Their eyes were trained on a TV tuned to Dancing with the Stars. A bathrobe-clad girl only a little older than Emma stood swaying in time to the music. A middle-aged woman sat by the window, her head in her hands. One of the patients in front of the TV, a man with gray, greasy hair curling down over his neck, looked into the hall and gave Emma a wink. His grin was missing several teeth. Emma hurried after the nurse, swallowing her almost palpable fear. For a moment, she wanted to run back to the elevator, back to Sutton’s car, back home. But she had to do this. She had to talk to Becky.
I drifted behind Emma, wishing I could warn her to be careful. This was not a good place. Maybe I was more sensitive now that I was dead, or maybe I was just feeding off of Emma’s anxiety, but all around me I could feel sadness and rage and fear. It was even stronger now than the first time we’d come here—emotions buffeted me from all sides. I felt like a raw nerve.
“Sutton?”
A hand curled around Emma’s bicep. A scream caught in Emma’s throat. For a split second she was sure it was the gray-haired man from the social room, and a shudder of revulsion swept through her. But then her eyes refocused.
“N-nisha?” she asked.
Nisha’s red-and-white striped uniform was immaculate, and her thick hair had been pinned up in a French twist. A few feet away rested a cart loaded with outdated magazines and beat-up paperbacks. Her lips parted in surprise. “What’re you doing here?”
Emma swallowed hard. She hadn’t planned on being seen by anyone she knew. How could she have forgotten that Nisha volunteered here? Ahead of her she could see the balding nurse waiting impatiently for her outside Becky’s room. She leaned toward Nisha’s ear.
“I’m … visiting a friend. But this has to be a secret. Please don’t tell anyone you saw me here. I’ll explain later.”
Nisha nodded. She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then seemed to change her mind. Emma turned back toward the male nurse, acutely aware of Nisha’s eyes on her as she walked away.
Becky’s room hadn’t changed, except for the addition of a small vase full of irises and yellow roses on the side table. Emma wondered if Mr. Mercer had brought them. A fluorescent light flickered and buzzed overhead, and from the tiny attached bathroom came the erratic plink of a dripping faucet. A tray of mushy food sat untouched on the counter.
Becky sprawled across the bed, asleep. She was wearing flannel pajama pants and an oversized Arizona Wildcats T-shirt instead of the hospital gown, and her hair had been washed and combed, her fingernails scrubbed. But her complexion was still ashen and marked with deep shadows. Emma noticed that she wasn’t tied to the bed—that had to be a good sign, right?
I felt a low boil of emotion roiling off Becky’s mind. It was hard to sense what she was feeling—everything was all mixed up in her head. But through the confusion, one burning thought came through louder than anything else, repeated over and over like a chant. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did.
“You have thirty minutes,” said the nurse. He nodded at Emma and retreated down the hall.
Emma pulled out Sutton’s iPhone, opened the voice recorder app, and pressed RECORD, then gently nudged the door shut with her foot. Becky’s eyes fluttered open when she heard the snick of the latch falling in place, her gaze darting around like a wild animal’s. She tried to sit up, but she seemed weak and uncoordinated. Then she saw Emma. Her eyes bulged.
“It’s you,” she croaked. “Emma.”
“No,” Emma said softly. “No, my name is Sutton.”
“Oh.” Becky’s eyes went glassy as she laid her head back against the pillows.
Emma took a step toward the bed. A chemical, medicinal odor came off her mother’s body. She bit her lip. “How long have you been in town?” she asked, keeping her voice low and controlled.
“A while,” Becky slurred.
“What have you been doing here?”
A slow, strange smile crept across Becky’s face. “Watching you, of course.”
I shivered, looking down into that ravaged, slack face. Watching her because she knew she was Emma? Watching her to make sure she played me? Watching her and putting threatening messages under Laurel’s windshield, choking her in the Chamberlains’ kitchen?
Emma clutched the rail. “When was the last time we talked?” she asked.