Emma hid a satisfied smile—she was pleased . . . but also puzzled. Her mind raced with what she’d found. Surely Sutton had stalled the car on purpose but the report listed the incident as an accident. How in the world did Sutton get the others to lie about something that had landed Gabby in the hospital? She wasn’t sure she’d met anyone as all-powerful as Sutton in her life—a girl who could silence her friends even in tragedy.

But I didn’t know the answer of how I got them to shut up either. Sure, I’d been powerful—but not that powerful. Madeline and Charlotte had been so furious in my memory, after all. Their white-hot rage scared me even now.

Emma took a sip of water. It was lukewarm and tasted like metal. The details of the prank still swirled in her head. How could Sutton put them all at risk like that in the first place? Stalling a car on the train tracks—was she insane?

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 pulled 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 really, really stupid mistake. I’ll pay for the purse, I promise. And I’ll change. No more pranks. No more shoplifting. I swear. I just want to go home.”

Quinlan let out a low whistle. “Well, sure, Sutton! Go on home! You’re totally absolved! No consequences at all! Hell, I won’t even tell 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 call 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?