I bristled at Emma’s thoughts. There were tons of risky things in life: riding your bike on the shoulder of the highway, diving into a canyon pool without knowing how deep the water was, touching a germy doorknob in a public bathroom. I must have known my car was going to come back to life as soon as I pul ed the choke. I would never put my friends in that kind of danger . . . would I?
“So.” Quinlan pointed his fingers into a steeple. “Have you come up with a good explanation of why you decided to steal today, Miss Mercer?”
Emma took a deep breath, then suddenly felt drained.
“Look, it was a real y, real y stupid mistake. I’l pay for the purse, I promise. And I’l change. No more pranks. No more shoplifting. I swear. I just want to go home.”
Quinlan let out a low whistle. “Wel , sure, Sutton! Go on home! You’re total y absolved! No consequences at al !
Hel , I won’t even tel your parents!” He didn’t even try to hide his sarcasm.
As if on cue, a knock sounded on the door. “Come in,”
Quinlan barked.
The door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Mercer entered. Mr. Mercer was in surgical scrubs and New Balance sneakers. Mrs. Mercer wore a black business suit and grape-tinted lipstick and carried a snakeskin briefcase. It was clear both of them had been yanked from work, probably from meetings or procedures. Neither looked happy. One of the worst things about being dead was watching my parents’ reaction to me from a distance. Surely this wasn’t the first time they’d had to deal with a cal from the police station. From my new vantage point, it looked like it broke their hearts. How many times had I hurt them like this? How many times hadn’t I cared?
Emma shrank down in her chair. She barely knew the Mercers yet, only that they were in their fifties, worked highpowered jobs, and stuck to the organic aisles in the grocery store. But if the scattered family photos in the foyer were any indication—the snapshots of them with Minnie Mouse at Disneyland, in scuba gear on the Florida Keys, and grinning next to the pyramid in front of the Louvre in Paris—
it was clear Mr. and Mrs. Mercer tried to be good parents to their daughters and gave them everything they wanted. Certainly they hadn’t expected their adopted older child to become a criminal.
“Sit down.” Quinlan gestured to two seats across the table.
Neither of the Mercers took him up on the offer. Mrs. Mercer’s white knuckles clutched her briefcase. “Jesus, Sutton,” Mrs. Mercer hissed, turning her tired eyes to Emma. “What on earth is wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry,” Emma mumbled into her chest, pinching Sutton’s silver locket between her thumb and forefinger. Mrs. Mercer shook her head, making her pearl teardrop earrings wobble back and forth. “Didn’t you learn your lesson the first time you got caught?”
“It was stupid.” Emma hung her head. She’d gotten what she wanted, but when she looked up, she saw worry etched across the Mercers’ faces. Most of her foster parents wouldn’t have cared if she’d stolen unless it meant they had to fork over money for bail. In fact, most of them would’ve let her rot in jail for the night. She felt a knot of envy for the involved parenting Sutton got—something her sister didn’t seem to have appreciated while alive.
Mr. Mercer turned to Quinlan, speaking for the first time.
“I am so sorry to trouble you like this.”
“I’m sorry, too.” Quinlan bal ed his fingers at his sternum.
“Perhaps if you kept a better eye on Sutton—”
“We’re keeping a very careful eye on our daughter, thank you very much.” Mrs. Mercer’s voice was shril . Her defensiveness reminded Emma of visits with social workers when, without fail, no matter whether or not it was true, foster parents defended what a good job they were doing with the kids in their care. Mrs. Mercer reached into her Gucci handbag for her wal et. “Is there a fine involved?”
Quinlan made an awkward sound in his throat like he’d swal owed a bug. “I don’t think a fine wil cut it this time, Mrs. Mercer. If the boutique wants to press charges, it wil go on Sutton’s permanent record. And there might be other consequences.”
Mrs. Mercer looked like she was about to faint. “What kind of consequences?”
“We’l just have to wait and see what the boutique wants to do,” Quinlan answered. “They could issue a fine, or they could pursue a harsher punishment, especial y because Sutton has shoplifted before. She might get community service. Or jail time.”
“Jail?” Emma’s head whipped up.
Quinlan shrugged. “You’re eighteen now, Sutton. It’s a whole new world.”
Emma shut her eyes. She’d forgotten that she’d just passed that milestone birthday. “B-but what about school?”
she muttered, a bit stupidly. “What about tennis?” What she real y wanted to ask was What about the investigation?
What about finding Sutton’s killer?
The door squeaked as Quinlan pul ed it open. “You should have thought about that before you stuffed that purse under your shirt.”
Quinlan held the door for Emma and the Mercers, and they exited into the parking lot. No one spoke. Emma was afraid to even breathe. Mrs. Mercer guided Emma by the elbow toward her waiting Mercedes with a PROUD HOLLIER
TENNIS MOM sticker on the bumper.
“You’d better pray that boutique drops the charges,” Mrs. Mercer growled through her teeth as she slid into the driver’s seat. “I hope you’ve learned something valuable from al this.”