When they turned the corner onto the Mercers’ street, Emma’s jaw dropped. The place was swarming with reporters. The whole street was lit up like a ballpark, a dozen vans lining either side of the road. Reporters checked their makeup in the side mirrors on cars and ran through their lines, beard-stubbled men with giant cameras hoisted on their shoulders trailing in their wake. It looked like the Mercers’ neighbor, Mr. Paulson, was being interviewed in his driveway by a man with his hair plastered in a Ken-doll coif. Other reporters seemed to be mid-broadcast, using the Mercers’ house as a backdrop.

I’d always dreamed of being famous, of having paparazzi follow me home and beg me for interviews. But this definitely wasn’t what I had in mind.

“Stay where you are,” Corcoran said to Emma, putting the car in park in the middle of the street. He opened his car door. The moment he did, the cacophony of dozens of voices filled the squad car.

“Are you Emma Paxton, or Sutton Mercer?”

“Emma, why’d you do it?”

“Did anyone help you kill your sister?”

Corcoran didn’t even look at them. He walked around to the passenger-side door and opened it, standing protectively in front of Emma to keep the shouting reporters at a slight distance.

She met the officer’s eyes. They were calm, clear blue, and while she couldn’t tell if he believed her story or not, she could see a stubborn conviction there. This guy wanted her to be treated fairly, she realized. Whether or not she was innocent, whether or not she had lied, he wanted her to have a fair shake.

“Ready?” he asked. She nodded, suddenly feeling a little stronger. He might not be her ally—but for the moment, he was close enough.

He helped her to her feet, then guided her quickly through the crowd.

“Emma! Did you really think you’d get away with it?”

“Do you think your mom’s mental illness is genetic?”

“Did Sutton put up a fight?”

Corcoran stood at the edge of the yard, his arms crossed over his chest. “Go on, then,” he said. “I’ll stay here ’til you get inside.”

She nodded, staring longingly at the Mercers’ front door. All she wanted was to be inside, to sit down with her family and tell them everything, as they’d already done with her. As she walked up the driveway, she could hear the manic clicking of the photographers’ cameras all around her. A man in a dark red blazer tried to launch himself past Corcoran, microphone stretched out toward her—but the officer grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and jerked him back.

Emma reached the porch and stood in front of the oak door with its lion-shaped knocker. She pulled out her keys, then fumbled and dropped them with a resounding clatter on the porch. Cheeks burning, she bent to pick them up.