Mr. and Mrs. Mercer’s heads both shot around to stare at her. “What?” Mr. Mercer asked, his eyebrows arched up as high as they could go. The color had drained from Mrs. Mercer’s face. Next to her, Laurel gaped soundlessly.

Emma stared down at her feet—she didn’t trust herself to meet anyone’s eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” she said, inventing rapidly. “I wasn’t sure if it was real or not. She never showed up where we agreed to meet, and I assumed it was all some sort of prank.” She thought back to that night—how eager and hopeful she’d been, how excited to finally meet her family. Grief twisted in her chest.

Laurel snaked her arm reassuringly through Emma’s. “Was that what you were trying to tell us earlier this afternoon, back at school?”

“Yes,” Emma agreed quickly, grateful for Laurel’s explanation. “I waited for her for hours.”

Quinlan’s pen scratched quickly across the page, the only sound in the thick silence. Emma looked up at the Mercers, their faces full of sadness and confusion. The gray streak in Mrs. Mercer’s hair seemed to stand out more starkly than usual, her face lined. She looked strangely old.

“And you didn’t tell anyone about this? Didn’t worry about your sister?” Quinlan said skeptically.

Emma met Quinlan’s eyes. Inside, her heart was racing, her nerves on fire. But she gazed steadily at the detective for a long moment. “This all happened right after I met my birth mom, Detective Quinlan. Do you know anything about my birth mom?”

Quinlan glanced at Mr. Mercer. During Becky’s most recent stay in town, she’d been arrested for pulling a knife on a stranger during a psychotic break. Emma was willing to bet it wasn’t her first run-in with the law.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I know about your mother.”

Emma could feel her lip trembling, but she held her head steady. Mr. Mercer took a step toward her as if to comfort her, but she didn’t turn her gaze from Quinlan.

“Becky has problems,” she said. “She skips town any time she gets a little upset. How was I supposed to know Emma wasn’t just like her?” The bitterness in her voice—anger directed at Becky—was genuine. A single tear streaked down her cheek. “And like I said, I wasn’t totally convinced it wasn’t a prank. I didn’t want everyone to see me acting . . . desperate.”

Mrs. Mercer gave a strangled groan and buried her face in her hands. Mr. Mercer looked torn between comforting his wife and going to his daughter. But before he could move, Laurel spoke.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” she said curtly, “we’re grieving.”

A rush of gratitude for my sister filled me.