But he doesn’t answer. He just walks out of the room, briefly stopping to add, “By the way, there’s no such thing as curses.”

“Says you, the person with a black cat tattoo and a number thirteen on your helmet.”

“Keep your head up, okay?”

Instead of a goodbye, he gives me a little lift of his chin, and when the officer fails to shut the door, I enviously watch Lucky as he’s greeted by his parents, a wave of nostalgia hitting me right in the solar plexus when I see them. His dad, Nick Karras, friendliest man in town. His graying overlong curls hit his shoulders and gleam in the station’s harsh lights. And his mom, Kat, with her short black hair and Lucky’s chiseled cheekbones. Both of them are clearly concerned about his well-being. He doesn’t resist when his mother hugs him and floods his forehead with kisses, or when she slings her arm around his shoulder protectively, like he’s some frail and precious thing.

They both used to hug me like that. And when Kat looks up and sees me, lifting a hand to wave, I almost start crying all over again.

Then they’re all out of sight.

There’s some commotion with the officer who brought us, but I can’t hear what’s being said or see anything. Something dramatic is happening. What that is, I’m not sure.

Ten minutes later, though, I see Lucky and his parents leave.

While I’m having a minor panic attack, trying to puzzle out what’s going on, I finally spy cat-eye glasses and red lipstick coming into the station lobby and wilt in relief. When I look into Mom’s eyes, I see everything she’s feeling at once: relief that I’m in one piece, shock over my mascara-smeared face. Disappointment that I’ve disgraced myself and our tiny, proud family.

“Are you hurt?” my mother asks, concerned.

I shake my head. “Not physically.” Mentally, I’m pretty much a ten-car pileup.

Mom nods curtly. “Can she leave?” she asks the officer standing behind her.

“Just need to sign for her release. Did you bring an attorney?”

“Surely it’s not that serious.” Mom looks down her nose at him, both literally and spiritually. “It’s only a misdemeanor. A prank.”

The somber man with the somber mustache says in a low voice, “Like I told the Karrases, Summers & Co is owned by Levi Summers, ma’am. It’s a historical landmark, and that window likely will cost a pretty penny to replace. I’d strongly advise you to find a good criminal defense attorney before the arraignment.”

There’s an arraignment?

“Levi Summers is not God,” she says coolly.

“Here in Beauty? He’s close enough,” he says, hooking a thumb in his belt loop.