Two Truths and a Lie (24 page)

“Here we are,” Officer Moriarty said, gesturing to a green vintage car with brightly polished chrome. Emma took in the car, impressed. It had sleek lines and a retro feel, the kind of car she might have chosen herself if she could’ve afforded one. It was beyond cool.

Of
course
it was cool. I squealed as I saw my car again. But the feeling was bittersweet. I couldn’t feel the soft leather against my thighs as I sat in the driver’s seat. I couldn’t shift gears and feel the car respond. I couldn’t feel the wind in my hair as I drove down Route 10 with the windows down.

Emma took the keys from the cop. She inspected the exterior of the car, looking for the telltale blood the cops had found, but she saw nothing beyond a slight dent where Sutton had probably made contact with Thayer’s leg. Perhaps they’d cleaned it off. Then she opened the driver’s door and plopped down on the leather seat. A strange sensation came over her. Something about this car felt so distinctly Sutton, as though her twin were suddenly present. She shut her eyes and could almost picture her twin behind the wheel, tossing her hair, and laughing at something Charlotte or Madeline said. Emma toyed with a silver guardian angel charm that hung on the rearview mirror, swearing she could smell a trace of Sutton’s perfume lingering in the air. She knew how much it would’ve annoyed her twin for the car to be in the police department’s probing hands.

I’ll take good care of her for you
, Emma thought as she tapped her fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

I smiled. She’d better.

Knuckles rapped the glass. Emma flinched and looked up to see Officer Moriarty. She slowly rolled down the window.

“Can I help you with anything else, Miss Mercer?” he asked gruffly.

“No, officer, I’m fine,” Emma said, forcing an innocent, trust-me tone into her voice. “Thanks so much for your help.”

“Then it’s best if you left the premises,” the officer said, his thumb hooked through a belt loop.

Emma nodded and rolled up the window, then eased the key into the ignition. She didn’t need to adjust the mirror or the seats—they fit her perfectly, just like they’d fit Sutton. As she was pulling out of the lot, something on the seat next to her caught her eye. There was something lodged in the leather crease where the back of the seat met the bottom. It looked like a tiny piece of paper.

She drove down the road until the police station was out of view, then pulled over at the curb and put the car in park. Her attention turned to the paper wedged in the seat. She pulled at it, her brow wrinkled. Finally, it broke free. It was a tiny scrap of paper with the words
DR. SHELDON ROSE
scrawled across it. She recognized the angular writing immediately from the letter she’d found at the bottom of Sutton’s sports locker. It was Thayer’s.

Her heart pounded. She glanced over her shoulder just as a police car turned out of the parking lot, its sirens blazing. For a few agonizing seconds, she was sure the cops were coming for her—maybe planting this important piece of evidence in the car was a test, and she was in trouble for not volunteering it. But then the car zipped past her, the officer at the wheel staring straight ahead. She let out a long breath. The cops weren’t after her. They didn’t even know what she’d found.

I only hoped it led to an answer.

23

Emma drove exactly one and a half miles before she pulled over again, this time in the parking lot of the Tucson Botanical Gardens. Brightly colored blooms could be seen behind the gates. Hummingbirds flitted to feeders. But the gardens were closed for the afternoon, and the lot was almost empty. It seemed like the perfect place to sit and think. There was no way she could wait to look up Dr. Sheldon Rose until she got home. She had to investigate this
now.

Grabbing Sutton’s iPhone from the passenger’s seat, Emma typed
DR. SHELDON ROSE
into the search engine. In seconds, the results appeared, listing dozens of doctors across the country. Gastroenterologists. Cardiologists. Some guy who did “Chakra Cleansing.” There were client testimonials, locations, and telephone numbers. Papers authored by various doctors named Sheldon Rose popped up with titles like “The Brain in Motion” and “Healthy Liver, Healthy Life.” And then there were PhD doctors—a Sheldon Rose who taught Victorian literature at the University of Virginia, a Sheldon Rose who worked on smoking cessation therapy in New Hampshire, and one who headed up the MIT computer science department.

Emma clicked on the link to a primary care doctor; maybe Thayer had caught some kind of flu or infection while he was in hiding. The website showed six doctors who worked in a white brick medical facility called Wyoming Health. Dr. Sheldon Rose of Casper, Wyoming, stared back at her with a smug look on his pockmarked face. It didn’t seem like the right answer.

A car honked on the street. A bunch of kids rode by on BMX bikes. A shadow around the side of a gas station across the street caught Emma’s eye, but when she looked closer, she didn’t see anyone there.
Calm down,
she thought.
No one followed you. No one knows you’re here.

