Laurel gunned the car up a small slope and passed a large red sign that said JUNIOR PARKING LOT. She glanced at Emma out of the corner of her eye. “You can’t lie to Mom forever about where your car is. And I don’t really want to be your chauffeur for the rest of the year.”
Just then, something occurred to Emma. She turned to Sutton’s sister. “Why didn’t you just drive your car to Nisha’s party last night?”
Laurel blew air out of her cheeks. “Duh. Because Dad took it into the shop. You knew that.”
They drove past the line of parked cars. The mood was like a tailgate party before a football game. Kids lounged on the bumpers, sipping Jamba Juice smoothies. Guys played soccer in the dusty square to the right of the lot. Three pretty girls wearing sherbet-colored Havaiana flip-flops watched a slide show of vacation photos on a laptop propped up inside a Mini hatchback.
Sutton’s dead, Emma thought once more. The realization kept sweeping over her like a series of crashing waves. She had to do something. She couldn’t keep this to herself any longer. No matter what the note said. Emma’s heart started to pound.
Laurel pulled into a space near a large trash can already filled to the brim with water bottles and Starbucks cups. As soon as she cut the engine, Emma yanked at the door handle, leapt out of the car, and took off through the field toward the police station.
“Hey!” Laurel screamed behind her. “Sutton? What the hell?”
Emma didn’t answer. She picked her way across the hardscrabble vegetation that separated the school from the police-station parking lot. Brambles scratched her arms, but she barely noticed. She emerged on a narrow strip of lawn and burst through the station doors.
It was cool and dark inside. The big room, arranged into a series of cubicles and desks, smelled like Kung Pao chicken and sweat. Phones rang, walkie-talkies buzzed, and a sports radio droned in the background. The Venetian blinds had dust on the slats, and there was a crumpled Fanta can full of cigarette butts on the floor near the door. On the far wall was a big bulletin board tacked with IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING posters and Most Wanted lists. A black-and-white photo of a young guy with dark hair and familiar soulful eyes caught Emma’s eye. MISSING SINCE JUNE 17. THAYER VEGA. It was the same eerie poster Emma had seen on Sutton’s Facebook.
A wild-haired older man in a trench coat took up most of the only bench. There were handcuffs around his wrists. When he saw Emma, he brightened and gave her a big I’m-the-kind-of-guy-who-shows-my-naughty-parts-to-little-girls smile.
“Can I help you?”
Emma turned. A young cop with white-blond buzz-cut hair eyed her from behind a big desk. A small oscillating fan on his desk blew stale air into her face. The screen saver on his monitor showed pictures of two bug-eyed children in baseball and gymnastic uniforms. Emma eyed the handcuffs linked to his belt and the gun in his holster. She licked her lips and took a few steps toward him.
“I want to report a . . . a missing person. Possibly a murder.”
Blondie’s pale, almost nonexistent eyebrows shot up. “Who’s missing?”
“My twin sister.” And then, everything that had happened spewed out of her, spurting like blood from a wound. “Last night, I thought it was just a miscommunication, and Sutton was fine,” she finished. “But this morning, I got this.” She unfolded the note and smoothed it out on the cop’s desk. SUTTON’S DEAD. TELL NO ONE. KEEP PLAYING ALONG . . . OR YOU’RE NEXT. It looked so real and scary under the harsh fluorescent lights.
Blondie’s lips moved silently as he read it. “Sutton,” he whispered emphatically. It was as though a light bulb had illuminated over his head. He picked up the receiver on his phone and pressed a button. “Quinlan? You free?”
He hung up the phone and patted the orange chair next to his desk. “Stay here,” he told Emma. Then he grabbed the note, strode to the back of the station, and disappeared into a small office marked DETECTIVE QUINLAN. Emma stared at the officer’s profile in silhouette against the large, bright back window. His hands moved quickly as he spoke.
The door to the detective’s office swung open again, and the blond cop strode out. Quinlan, a taller, older, dark-haired guy with a manila folder under his arm and a University of Arizona coffee mug in his hand, followed. When he saw Emma at the front desk, he grimaced. “How many times are we going to go down this road?” he demanded, waving Emma’s note in the air.
Emma looked around. Was he talking to someone else? Besides Mr. Indecent Exposure on the bench, she was the only person in the room. “Excuse me?”
Quinlan leaned his forearms on the back of the chair. “Although a fake murder threat is a new one even for you, Sutton.”
Sutton’s name was a punch to Emma’s gut. “No. I’m not Sutton. I’m her twin sister, Emma. Didn’t he tell you?” She jutted a thumb at the blond cop. “Something awful happened to Sutton, and now whoever did it is threatening me! I’m telling the truth!”
“Just like you were telling the truth about that dead body near Mount Lemmon last year?” The muscles around Quinlan’s mouth grew tight. “Or about how your neighbor was raising ninety Chihuahuas in her guest house? Or how you swore, up and down, you heard a baby crying in a Dumpster behind Trader Joe’s?” He tapped the folder. “You don’t think I keep a record of your stunts?”
Emma stared at the folder. The name SUTTON MERCER was written on the tab in thick black ink. It made her think of her foster brother, David, in Carson City. David used to call the cops every few weeks to tell them the Port-a-Potties on a nearby worksite were on fire, mostly so he could watch fire trucks drive around. The 911 dispatchers finally caught on to his tricks, and they didn’t believe David the day he called screaming about the brush fire that raged in their backyard. Flames had swallowed half the family’s house before they finally sent out a rescue truck. David had officially become the Boy Who Cried Port-a-Potty. Did the cops really think Sutton was the Girl Who Cried Baby in the Dumpster?