Zola’s head whipped around to me, her eyes pleading. “Muir, I didn’t do it. Tell them I didn’t.”

“Is someone dead?” I whispered to Joellen.

“No,” she said, full voice.

I turned to Zola. “Honey, what didn’t you do?”

“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, please,” the cop said, and stepped nearer to Zola.

I could see his badge. Seattle Police.

“She says I stole something,” Zola said, pulling my arm. “Jewelry, a bracelet or something. I never took anything— Muir, help me.”

Time slowed to zero.

What did you do to get put in foster care? She doesn’t know how good she’s got it. They all steal.

“Miss,” the cop said to Zola. “We’re talking to you right now, and only you.”

“Who said that, Zola?” I asked her. “Who said you stole something?”

Sean was beside me again. “What is it?”

“Joellen, tell them!” I turned to the cop. “This child does not steal; she never would.”

“Miss, I’m going to need you to back up.”

“She just fucking told you she didn’t steal anything, didn’t you hear her?”

“Muir,” Joellen gasped. I nearly did, too. Had I just said fuck to a police officer? My breath was shallow. Surrounded by people, outside in the sunshine, still I was terrified. But Zola.

Francine’s voice was in my head. Your word is proof.

“What house is it?” I asked.

“I can’t give you that informat—”

“Our house,” Zola said. “The one you and I lived in. I’m with my grandma now; I haven’t lived at that house in such a long time. I didn’t take anything!”

Oh, god. The police-happy Allen wrench house.

“Joellen,” I said. “You know that woman. Whatever she’s missing, she probably lost it, or she’s wearing it right now.”

“Muir,” Joellen sighed. “Please, just let him do his job.”

I turned to the officer, a bland-faced, fully uniformed white guy who looked not much older than me, gun in a holster on his hip. He got on a ferry to come to this island and interrupt a class field trip, to take down a ten-year-old black girl for a petty theft she didn’t commit, accused by a crabby white lady who couldn’t be bothered to put Zola’s once-a-week swim class on her calendar, who called me a “bad penny” when all I did was keep her house clean and help her remember to take her stupid hypertension medication, because she had the world’s worst memory.

“That woman we lived with, she once spent half an hour searching her car for her phone—using her phone flashlight.”

The cop nodded. “My mom’s done stuff like that.” He offered me his hand to shake. “Officer Irvin.”

I nodded but did not touch his hand.