Laurel, who’d clearly been lurking, appeared in the doorway, an unopened bag of Smartfood popcorn in her hands. “But Homecoming is next week! You have to let Sutton go. She’s on the planning committee! And then there’s the camping trip after.”

Mrs. Mercer shook her head, then turned back to Emma. “Don’t try to sneak out either. I’m having someone put outside locks on your windows. I know you’ve been sneaking out that way. Yours, too, Laurel.”

“I haven’t been sneaking out!” Laurel protested.

“I noticed footprints all around the flower beds this morning,” Mrs. Mercer snapped.

Emma pressed her lips together. The footprints outside Laurel’s room were hers. She’d fled through Laurel’s window during her birthday party, right after she’d found the unedited version of the snuff film that showed Laurel, Madeline, and Charlotte pranking Sutton. But Sutton wouldn’t have admitted to trampling the flowers, and now, neither would she. Maybe she was becoming more like her twin than she realized.

Mrs. Mercer fumbled through her bag to answer her buzzing phone. She pressed the tiny device to her ear and disappeared down the hall. Mr. Mercer checked his beeper, too, then turned wearily to Sutton. “I have a chore for you right now, actually. Get changed and meet me in the garage.”

Emma nodded obediently. Let the punishment begin.

Ten minutes later, Emma had changed into a T-shirt and a worn pair of jeans—well, as worn as a pair of Citizens of Humanity jeans could be—and was standing in the Mercers’ three-car garage. It was lined with shelves full of rakes, shovels, cans of paint, and extra bags of dog food. In the middle of the big concrete room stood an old motorcycle with the word NORTON written in script on the side. Mr. Mercer squatted by the bike’s front wheel, inspecting the tire. He wore white protection pads on his knees.

When he saw Emma, he stood up halfway and gave her a nod.

“I’m here,” Emma said, feeling a little sheepish.

Mr. Mercer stared at her for a long few beats. Emma braced for a lecture, but instead, he just looked sad.

Emma wasn’t sure what to say. Disappointment was something she was used to feeling herself, but she’d never been on the receiving end of it. She’d always tried to be whatever her foster parents required of her—a nanny, a cleaning lady, and once, even a massage therapist. Never had she intentionally made trouble.

Mr. Mercer turned back to the bike. “This place is a mess,” he finally said. “Maybe you can help me toss stuff out and put everything back where it’s supposed to be.”

“Okay.” Emma pulled a large black trash bag from a box on a nearby shelf.