Sara Shepard - Seven Minutes in Heaven

Emma’s jaw fell open. “What?”

“I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. They need to know you’re innocent.” He raised his hand and cupped her cheek in his palm. “I told them I was blindsided by the news that you were really Emma but that I didn’t care. I said that I love you, whoever you are—and that I believed you were innocent.”

His touch on her face made her feel momentarily light-headed. The chill that had swept across her skin when she saw the cop car was replaced by a warm tingle.

Ethan’s voice dropped low. “And I told them I’d seen Garrett running up to the canyon, the night Sutton died.”

She blinked. “Wait, what? If you saw Garrett the night of the murder, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

He looked from side to side, though they seemed to be completely alone in the hall. “I didn’t really. But it was the only way I could think of to get the cops to look at him more closely. You saw his car in the parking lot security stills, right? I may not have seen him, but he was out there.”

“Ethan, do you realize how deep a hole you’re digging for yourself?” she hissed. “Don’t lie to the cops again—not for me. Isn’t it bad enough that I’ve been lying to everyone?”

His hand dropped away from her cheek, and he looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry. I just—I thought it would help.”

A door opened somewhere in the house, the quick patter of a local used-car commercial drifting through. Ethan glanced furtively into the hallway. After a moment there was the sound of a toilet flushing, and then the door closed again and the TV became muffled and distant once more. Mrs. Landry had retreated back to her cave.

Emma took a deep breath. Garrett had been in the canyon, after all. Maybe Ethan was right—now the cops had to look into Sutton’s ex. “You’re right,” she said, touching his shoulder. “Thank you. I’m sorry for snapping. I’m just so afraid that the cops are going to pull you into this, too.”

He shook his head. “Emma, I’d do anything for you. I want to keep you safe.” He stooped to unzip his backpack, and when he stood back up he shoved something in her hands. She looked down to see a burner cell phone, still in the package. “I also swung by Radio Shack and got this for you.”

She shifted her weight. The box felt strangely heavy in her hands. “You’ve already spent so much money on me, Ethan.”

“Yeah, but you need a phone,” he said. “Now I’m just a call away. If you need me, I’ll come running.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him. The contact sent a warm glow through her body, and she hugged his neck.

“So, I really need to catch up on my calculus,” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “But when I’m done, how about we grab some takeout and have a picnic? I know a great little spot just a few feet from here where the paparazzi will never find us. It’s right behind my house, in fact.”

She smiled. “You mean your yard?”

“You’ve heard of it!” he teased. “Come on. You, me, the mood lighting of the citronella candle. The best tom kha gai in town . . .”

“I’m there,” she said, laughing.

As I watched them, it was almost like my heart came unclenched for a moment. Even with all the madness in her life, my sister had found someone who really cared for her. When I saw the way he looked at her, it made me hope that someday, when this was all over, they would be able to move on.

And I was glad they’d have each other when— if— that time came.

“Have a nice afternoon, miss.” A thin, white-bearded man wearing a flannel shirt and an apron handed Emma her bag of groceries and gave her a quizzical look.

Emma tugged self-consciously at her skirt. It was Wednesday, and she was incognito again, in Mrs. Landry’s blonde wig, a denim jumper embroidered with butterflies, and a red turtleneck sweater she’d gotten at Goodwill. Plastic dime-store glasses completed the look—she was a dead ringer for the Sunday school teacher she’d had during her few weeks with the Morgans, a particularly pious foster family back in Nevada. She couldn’t believe it had come to this to just buy milk; but the reporters—or Garrett—could be anywhere.

She exited the store and walked across the parking lot toward Ethan’s car, her shadow flickering across the asphalt at her feet. Next to the home improvement store was a Burger King, a line of cars stretching around the drive-through. Just as she dropped the groceries in the car, someone laid on his horn, impatient to make an order.

What she saw next made her stop in her tracks.

Travis had just stepped out of the Burger King, a thirty-two ounce soft drink in his hand. He paused in the doorway, pulling a pair of cheap aviators down over his eyes, before slouching up the street in the opposite direction.

Emma didn’t waste any time. Slamming the car door shut, she followed him on foot.

The area was a cheap commercial zone, lined with big-box stores and chain restaurants. A thin strip of weeds ran between the road and the sidewalk, dotted with overflowing trash cans. She walked slowly, letting Travis stay several feet ahead but keeping him in her line of sight. He wore a backward-facing baseball cap and saggy jeans hanging down almost off his butt. A wallet chain went from his belt loop to his back pocket. When he glanced behind him, she ducked into a crowd of people at a bus stop, trying to keep her face as bored as all the other commuters’ expressions. When she was sure he’d turned away, she followed again.

Travis passed an abandoned mechanics’ garage tagged with graffiti, then cut across the parking lot to a Days Inn Hotel. The pool shone behind the cast-iron gate, three small children in inflatable water wings squealing in the shallow end. Emma hung back and watched as Travis climbed the steps and let himself into one of the rooms.

She stood in the shade of a mesquite tree, uncertainty coiling inside her. Why was he still here? He didn’t know anything about the killer—did he?

But her head snapped up as Ethan’s words came drifting back to her. If we had access to Garrett’s texts or e-mail, we’d be able to see if he sent the link.

They didn’t have Garrett’s phone. But the message might still be somewhere on Travis’s.

With another glance around, she climbed the stairs to his door and knocked. For a moment nothing happened. She knocked again, louder. From the parking lot, a middle-aged couple in matching Hawaiian shirts paused as they climbed out of their station wagon, staring up at her. Emma swallowed, sweat gathering on the back of her neck. She lifted her hand to knock one more time, but before she could, the door jerked open.

Travis stood in the doorway, his hat off. He wore a white tank top snug across his meaty chest, and a thick gold chain dangled from his neck. His chin jutted belligerently at her. Behind him, Arnold Schwarzenegger filled the TV screen, roaring up the freeway on a motorcycle. “What do you want, lady?”

For a moment, she didn’t remember that she was in costume. She blinked, then pulled off her glasses. “It’s me. Emma.”

His jaw fell slack. He looked her slowly up and down, his piggy little eyes bulging. The smell of stale tobacco and sweat hung around him.

“I need your help,” she said, putting on the sweetest expression she could muster. “Everyone thinks I killed my sister.”