The rain had been falling over western Colorado for nearly three hours when nine-year-old Emery Quinn realized that the silver SUV was not coming back.
At first, she had believed it would.
She had to believe it.
Standing alone on the shoulder of U.S. Highway 50, wrapped in a thin silver emergency blanket that snapped and crackled violently every time the wind struck it, Emery kept staring into the darkness where the SUV's red taillights had disappeared. Rainwater streamed from her hair, ran beneath the collar of her sweatshirt, soaked through her jeans, and pooled inside the sneakers she had accidentally put on the wrong feet when she had been ordered out of the vehicle.
In both hands, she clutched a battered paperback copy of Charlotte's Web against her chest.
It was the only thing she had managed to take with her.
The highway stretched through the darkness in both directions, black and shining beneath the storm, bordered by steep slopes and distant mountains that had vanished behind curtains of rain. Every few minutes, headlights appeared somewhere far away, growing brighter until another vehicle rushed past with a violent hiss of tires against wet pavement.
Each time, Emery lifted her head.
Each time, hope rose inside her.
And each time, the vehicle continued without stopping.
For half a second, headlights would illuminate the little girl standing beneath the silver blanket.
Then darkness would swallow her again.
After the sixth car passed, Emery stopped waving.
Maybe they couldn't see her.
Maybe they thought someone was coming back for her.
Maybe they were afraid.
Or maybe grown-ups had places they needed to be, and a little girl standing alone beside a highway in the middle of a storm simply wasn't enough to make them stop.
Emery didn't know which possibility frightened her more.
Thunder rolled somewhere behind the mountains.
She flinched.
“It's okay,” she whispered.
She wasn't sure whether she was talking to herself or to Wilbur, the pig on the cover of her book.
“She's coming back.”
The wind ripped at the emergency blanket.
Emery pulled it tighter.
“She's coming back.”
But even as she said it again, she remembered Valerie's face.
And she knew she was lying to herself.
Eleven minutes earlier, Valerie Cross had pulled the SUV onto the shoulder without warning.
There had been no argument immediately before it happened.
No screaming.
No dramatic confrontation.
That was what made it worse.
Valerie was always most frightening when she was calm.
She had guided the SUV onto the shoulder, switched on the hazard lights, and stared through the windshield while the wipers fought helplessly against the rain.
Then she had turned toward Emery.
“Get out.”
Emery had thought she misheard her.
“What?”
Valerie's expression hadn't changed.
“I said get out.”
Emery stared at the storm beyond the passenger window.
“But it's raining.”
“I can see that.”
Emery waited for the joke.
Valerie never smiled.
“Valerie—”
“Don't argue with me.”
Her voice was quiet, almost bored.
That voice frightened Emery more than yelling ever could.
“You need to learn that actions have consequences.”
Emery's fingers tightened around her book.
“What did I do?”
That question changed something in Valerie's face.
Not much.
Just enough.
Her lips tightened.
“You know exactly what you did.”
But Emery didn't.
She searched frantically through the day.
Was it the cereal bowl she'd forgotten on the windowsill that morning?
The B-minus reading quiz hidden in her backpack?
The muddy shoes near the kitchen door?
Had she spoken while Valerie was on the phone?
Had she forgotten to close a cabinet?
Living with Valerie meant learning that rules could change after you broke them.
Some mornings, Emery was too quiet.
Other mornings, she talked too much.
Sometimes Valerie accused her of being disrespectful because she looked away.
Sometimes looking directly at her was “giving attitude.”
The rule itself was never important.
What mattered was Valerie's mood.
“Please,” Emery whispered. “I'll say sorry.”
“For what?”
Emery opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Valerie gave a cold little smile.
“Exactly.”
Then she reached across Emery, opened the passenger door, and cold rain exploded into the vehicle.
“Out.”
Emery began crying.
“Please don't leave me.”
“I'm not leaving you.”
It was the kind of lie adults told when they wanted the words to sound better than the action.
“You're going to stand here and think about your behavior. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Maybe then you'll understand that the world doesn't revolve around you.”
Emery looked toward the dark highway.
“Can I stay in the car and think?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Emery.”
That one word ended the conversation.
Emery climbed out.
The rain hit her instantly.
She turned around.
“Can I have my coat?”
Valerie looked at the coat lying across the back seat.
For one terrible second, Emery thought she was going to hand it over.
Instead, Valerie reached into the emergency kit beneath the seat, pulled out a folded silver thermal blanket, and tossed it through the open door.
It landed near Emery's shoes.
“There. You're fine.”
Emery picked it up.
“Please don't go.”
Valerie pulled the door shut.
Emery saw her through the rain-streaked window.
The locks clicked.
Then the SUV moved.
“Valerie?”
The tires sprayed water.
“Valerie!”
Emery ran two steps after the vehicle.
The SUV accelerated.
“VALERIE!”
Red taillights disappeared into the storm.
And Emery was alone.
Now, standing beneath the same merciless rain, she counted because counting was something she could control.
“One hundred forty-six... one hundred forty-seven...”
Her mother had taught her to count when she was scared.
At least, Emery thought her mother had.
She didn't actually remember her mother.
Everything she knew about Marisol Quinn came from photographs and stories Daniel had told her.
Your mom loved sunflowers.
Your mom sang badly but loudly.