Now that we’re here, we’ve been shepherded into a holding room together. I don’t think the door’s locked; guess they believe we’re no flight risk. But hey, joke’s on them, because that’s exactly what I’m thinking about right now—running right the hell out of here the moment I get a chance. Run and never look back. Forget high school, the Nook, and my family. It’s too late to salvage any of that now. I’ll have to change identities and sneak aboard a ship bound for Iceland. Josie Saint-Martin is dead; long live Jamie San-Miguel.

Even the fluffy-haired woman running the front desk, Miss Bing, looked me over when the officer brought us in and shook her head slowly, as if to say: Oh … It’s the Saint-Martin girl. Can’t say I didn’t expect this. And you know, with my family’s track record and all the rumors swirling around town, in a way, can’t say I didn’t either.

I just didn’t think it would be me doing the screwing-up.

Being both seventeen and very much minors, Lucky and I aren’t being straight-up arrested and charged with a crime—at least, not yet. It’s all very confusing. The security guard back at the department store couldn’t get in touch with anyone higher up in management, what with it being a weekend and so late, so we’ll have to wait to find out what’s going to happen … I think? It’s been a blur, and they aren’t exactly keeping us in the loop.

All I know is that for the moment, we have to sit tight until our parents arrive. Lucky was able to reach his folks on the first try. Of course my mom didn’t answer. Where is Winona Saint-Martin at midnight? Good question, and despite all her promises to cool it with the online dating, I’m pretty sure that’s what she’s doing right now. But, hey. It’s hard for me to be righteous in the middle of a police station.

And wherever she is, I finally got Evie to answer, and she tracked Mom down, so I guess I won’t be locked up in the slammer all night. Small miracles.

Right now, I’m sitting next to Lucky in an uncomfortably hard blue plastic chair at a table that smells nauseatingly of stale cigarette smoke. We haven’t said much to each other. Haven’t had the chance. Now that we’re alone, I feel sick to my stomach that he’s even here.

After all, Lucky didn’t throw the rock.

“I tried to tell the security guard it was me … ,” I say quietly. My voice is hoarse.

“I know,” he says. “It looked bad for both of us.”