Sara Shepard - Seven Minutes in Heaven

Not bad , I thought, oddly proud of Emma’s performance. She did a good angry Sutton Mercer. I must have been rubbing off on her after all.

A stab of shame shot through Emma’s chest. Now Mr. Mercer thought he was in the wrong, when none of this was his fault. I hope someday you can forgive me, she thought. But all she said was, “It’s not important anymore.”

Quinlan sat very still in the chair, watching her evenly. He let the silence stretch out a heartbeat too long before speaking again. “I have one more question, and then I’ll get out of your hair for the evening. Sutton, we’ve been looking at Nisha Banerjee’s phone records to try to figure out what may have happened in the hours leading up to her death. It looks like she called you and texted you . . .”—he glanced at his notes—“. . . eight times all together.”

Emma nodded. She’d been expecting this ever since the funeral. “I was busy and didn’t answer. I tried to call her back later, after tennis, but by the time I called her . . .” She trailed off helplessly.

The detective raised an eyebrow. “So you have no idea what she was messaging you about?”

“No. I wish I did.” Emma’s voice broke. “Maybe I could have helped her.” Laurel gave Emma a stricken look and squeezed her arm. “I asked Dr. Banerjee about it, but he didn’t know either.”

“What does that have to do with Sutton?” Mr. Mercer asked, frowning at Quinlan. The detective shook his head.

“Probably nothing,” he said. “But it seemed unusual. Nisha didn’t make a habit of calling anyone that frantically. I’m just trying to make sure we have all the facts.” The detective stood up, closing his notebook and sliding it back into his breast pocket. “Sutton, I really need to see those Facebook messages. We’re trying to come up with a timeline of what happened to Emma, and they’ll help. Can you come by the station on Friday?”

Emma wanted to ask Quinlan some questions, too—about the state of the body, whether there was any evidence of murder or footprints nearby or anything—but he was already looking at her strangely, and she didn’t want to set off any more alarms in his head. Instead, she just nodded. “Sure. I’ll come after school.”

Quinlan paused where he stood, looking around at each of them. His gaze lingered longest on Emma. “I should warn you, this is going public tomorrow.”

“Public?” Emma asked, frowning.

“There’s a press conference scheduled for eight A.M. I’m guessing the media are going to have a field day with it. You should be prepared for that.”

Mrs. Mercer rose from her seat. “Can’t we keep this quiet?” she asked pleadingly. “We haven’t even had time to take this in.”

Quinlan looked sympathetic, but he shook his head. “There’s already a half dozen news helicopters circling over the spot where we found her. I’m afraid the story’s going to hit pretty hard.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and removed a business card. “I’ll leave this here. Give me a call if you remember anything else that you think might be of use.”

“Of course,” Mr. Mercer murmured. “I’ll see you out, Detective Quinlan.”

The detective followed Emma’s grandfather back to the front door. As they passed her, Quinlan flashed her a sharp look, his eyes glittering brightly. Then he was gone.

Emma braced herself against the kitchen island, the strength flooding out of her all at once. She’d managed to dodge the truth one more time. But she had a feeling Quinlan wasn’t done with her yet. How much longer would she be able to conceal her identity, now that the cops had found Sutton’s body?

Emma’s secrets—and mine—were unraveling faster than she could build new lies to cover them up. And I knew from experience what happens at the end of a Lying Game.

You get caught.

The last bit of evening light illuminated the cracked wood of Ethan’s front steps when Emma pulled up outside his house a few hours later. Ethan sat on the creaky porch swing, a can of root beer in one hand and his laptop propped on an enormous wooden spool used as a table. When he saw her, he jumped to his feet and walked quickly toward her, his face disappearing into the shadows as he left the porch’s warm glow.

“What’s going on?” he asked, before she could say anything. “Charlotte and Madeline said you’d been pulled out of class, and I couldn’t find you. Why didn’t you answer my texts?”

She stumbled forward into Ethan’s arms. “They found her,” she whispered, burying her face in his T-shirt. “Sutton’s body. In Sabino Canyon.”

She felt his body tense, then curl protectively around her. “That explains it.” She looked up at him quickly. He jerked his head toward the canyon in answer. “I sat out here watching the cops turn into the parking lot all afternoon. The place was crawling with reporters, too.”

A groan escaped her lungs. “There’s going to be a press conference, Ethan,” she said. “It’s all going to come out. And look.”

She handed him the crumpled ball of paper that had been left on her windshield that afternoon. He took his arms from around her to smooth the note flat against his thigh, then held it up to the light. A sob bubbled up from inside her while he silently stared at the note.

“The killer is threatening my family and my friends now!” she exclaimed. “Ethan, this person is watching me all the time to make sure I don’t mess up. I’m putting the Mercers in danger. I’m putting you in danger!” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I’ve been so selfish. I should never have told you the truth! I never should have let you help me with the case. And now it’s not just the murderer we have to worry about.” She wrenched out of his grasp, taking a few steps back. “The cops. The media. They’re going to figure it out. I don’t want to drag you down with me. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.” She looked wildly around, suddenly afraid the killer was here, watching her right now. The street was quiet now, but anyone could be out there in the darkness.

Ethan closed the distance between them and pulled her against his chest. She struggled for one panicked moment and then melted into his embrace.

“I’m not letting you go through this alone,” he said fiercely. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. No matter what, Emma, I’m here for you. With you. You can’t leave me now.”

“If they find out who I am, they’ll think I killed her. And you’ll look like my accomplice.” She pressed her face against his shoulder.

“I don’t care,” he said, his voice muffled, his face buried in her hair.

Her tears dampened the cotton of his shirt. “Ethan, I don’t want what happened to Nisha to happen to you, too.”

He took Emma by her shoulders and held her a little apart from him, forcing her to meet his gaze. Half of his face was in shadow, but his eyes shone with determination. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

She desperately wanted to believe him. The idea of going through the investigation without him felt like sending her heart through a shredder.

“Ethan,” she whispered. “I think Garrett might be the killer.”

His eyes widened. “Did you find proof?” he asked.

She told him about seeing Garrett in the classroom, about the way he watched her unfold the note. “He just sat there grinning at me. Like he was having the time of his life watching me squirm.”