her hand and shattered on the ground. The school’s front office manager, a kindly woman named Peggy, stood in the doorway. Her normally neat graying hair was coming loose from its bun. She glanced wildly around until she caught sight of Mrs. Gilliam, then strode quickly across the room to whisper something in her ear. Mrs. Gilliam’s owl-like eyes fell on Emma.
“Sutton, you’re needed in the office.” Mrs. Gilliam was clearly trying to be calm, but she’d gone pale. Her bangles jangled discordantly as she gestured in Emma’s direction. “I’ll clean up your station; don’t worry about that. You just go.”
Emma’s heart sank with dread. “What’s going on?” she managed to ask through her choked throat.
Peggy spoke up this time, her nasal voice hushed. “Your parents are here to see you. Something has happened.”
Laurel, Emma and I thought at once. Something had happened to Laurel. That explained why she hadn’t been in class.
Emma was on her feet without fully realizing it, tearing through the door and out into the hallway. “Walk, don’t run, Miss Mercer,” Peggy called out behind her, but Emma took off at breakneck speed, past the SAY NO TO DRUGS! and WILDCAT PRIDE posters, her shoes sliding dangerously on the scuffed linoleum. She turned a corner and hip-checked a recycling bin, sending it rolling across the floor, but didn’t stop.
Just as she was about to turn into the front office, she ran full-on into someone—someone who smelled familiar, like freshly mown grass, mint gum, and hospital. It was Mr. Mercer.
“Thank God,” he mumbled, his eyes racing over her features like he was checking each and every one of them. He pulled her in and hugged her tight. “You’re okay.”
He was still wearing a lab coat and hospital ID; he’d obviously come straight from work. For a moment Emma just stood there, rigid in his arms, her heart still racing. How had the murderer attacked this time? Did Laurel’s death look like a suicide, like Nisha’s?
Then a shaky voice spoke up from behind Mr. Mercer. “Sutton, what’s going on?”
Emma broke away to peer over his shoulder. Behind him, Mrs. Mercer stood, her eyes swollen with tears. And next to her was Laurel.
“Oh my God,” Emma exclaimed, flying at Laurel and hugging her tight.
For once, I was grateful for Emma’s tendency to show more emotion than I ever would. She needed to hug Laurel enough for the both of us.
“Um, good to see you, too?” Laurel tried to joke, though she was clearly shaken. She took a step back and twisted a lock of hair nervously around her finger.
A single hot tear cut down Emma’s cheek. “I just thought . . . I was worried that you . . . you weren’t in class . . .” She looked up at Mr. Mercer, frowning. “What’s going on, Dad?”
“Let’s step outside,” he said softly, taking Emma by the elbow and leading her toward the door. Laurel and Mrs. Mercer followed.
They exited by the student parking lot. A small strip of lawn stretched out between the building and the sidewalk, a beat-up picnic table carved with graffiti of ages past chained to a handicapped parking sign. A few feet away, Sutton’s beloved Volvo glittered in the sun. Mr. Mercer guided everyone gently toward the table, gesturing for them to sit down.
The chasm of dread in Emma’s chest opened wider as her grandfather sat slowly next to her. He inhaled deeply, and then, finally, he met her eyes. What she saw there stopped her ragged breath in her throat. She knew what he would say a heartbeat before she heard it.
“The police found a body in Sabino Canyon,” he said. “They think it’s your sister.”
Emma’s hands clenched against her thighs. A panicked feeling clawed inside her chest, more and more frantic, until she couldn’t push it down any longer. She opened her mouth and let out an anguished sob.
The sunny afternoon fragmented into a thousand pieces, like a mirror breaking before my eyes. My parents and my sisters fell away from my vision. And just like that, I was back in the canyon, on the last night of my life.
7
A HAND IN THE DARK
Becky’s footsteps fade away into the velvet darkness, until there’s no sound in the canyon but the wind echoing mournfully through the trees. This late, even the crickets are silent. The moon looks ghostly, shining through tattered clouds and casting strange shadows all over the clearing, warped and grotesque. Far below me, the lights of Tucson sprawl at my