Sara Shepard - Seven Minutes in Heaven

Ethan’s house gave off an aura of genteel neglect. The hardwood floors were scuffed but squeaky clean. The décor was dated—the floral wallpaper had a “grandma’s house” kind of feel—and the air smelled stale, as if the windows had been closed for a long time. There was no clutter anywhere, no piled-up mail or half-folded stack of laundry. Emma felt dizzy, and her knees buckled. “Let’s go into the kitchen,” Ethan said quickly, catching her. “You look like you need a glass of water.”

He led her down a short hallway into the Landrys’ kitchen. Unlike the Mercers’ pineapple-themed, cheerful kitchen, this one felt empty and soulless, with a few mismatched tea towels and a plain gray countertop. A two-year-old calendar featuring a picture of a Persian cat hung on the wall, flipped to March.

They didn’t notice Ethan’s mother until they turned on the light. She’d been sitting in the dark at a square table by the window, still and silent. She was bone-thin, her hair flat and dull, the corners of her eyes crumpled like parchment. When they came in she gave a small, startled jump.

“Hi, Mrs. Landry,” Emma said nervously. She wasn’t sure how much Ethan’s mother knew—did she follow the news? Would she welcome someone at the center of so much drama into her home?

The woman didn’t say anything but stared silently at Emma for several beats. Emma didn’t know if it was her imagination or not, but she thought she detected a glint of fear in the woman’s eyes. She knows , Emma thought, her heart sinking. Or at least she knows what I’ve been accused of.

After a moment, Mrs. Landry got slowly to her feet and scuttled wordlessly toward the hall. Ethan didn’t even look at his mother as she nudged past. He pulled out a chair for Emma and gently pushed her into it.

“Are you going to be in trouble for having me here?” she asked tremulously.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “My mom just . . . isn’t used to having guests. She’ll get over it.”

Though they rarely talked about it, Emma knew Ethan had a strained relationship with his mom. His dad had basically bailed when Mrs. Landry got cancer, and Ethan had taken care of her throughout the whole ordeal. But when his dad started abusing Mrs. Landry, and Ethan hit his father to make him stop, she called the cops on Ethan, not on his dad. Emma knew all of this only because she’d found Ethan’s psych file a few weeks ago while looking for Becky’s, and he’d confessed the whole story. So many unhappy families , she thought sadly.

As Ethan started to pour her a cup of water, Emma turned away—and saw Sutton’s ghost looking back at her. She nearly jumped out of her chair.

But then she looked again—and of course it wasn’t Sutton’s ghost. It was Emma’s reflection, haunted and pale in the glass of the window that looked out into the dark night. Her hair was tangled, her face smeared with tears.

Ethan handed her the water. It was in a keepsake glass printed with a picture of Miss Piggy on a motorcycle. “There’s more,” Emma said. “Ethan, Garrett was in the canyon that night. I saw the file for the murder case while Quinlan was out of the room. His car was in the parking lot.”

His eyes widened. “You’re sure it was his?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “And this afternoon, before I went to the cops, I went to his house.”

Ethan sputtered, spitting out the mouthful he’d just sipped. “You what ?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first,” she said quickly, “but I’m done playing the game by Garrett’s rules. It’s time to go on the offensive. Anyway, I talked to Louisa. She said that he came home really upset the night Sutton died, that he was out of control. And Ethan . . . he has a prescription for Valium.” She dropped her voice again. “That’s what was in Nisha’s bloodstream when she died.”

My mind flashed back to the look of rage on Garrett’s face, that night in the canyon. I knew why he’d killed me—he was in a jealous rage after he caught me with Thayer. But Nisha’s death seemed less of a heat-of-the-moment act; drugging her and pushing her in the pool would have required deliberation and planning. What made him decide she needed to die?

A worried frown creased Ethan’s brow. “You shouldn’t have gone to his house. He’s been warning you to stop looking for answers. What’s he going to do when his mom or his sister tell him you were there?”

Emma smacked her palm on the table in frustration. “Ethan, what else can he do to me? I’m already wanted for Sutton’s murder. If I can’t prove that he killed her soon, I’m going to jail . . . and he’ll walk free. I can’t let that happen.”

“I know,” he said, rubbing his face roughly with his hands. “I just hate that you took a risk like that.” He stared down into his water glass. “Everything points to Garrett, doesn’t it?”

Emma nodded. All of the pieces fit—and from what she’d seen of Garrett’s temper, it was easy to believe that he was capable of murder. “But I still don’t have anything to take to the cops.”

“What about that key?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. Emma felt in her jeans pocket, where the tiny silver key hugged her hip. She held it in the palm of her hand, squinting to try to make out what was etched on the metal tag it was attached to.

“It’s too small for a car or a house. What could this go to?” She sighed. “For all we know it could be for his bike chain or something.”

“I don’t know, Emma.” Ethan tapped the back of the tag, where the unmistakable S.M. was scratched. “Those are her initials.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the key on the table between them. The events of the evening swirled furiously around Emma’s head. In just a few hours, she’d lost the place she’d learned to call home, and the family she had come to love.

“What am I going to do?” she asked softly, tracing a line of condensation on her glass. “I don’t have any money, anywhere to go. The few things I brought to Tucson are now evidence, and everything else was Sutton’s. I don’t even have a change of clothes.”

Ethan put a hand on her knee, squeezing it almost painfully. “You’re going to stay here. At least until we can get this sorted out.”

“Ethan, no. I can’t put you in any danger. Alex is already in trouble for helping me. And what about your mom? She doesn’t want me here.”

Ethan set down his glass and gazed at her, an earnest, tender expression on his face. “Emma, I love you. I know no one has ever stood beside you when you were in trouble, but no matter what it takes, I’m going to make you believe that I’m the one who will do that. I’m not leaving you.”

Her heart gave a violent thump. Ethan was right—she had never depended on anyone in her life. After being abandoned by Becky, and surviving the stream of disappointing foster parents who followed, Emma had learned early on to rely on no one but herself. Her friendships and relationships had mostly been short and shallow, easily made and easily broken. Until Ethan.

“I don’t want you involved,” she whispered. “They’re going to charge Alex with aiding and abetting—maybe even conspiracy. They could get you on the same things.”

He pulled her close. “Nothing will happen to me.” He tilted her chin up gently, gazing into her eyes. “Stay with me. Let me help you through this, and protect you.”

Emma sighed and curled up against his chest contentedly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Are you kidding? I don’t know what I’d do without you . God, Emma . . .” His dark-blue eyes were wide and earnest. “I don’t think I ever understood love until I met you.”