to its college-like campus. She checked the signage and followed the winding road to the f lat-roofed building labeled youth ministries, which sat under the shadow of both a row of pecan trees and the church itself, a building so sprawling that she had to step back to see it all at once.
Such a large and well-established church seemed a bit obvious for the folks who might have chased her here, but you just never knew. Hiding in plain sight was a strategy she knew better maybe than anyone else alive. The world was tricky that way.
Emma f luffed her bangs in the rearview mirror, then gave her expensively distressed jeans, silky tank top, and red cardigan with the three-quarter length sleeves a cursory check. Her shiny pink toenails peeked out from the open toes of her heeled booties. Unlike last night’s pair, these did not have spots of taco grease. She adjusted her brown leather hobo bag over one shoulder. Matt from the bar would have observed that she looked like a high school girl.
Which was exactly what one of the other IDs she carried in her wallet, the phony school ID, conf irmed. A second driver’s license nestled in the adjacent slot, also put her age as seventeen.
Like so much about her very long life, it was as true as it was untrue.
“I’m Emma O’Neill,” she told the secretary in a shy voice. She held out her hand.
The woman—Melanie Creighton, according to the nameplate on her desk, looked up with a blank stare. Then her blue eyes widened. She took a sharp breath, an audible sound like the air being suddenly uncorked in a bottle.
Bingo, Emma thought. So she wasn’t the only one to notice that the late Elodie Callahan bore a somewhat noticeable resemblance to Emma herself. Right track, then. But would it lead to anything?
Melanie blinked a few times. “Sorry,” she said. “I—you look like . . .” She shook her head. “What did you say you were here for?”
“I’m Emma O’Neill,” Emma repeated. She smiled brightly.
Melanie f inally offered a limp hand, f ingers drifting over Emma’s, her palm waxy. Another lesson from Detective Pete Mondragon: If they just bend a f inger or two and don’t actually shake your hand, don’t trust ’em. ’Cause you can bet they don’t trust you. Recovered now—a quick recovery, Emma duly noted—Melanie peered over her reading glasses. “What can I do for you, Emma?”
Her smile seemed genuine. That was the thing about people: They were often more complicated than they appeared. And also much simpler.
If you’re gonna spin ’em a story, Pete had taught her, keep it simple. And at least partly true. The less you lie, the more they trust you.
“I just moved here from Florida,” Emma said. “My parents aren’t into church, but I thought . . .” She paused long enough for Melanie’s eyes to lock onto hers. “I want to join the youth group,” she blurted when the silence verged on awkward, something she was good at making happen. You learned a lot about timing when you had a lot of time. “I heard from . . . well, the kids at school were talking. They really like the youth pastor here.”
The tips of Melanie’s ears turned pink. This could mean many things or nothing at all, maybe just the thrill of having her day broken up. Something encouraging in the wake of a tragic and frightening loss.
“Pastor Meehan isn’t here. But I can give you the sign-up form, dear.” Melanie spoke fast. She opened a desk drawer and extracted a piece of paper. “It’s nothing off icial,” she said, handing it to Emma. “Just your contact information. You just come to the events. You’ll see. What school do you go to?”
Emma was prepared. “Heritage,” she said. Elodie Callahan’s school.
Melanie’s mouth fell open. She quickly closed it and covered it with her hand.
“I started right before vacation,” Emma went on, letting her voice waver as though she was unsure if this was a good thing or not. “But you know the last few days of school before Christmas . . .” She paused, looking down, then back up.
Melanie took the bait. Swallowed it whole. “Oh, honey, it’s a f ine school. Lots of good kids there. Madison Faw and Bailey Beal. Love those girls. And the boys, too. Barrett Jones—he’s the quarterback on varsity this year. And I think Tyler Gentry goes to Heritage. My own two boys graduated from there. Andy’s at UT