Emma sat on a plastic yellow chair in a cinder-block room inside the police station. The room was no bigger than a chicken coop, smelled like rotting vegetables, and, inexplicably, had two pictures of serene-looking Japanese geishas hanging on the far wall. It would be a great setting for a news story . . . if she were the writer, not the subject.

The door creaked open, and Detective Quinlan stepped inside, the same cop who had refused to believe Emma when she said she was Emma Paxton and her long-lost twin, Sutton, was missing. There, hooked under his arm, was a file bearing the name SUTTON MERCER. Emma bit back a grin.

Quinlan plunked himself down across from her and laced his fingers atop the folder. Boots thundered down the hall, shaking the whole shoddily built complex. “Shoplifting, Sutton? Honestly?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Emma squeaked, shrinking down in her seat.

Long ago, Emma had sat in a police station with Becky in the middle of the night after the cops had brought her in for reckless driving. At one point, a cop lifted the big black telephone and handed it to Becky, but Becky pushed it away, imploring, “Please don’t call them. Please,” she said. At dawn, after Becky was released with a warning, Emma asked whom the policewoman had tried to call. But Becky just lit a cigarette and pretended she had no idea what Emma was talking about.

“You didn’t mean to get caught?” Quinlan held up Sutton’s file. “Have you forgotten you already got busted for shoplifting?” He pulled a sheet of paper from the folder. “A pair of boots from Banana Republic, January sixth. So you’re a repeat offender. That’s serious, Sutton.”

Emma scuffed her feet over the linoleum, her sweaty bare legs sticking to the plastic seat.

The handcuffs on Quinlan’s belt jingled as he sat back in the chair. “What are you trying to do, go to juvie? Or are you going to pretend you’re someone else this time, too, Sutton’s secret twin? What did you say your real name was? Emily . . . something?”

But Emma wasn’t listening. With a jerk, she grabbed her throat. She gasped, buckled over at the waist and began to cough. She hacked until it hurt her lungs.

Quinlan frowned. “Are you okay?”

Emma shook her head, dredging up another series of hacks. “Water,” she croaked between breaths. “Please.”

Quinlan rose from the table and pushed out into the hall. “Don’t move,” he growled.