Emma took a deep breath, rolled back her shoulders, and slung her arm around Laurel’s waist. “Don’t be so sensitive. Now let’s go. It smells like ass in here.” She hoped she sounded breezier than she felt.

Laurel glared at Emma for a moment, but then followed her into the crowded hall. Emma let out a sigh of relief when Laurel headed in the opposite direction. She felt like she’d dodged a huge bullet.

Or maybe, I thought, opened up a huge can of worms.

Chapter 4 - Paper Trail

Chapter 4
Paper Trail

After tennis practice, Laurel steered her black VW Jetta onto the Mercers’ street, a development in the Catalina foothills with sand-colored stucco houses and front yards full of flowering desert succulents. The only sound in the car was Laurel’s jaw working the piece of gum she’d shoved into her mouth.

“So . . . thanks for the ride home,” Emma offered, breaking the awkward silence.

Laurel shot Emma a frosty glare. “Are you ever going to get your car out of the impound lot, or am I going to have to chauffeur you forever? You can’t keep lying about it being at Madeline’s, you know. Mom and Dad aren’t that stupid.”

Emma slumped down in the seat. Sutton’s car had been impounded since before Emma arrived in Tucson. It looked like she’d have to retrieve it if Laurel wouldn’t drive her around anymore.

Then Laurel fell into silence again. She’d been frosty with Emma ever since ceramics, turning away when Emma asked to partner with her for tennis volleying and shrugging off Emma’s suggestion that they hit Jamba Juice on the drive home. Emma wished she knew the magic words to get Laurel to open up, but navigating the world of sibling relationships was something with which she had no real experience. She’d had foster siblings, sure, but those relationships rarely ended well.

Not that mine and Laurel’s had either. We hadn’t been close for years. I saw flashes of us when we were much younger, holding hands on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair and spying on our parents’ dinner party when we were little, but something had happened between now and then.

After passing by three large homes—two of which had gardeners out front, watering the mesquite trees—Laurel pulled into the Mercers’ driveway. “Shit,” she said under her breath.

Emma followed Laurel’s gaze. Sitting on the wrought-iron bench on the Mercers’ front porch was Garrett. He was still in his soccer cleats and practice shirt. Two muddy pads covered his knees, and he cradled a bike helmet in his arms.