“Not interested,” I say, dismissing her with a wave.
“Um, does anyone care that we’re stopped on train tracks?” Madeline peers out the window, her fingertips clutching the door. Suddenly, the red lights on the railroad crossing sign begin to flash. The warning bell clangs, and the striped gate lowers across the road behind us, preventing all other cars at the light—not that there are any—from passing over the tracks. A hazy beam of the Amtrak train blinks in the distance.
I try the ignition again, but Floyd just coughs. “What’s the deal, Sutton?” Charlotte sounds annoyed.
“Everything’s under control,” I mutter. The Volvo-symbol keychain swings back and forth as I twist the key again and again.
“Yeah, right.” The leather squeaks under Charlotte’s butt. “I told you guys we shouldn’t have gotten into this death trap.”
The train blows its whistle. “Maybe you’re starting it wrong.” Madeline reaches over and tries the ignition herself, but the car only makes the same wheezing sound. The lights don’t even flicker on the dash.
The train is getting closer. “Maybe it’ll see us and hit the brakes?” I say, my voice shaking as adrenaline courses through my veins.
“The train can’t stop!” Charlotte unbuckles her seat belt.
“That’s why those warning gates go down!” She pulls at the door handle in the back, but it doesn’t budge. “Jesus!
Unlock it, Sutton!”
I press the unlock button—my dad and I had installed an electronic power feature on all four doors and windows
—but there isn’t the familiar heavy click sound of the barrel releasing. “Uh . . .” I jab the button again and again.
“What about the manual unlock?” Lili tries to lift the button on her door. But something jams that button, too. The train whistles once more, a low harmonica chord. Laurel tries to unroll the windows, but nothing happens.
“Jesus, Sutton!” Laurel screams. “What are we going to do?”
“Is this a prank?” Charlotte shouts, yanking hard on the door handle, which doesn’t give. “Are you messing with us?”
“Of course not!” I pull at my door handle, too.
“Seriously?” Madeline yells.
“Seriously! Cross my heart, hope to die!” It’s our fail-safe code, the thing we’re supposed to yell out to show something is dead serious.
Madeline reaches over and stabs the center of the steering wheel. The horn bleats feebly, like a dying goat. Laurel dials a number on her cell phone.
“What are you doing?” I scream at her.
“What’s your emergency?” a voice squawks on
speakerphone.
“We’re stuck on the train tracks of Orange Grove and Iten!” Laurel screams. “We’re trapped in the car! The train’s about to run us down!”
The next few seconds are mayhem. Charlotte leans forward and pounds on the windshield. Gabby and Lili blubber uselessly. Laurel gives our details to the 911
operator. The train rockets toward us. I jiggle the keys in the ignition back and forth. The train barrels closer . . . closer . . . until I swear I can see the conductor’s panicked face.
Everyone screams. Our death is mere seconds away. And that’s when I calmly reach to the dashboard and release the choke.
Gunning the engine, I roll us off the train tracks and spin out in a small, dusty area in the underpass. A moment later, I unlock the doors, and everyone falls to the dusty gravel, watching as the train thunders by just feet from their bodies.
“Gotcha, suckas!” I yell. My body is on fire. “Was that not the best prank ever?”
My friends stare at me, momentarily stunned. Tears streak their faces. Then their eyes blaze with anger. Madeline rises unsteadily to her feet. “What the fuck, Sutton? You used the fail-safe! You broke the rules!”
“Rules are meant to be broken, bitches. Wanna hear how I did it?” I can’t wait to explain. I’ve been planning this prank for weeks. It’s my pièce de résistance.
“I don’t care how you did it!” Charlotte screams. Her face is a knot of fury. Her hands twist at her sides. “No one thinks it’s funny!”
I look at my sister. But she just licks her lips and darts her eyes back and forth, like the prank has turned her into a mute.
Madeline is shaking with rage. “You know what, Sutton?
I’m sick of this club. I’m sick of you.”
“Me, too,” Charlotte echoes. Lili looks back and forth, eating this up.
I tilt my chin. “Is that a threat? Do you want to quit?”
Madeline straightens up to her full five-foot-ten height.
“Maybe.”
“Fine, then! Quit!” I say to Madeline and Charlotte.
“There are plenty of girls who can replace you! Right?” I whirl around to glare at Lili and Gabby, but only Lili stares back. “Where’s Gabby?” I ask.
Charlotte, Madeline, Laurel, Lili, and I squint in the darkness.
But Gabby is gone.
Chapter 8
Truth or Consequences
Emma scanned the rest of the police report.
Stalled mid-1960s Volvo 122 escaped collision with the Sunset Limited Amtrak train from San Antonio, Texas. Miss Mercer claims her car malfunctioned and failed to either accelerate over the tracks or unlock to allow passengers to safely exit. In speaking with passengers M. Vega, C.
Chamberlain, and L. Mercer, all three backed up Miss Mercer’s claims that the car’s faulty electrical system was to blame. No charges filed at present. Hospitalization of one victim, G. Fiorello.
Ambulance arrived at 10:01 p.m. and took her to the Oro Valley Hospital.
Emma’s spine turned to ice. Gabriel a? Hospital?
Footsteps sounded in the hal way. Emma quickly shoved the papers back into the folder and pushed it away from her seat seconds before Quinlan swung the door open. He slammed a paper cup of water on the desk, little drops cascading over the side and splashing the table.
“Here you go. I hope you’re pleased.”
Emma hid a satisfied smile—she was pleased . . . but also puzzled. Her mind raced with what she’d found. Surely Sutton had stal ed 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 al 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 al . 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 stil swirled in her head. How could Sutton put them al at risk like that in the first place? Stal ing 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 pul ed 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 real y, real y stupid mistake. I’l pay for the purse, I promise. And I’l change. No more pranks. No more shoplifting. I swear. I just want to go home.”
Quinlan let out a low whistle. “Wel , sure, Sutton! Go on home! You’re total y absolved! No consequences at al !
Hel , I won’t even tel 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 cal 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?
Emma shrank down in her chair. She barely knew the Mercers yet, only that they were in their fifties, worked highpowered 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 bal ed 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 shril . 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 wal et. “Is there a fine involved?”
Quinlan made an awkward sound in his throat like he’d swal owed a bug. “I don’t think a fine wil cut it this time, Mrs. Mercer. If the boutique wants to press charges, it wil go on Sutton’s permanent record. And there might be other consequences.”
