Sara Shepard: Seven Minutes in Heaven

I couldn’t remember if I’d ever had reason to wear mourning black. My dead-girl memory was frustratingly spotty. I could remember vague, general attachments—to my house, to my parents—but very few concrete moments. Every now and then a memory would come back to me in a flash of sudden details, but I hadn’t figured out how to predict them, let alone trigger them. I tried to remember my grandfather’s funeral, when Laurel and I were six or seven. Had we held hands as we approached the casket?

Emma finally decided on a cashmere sweater-dress, taking it gently from its hanger and pulling it over her head. The fit was a little clingy, but the cut was simple. As she smoothed the delicate knit down over her hips, Clara’s words echoed in her ears. It might have been . . . intentional.

Thursday had been Thanksgiving, and even though the holiday had been cheerless, Emma was at least grateful for a few days away from school and the wild speculation about Nisha. The gossip didn’t sit right with Emma. She’d spent the weekend before with Nisha, and she hadn’t seemed at all sad. Whatever insecurities had kept her and Sutton at odds seemed to have finally evaporated, with a little help from Emma’s kindness. Nisha had even helped Emma break into the hospital mental health records to find out the truth about Becky’s past. For two awful weeks, Emma had believed Becky to be Sutton’s killer—she’d wanted to check her mother’s file to find out if her behavior had ever been violent.

Now Emma picked up Sutton’s iPhone, scrolling through the messages. The day Nisha died, she’d called Emma about a dozen times over the course of the morning, then finally sent her a single text: CALL ME ASAP. I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU. She hadn’t left a voicemail, and there was no other explanation. Hours later, she’d drowned.

It could be a coincidence , Emma thought, tucking the phone into a black-and-white clutch with her wallet. There’s no proof that anyone killed Nisha, or that her death had anything to do with me.

But even as she thought the words, a grim conviction settled over the doubt and grief that occupied her heart. She couldn’t afford to believe in coincidences anymore. After all, how many long shots had brought her here? Travis, her pothead foster brother, had just happened to stumble upon a fake snuff video of Sutton that he’d thought was Emma. She’d conveniently arrived in Tucson the day after her sister’s death, after spending eighteen years without even knowing she had a sister. And now Nisha had died the very same day she urgently had to talk to Emma? No, not all of that could be chance. She felt like a pawn under an invisible hand, being moved without volition across a chessboard in a game she barely understood.

And she couldn’t help but feel that Nisha had just been sacrificed in the same game.

I watched as my sister fumbled with a handful of bobby pins, trying to sweep her hair up into a French twist. Emma was hopeless at updos—at anything but a simple ponytail, really. I wished I could stand behind her and help. I wished that we could get ready together and that I could hold her hand during the funeral. I wished I could tell her I was right there when Emma felt so very alone.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Emma spit out a bobby pin and looked up. “Come in.”

Mr. Mercer pushed the door open, wearing a tailored black suit and a blue-and-burgundy tie. The gray in his hair seemed more pronounced than usual; he’d had a lot of secrets to keep lately. Emma had recently learned from him that Becky was the Mercers’ daughter—making Emma their biological granddaughter. Now that she knew it, she could see the resemblance. She had Mr. Mercer’s straight nose and bow-shaped lips. But Mr. Mercer had kept Becky’s reappearance from his wife and Sutton’s sister, Laurel.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, giving her a tentative smile. “How are you doing up here?”

Emma opened her mouth to say fine , but after a moment she closed it and shrugged. She didn’t know how to answer that question, but she certainly wasn’t fine.

Mr. Mercer nodded, then let out a heavy breath. “You’ve been through so much.” He was talking about more than Nisha. As if her friend’s death weren’t enough, Emma had recently seen Becky, her own mother, for the first time in thirteen years.

Emma had managed to prove that Becky was innocent of Sutton’s murder, but the image of Becky strapped to a hospital bed, frothing at the mouth, still haunted her dreams. She’d spent so many years wondering what had happened to her mom, but she’d never realized how ill Becky was. How unstable.

She picked up the small black-and-white clutch she’d packed with tissues. “I’m ready to go.”

Her grandfather nodded. “Why don’t you come down to the living room first, Sutton? I think it’s time to have a family meeting.”

“Family meeting?”

Mr. Mercer nodded. “Laurel and Mom are already waiting.”

Emma bit her lip. She’d never been to anything like a family meeting before and didn’t know what to expect. She stood unsteadily on Sutton’s black wedges and followed Mr. Mercer down the staircase and through the bright entryway. Crisp, early-afternoon light flooded through the high window.

The Mercers’ living room was decorated in luxe Southwestern colors—lots of earthy reds and tans paired with Navajo chevron prints. Paintings of desert flowers hung on the walls, and a Steinway baby grand stood gleaming beneath one window. Mrs. Mercer and Laurel were already there, sitting close together on the wide leather couch.

As with Mr. Mercer, Emma could see her own resemblance to her grandmother now that she knew to look for it. They had the same marine-blue eyes, the same slender frame. Mrs. Mercer looked nervous, her lipstick torn where she’d been biting her lip. Next to her, Laurel sat with her legs crossed, jiggling one foot up and down anxiously. Her honey-blonde hair was twisted back in the exact updo Emma had been trying to pull off. She’d chosen a black pencil skirt and a button-down blouse for the occasion, and she wore a tiny gold bracelet with a charm shaped like a tennis racket. She was pale beneath the light freckles across her nose.

Emma sat down carefully on the suede wing chair across from Laurel and her grandmother. From the entryway, the clock gave a single resonant bong .

“The funeral starts in an hour,” Laurel said. “Shouldn’t we get going?”

“We will, in just a minute,” said Mr. Mercer. “Your mother and I wanted to talk to you first.” He cleared his throat. “Nisha’s death is a reminder about what’s really important in this life. You girls are more important to us than anything.” His voice caught as he spoke, and he paused for a moment to regain his composure.

Laurel looked up at Mr. Mercer, her forehead creased in a frown. “Dad, we know. You don’t have to tell us that.”

He shook his head. “Your mother and I haven’t always been honest with you girls, Laurel, and it’s hurt our family. We want to tell you the truth. Secrets only drive us apart.”

Emma suddenly realized what he was talking about. Neither Mrs. Mercer nor Laurel knew that she and Mr. Mercer had been in contact with Becky. Laurel didn’t even know Becky existed. As far as she knew, Sutton had been adopted from an anonymous stranger. As for Mrs. Mercer, she’d banished Emma’s mother from the household years before. Emma shot a panicked look at Mr. Mercer. He clung to the back of the chair as if bracing himself.

Mrs. Mercer seemed to notice Emma’s anxiety and gave her a weak smile. “Honey, it’s okay. Your father and I have talked about this. I know everything. You’re not in trouble.”