself, to try to heal, before then.

According to the D.A., Ethan’s laptop showed hacks into Sutton’s and Emma’s personal information—their phones, their computers, their medical files. There were also copies of all the photos he’d taken of Emma on his Las Vegas trip, and dozens upon dozens of Sutton. He’d encrypted everything, but the forensics lab had some guy who was more or less a savant, and he’d managed to retrieve it all.

She lay back in the nest of pillows, suddenly exhausted again. It had been so easy for Ethan to fool her, to make her love him. He’d been her perfect boyfriend, funny and sensitive and thoughtful. Had the entire thing been an act to keep her in Tucson? Was there any small part of it that had been real? And did she even want it to be? She wasn’t sure what was worse: getting played by a monster—or being in love with a killer.

A soft tap came at her door. Emma gave a little start and glanced at the bean-shaped clock over Sutton’s window. It was just after one—soon they would have to leave. “Come in.”

Mrs. Mercer opened the door a crack and peeked in. Her smile was almost shy, but her blue eyes were warm. “How are you doing?”

“I’m almost ready,” Emma said. They stood in awkward silence for a moment, Mrs. Mercer’s face framed by the barely opened door.