But even as she thought the words, a grim conviction settled over the doubt and grief that occupied her heart. She couldn’t afford to believe in coincidences anymore. After all, how many long shots had brought her here? Travis, her pothead foster brother, had just happened to stumble upon a fake snuff video of Sutton that he’d thought was Emma. She’d conveniently arrived in Tucson the day after her sister’s death, after spending eighteen years without even knowing she had a sister. And now Nisha had died the very same day she urgently had to talk to Emma? No, not all of that could be chance. She felt like a pawn under an invisible hand, being moved without volition across a chessboard in a game she barely understood.

And she couldn’t help but feel that Nisha had just been sacrificed in the same game.

I watched as my sister fumbled with a handful of bobby pins, trying to sweep her hair up into a French twist. Emma was hopeless at updos—at anything but a simple ponytail, really. I wished I could stand behind her and help. I wished that we could get ready together and that I could hold her hand during the funeral. I wished I could tell her I was right there when Emma felt so very alone.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Emma spit out a bobby pin and looked up. “Come in.”

Mr. Mercer pushed the door open, wearing a tailored black suit and a blue-and-burgundy tie. The gray in his hair seemed more pronounced than usual; he’d had a lot of secrets to keep lately. Emma had recently learned from him that Becky was the Mercers’ daughter—making Emma their biological granddaughter. Now that she knew it, she could see the resemblance. She had Mr. Mercer’s straight nose and bow-shaped lips. But Mr. Mercer had kept Becky’s reappearance from his wife and Sutton’s sister, Laurel.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, giving her a tentative smile. “How are you doing up here?”

Emma opened her mouth to say fine, but after a moment she closed it and shrugged. She didn’t know how to answer that question, but she certainly wasn’t fine.

Mr. Mercer nodded, then let out a heavy breath. “You’ve been through so much.” He was talking about more than Nisha. As if her friend’s death weren’t enough, Emma had recently seen Becky, her own mother, for the first time in thirteen years.

Emma had managed to prove that Becky was innocent of Sutton’s murder, but the image of Becky strapped to a hospital bed, frothing at the mouth, still haunted her dreams. She’d spent so many years wondering what had happened to her mom, but she’d never realized how ill Becky was. How unstable.

She picked up the small black-and-white clutch she’d packed with tissues. “I’m ready to go.”