“I saw them on TV yesterday, but she didn’t tell me anything about them.” She frowned slightly. “I thought I saw her foster brother—what’s his name, Travis?—out front in the waiting area. Does he know anything about what happened to my sister?”

The corner of Quinlan’s eyebrow twitched again, but besides that his face didn’t move. “We’re hoping he can help us with a timeline,” he said. He picked up Emma’s file, opening it near his chest. She strained her eyes to try to see over the top of the page, but he kept it at a close angle to his body.

“Okay, now, what can you tell me about Nisha Banerjee?” Quinlan’s voice was almost conversational, his face neutral and earnest, but a blade of cold shot up Emma’s spine. She stared at him blankly.

“What about her?” she asked. She fought to keep her fingernails out of her mouth, instead sliding her hands under her butt on the chair. Quinlan gave her a disingenuously curious look.

“Well, her phone records show that she called you over and over the day she died. She apparently had something really important to tell you. What was so urgent?”

Emma shrugged, trying to look more wistful than terrified. “I’ve already told you, I wish I knew. She died before she could tell me. But what’s that got to do with Emma?”

“I don’t know, Sutton. You tell me.” Quinlan closed the file and set it down, then crossed his arms over his chest. He stared at her for a long moment, as if expecting her to volunteer more information.

Alarm bells went off in my head. I knew this game too well. Quinlan and I had played cat and mouse for the past few years. His bullshit radar was hair-trigger keen. Emma needed to step very carefully.

Quinlan leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his neck. “You know, when I first got word of this, I was sure it was a prank. Sutton can’t have a twin, I thought—one of you is more than enough. Still, something isn’t adding up.”

Emma straightened in her chair. Her hands trembled, but she tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Hey, thanks for recording this. I’m glad whoever’s going to listen will hear you harassing a grieving teenager without her parents in the room.”

That seemed to startle him. He glanced at the recorder, then back at her. “Look, I’m just saying, given your history the whole thing seems kind of far-fetched.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t get to write my own life,” Emma snapped. That was true enough, she thought. “Sorry you don’t like the plot.”

Quinlan held up his hands defensively. “All right, I’m sorry. You’re right.” He sighed. “Can you just do me one favor, though?”

“What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.