Emma shrank down in her chair. She barely knew the Mercers yet, only that they were in their fifties, worked high-powered jobs, and stuck to the organic aisles in the grocery store. But if the scattered family photos in the foyer were any indication—the snapshots of them with Minnie Mouse at Disneyland, in scuba gear on the Florida Keys, and grinning next to the pyramid in front of the Louvre in Paris—it was clear Mr. and Mrs. Mercer tried to be good parents to their daughters and gave them everything they wanted. Certainly they hadn’t expected their adopted older child to become a criminal.

“Sit down.” Quinlan gestured to two seats across the table.

Neither of the Mercers took him up on the offer. Mrs. Mercer’s white knuckles clutched her briefcase. “Jesus, Sutton,” Mrs. Mercer hissed, turning her tired eyes to Emma. “What on earth is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Emma mumbled into her chest, pinching Sutton’s silver locket between her thumb and forefinger.

Mrs. Mercer shook her head, making her pearl teardrop earrings wobble back and forth. “Didn’t you learn your lesson the first time you got caught?”

“It was stupid.” Emma hung her head. She’d gotten what she wanted, but when she looked up, she saw worry etched across the Mercers’ faces. Most of her foster parents wouldn’t have cared if she’d stolen unless it meant they had to fork over money for bail. In fact, most of them would’ve let her rot in jail for the night. She felt a knot of envy for the involved parenting Sutton got—something her sister didn’t seem to have appreciated while alive.

Mr. Mercer turned to Quinlan, speaking for the first time. “I am so sorry to trouble you like this.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Quinlan balled his fingers at his sternum. “Perhaps if you kept a better eye on Sutton—”

“We’re keeping a very careful eye on our daughter, thank you very much.” Mrs. Mercer’s voice was shrill. Her defensiveness reminded Emma of visits with social workers when, without fail, no matter whether or not it was true, foster parents defended what a good job they were doing with the kids in their care. Mrs. Mercer reached into her Gucci handbag for her wallet. “Is there a fine involved?”

Quinlan made an awkward sound in his throat like he’d swallowed a bug. “I don’t think a fine will cut it this time, Mrs. Mercer. If the boutique wants to press charges, it will go on Sutton’s permanent record. And there might be other consequences.”

Mrs. Mercer looked like she was about to faint. “What kind of consequences?”

“We’ll just have to wait and see what the boutique wants to do,” Quinlan answered. “They could issue a fine, or they could pursue a harsher punishment, especially because Sutton has shoplifted before. She might get community service. Or jail time.”