As Quinlan led her past the clusters of desks, she was intensely aware of all the eyes following them both. Everyone in the office seemed to know who she was and what she was there for. A paunchy, buzz-cut officer gawked openly as she passed. A woman whose black hair was twisted in a high pompadour on her head took a surreptitious photo of her with a cell phone.

Who knew the police force would be just like a bunch of high school kids, I thought bitterly.

Quinlan led Emma down a linoleum hallway to an interrogation room at the back of the station. Like everything else in the building, the room was drab and industrial gray. A faded silk fig tree stood in a plastic pot in one corner, thick dust on its fake leaves. She glanced nervously at Quinlan. “How come we’re in an interrogation room?” she asked, trying to sound like she was joking. “Do I, uh, need a lawyer?”

Quinlan’s mustache twitched slightly. “No, no, Miss Mercer. Not to worry. This is just a casual conversation.” He moved to the far side of the table, then tossed two manila folders onto the table, side by side. The tab on the thicker one read SUTTON MERCER. The other read EMMA PAXTON.

Emma stared at the thin folder with her name on it. What could possibly be inside? The only time she’d ever gotten in trouble with the law in her old life was the night she and Alex had broken curfew to see a punk show on UNLV campus, and the officer then hadn’t even written them up—he’d just driven them home and handed them over to Alex’s furious mother, which had been bad enough. Was the file only for information about the body they’d found in the canyon? Her fingers ached to flip it open, but that was obviously impossible with Quinlan right in front of her.

I wanted to see inside just as badly as Emma did—especially if there was information about my body in her file. Every time I tried to imagine my corpse, an overwhelming sense of curiosity took hold of me. I’d never liked creepy things when I was alive—I didn’t watch slasher movies or medical dramas or anything like that. But the urge to see my body was like an itch just out of reach. It wouldn’t go away until I’d scratched it.

Quinlan, meanwhile, was busy fidgeting with a digital recorder he’d set on the table. “Can you please state your name and date of birth, Miss Mercer?”

Emma repeated Sutton’s name and their birthday, and after he’d replayed the recording to make sure it was working, he clasped his fingers together and rested them on the table. “All right. Can you please tell me again what you know about Emma Paxton?”