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.