She scrolled through the next page of search results. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for—or how long it would take to find it—but there had to be
something
, and she’d know it when she saw it. She clicked on link after link, dead end after dead end. After ten minutes, she was about to give up, when suddenly she came upon a website for a Dr. Sheldon Rose in Seattle, Washington. When she opened it, her breath caught in her throat. The home page featured an emblem of an eagle with its wings stretched wide and its head tipped up and to the left. There were tiny initials below its talons that read SPH. It looked like the very same eagle in Thayer’s tattoo.

Her pulse raced as she clicked on the links. A photo of Dr. Sheldon Rose gazed back at her with black eyes nearly hidden behind thick, red-framed glasses. His shaved head and wide jaw made him look more like a bouncer at a motorcycle bar than a doctor. A sick feeling slivered through Emma’s stomach as she scanned his bio:
DR. SHELDON ROSE IS A PSYCHIATRIST WHO SPECIALIZES IN PSYCHOPATHIC BEHAVIOR AND OTHER EXTREME MENTAL DISORDERS
. He treated his patients at Seattle Psychiatric Hospital—SPH. A
mental
hospital. The words on the tiny screen blurred before Emma’s eyes. Had Thayer been admitted to a mental hospital? Is that why he had a tattoo of an eagle on his arm? And what did that say about the state he’d been in on the night of Sutton’s disappearance?

I thought again about how furious Thayer had been when he’d chased me down the trail. It was like something in him had truly snapped. Or maybe like he’d gone off his medication.

Emma picked up Sutton’s cell with shaking fingers and dialed the main number listed for the hospital. A ring sounded in her ear before a woman picked up and announced, “Seattle Psychiatric.”

“I’m calling to see if you’ve treated a patient there,” Emma said. “His name is—”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s confidential. We can’t give out patients’ names.” An annoyed
click
sounded from the other end.

Duh.
Of course they weren’t going to give out that kind of information. Emma ran a hand through her hair, wondering how she was going to find this out. A garbage truck rumbled past. The wind kicked up, bringing with it the mingled scents of rotting trash and flowers from the gardens. Emma peered at the gas station across the street again, searching for the phantom shadow. When she was certain no one was there, she cleared her throat and redialed the same number.

“Seattle Psychiatric.” This time it was a man’s voice.

“I’m calling to speak to Dr. Sheldon Rose,” Emma said, assuming a professional tone.

“Can I tell him who’s calling?” The voice sounded bored, as though he wanted to be anywhere in the world other than a reception desk.

“Dr. Carole Sweeney,” Emma said, pulling a doctor’s name out of thin air. It was the name of her favorite pediatrician—and she’d had at least a dozen of them. During the ten months she’d lived with a foster family in northern Nevada, Dr. Sweeney treated Emma and the six other children in the foster home. Their foster mom couldn’t afford a babysitter, so every time one of the six got sick, she lugged them all to her office. Dr. Sweeney’s waiting room was full of rainbow-colored building blocks, tattered stuffed animals, and coloring books scattered across a red plastic table in the center. When Emma and her foster siblings used to chase each other around the table, making tons of noise, Dr. Sweeney never yelled at them.

“Please hold,” said the male voice.

Emma’s heart pounded. Piano music tinkled through the phone as she waited.

“Dr. Rose’s office,” a woman’s voice said.

“Is the doctor available?” Emma tried to sound rushed and important.

“No, he’s not in, can I take a message?”

“Who am I speaking with?” Emma asked.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other line. “This is Penny, Dr. Rose’s nurse,” the voice finally said.

“This is Dr. Carole Sweeney from Tucson Medical,” Emma blurted. She kept her voice urgent, as though she was in the middle of a life-or-death situation. “I’ve just admitted a patient by the name of Thayer Vega. He’s in bad shape.”

“Bad shape? What do you mean?”

Emma felt a twinge of guilt. She hated lying like this.

But I was impressed. Was this the same girl who used to question the morality of the Lying Game and the pranks we pulled? And here she was impersonating a doctor—which
had
to be illegal—while trying to learn confidential medical information. My, my, how playing Sutton Mercer had changed her.

“He’s, um, unconscious,” Emma went on. “I just need to know the date he was released from your care.”

The nurse let out an aggravated breath. “One moment.” Her fingers clicked across computer keys. “Aha. Thayer Vega was in and out of treatment and was released for good on September twenty-first of this year—against doctor’s orders. Now, what did you say your name was? What hospital are you at?”

Emma quickly hit end. She was suddenly trembling so badly that the phone tumbled from her hands and into the foot well. Disbelief and fear mingled in her mind. It was true. Thayer had been in a psychiatric hospital … and he’d been in and out of treatment, and then left
against doctor’s orders.
Uncured. On the loose. He might have been—he might
be
—a psychopath.

And I might have picked the wrong guy to mess with.

24