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  For Kitty.

  Your appreciation for muscle cars pales next to my appreciation for your unwavering love and support.

  Eleanor is mine, but Nick is for you.

  1

  KEVIN JAMS HIS TONGUE IN my ear.

  Yeah, gross, but I’ve got a roll of electrician’s tape clenched between my teeth and the butt end of a live wire hovering over an exposed battery line. Best I can manage is a stifled grunt.

  The scent of cheap beer makes my stomach roil. It’s not just my boyfriend’s alcohol-infused breath making me queasy, though. Thirty thousand people linger in the Las Vegas Arts District just a couple of blocks away.

  Too close.

  Kevin slides his hand up under my damp T-shirt. “Come on, Jules.”

  I spit out the tape, cringing as it clunks against the brake pedal and rolls farther under the dash. The soft thud is loud enough to hear over the drizzling rain. Steam rises off the asphalt. “You’re going to make me blow it.”

  He laughs, but his cool hand continues to creep across my skin. When his finger hooks under my bra, I flinch. “Seriously, Kev. Stop it.” I squirm to break contact. “Focus.”

  My heartbeat stutters. I’m one exaggerated twitch away from zapping more than this car’s engine to life.

  His tongue circles around my earlobe. “You got this, baby.” A shiver runs along the back of my neck and I scrunch my shoulders. “That’s why they call you the Ghost, right?”

  I grit my teeth. “Invisible, not invincible.”

  It’s a stupid street name, but after forty-two successful boosts, I guess I’ve earned a label. Thing is, I’m not cocky enough to believe my luck won’t run out. The odds are always in favor of the house.

  Kevin gets all whiny. “I really need this.”

  Jesus. It’s not even a hot car.

  A 1995 Mazda RX-8, midnight blue, standard stick. But judging by the interior—tricked-out stereo, new covers for the scooped racing-style seats—it’s gotta be someone’s baby.

  Except that it’s parked under a streetlight in a dark alley in one of the city’s peak theft districts, which makes no sense. Guys who own cars like this know streetlights aren’t deterrents for people like us, like me. No slinking in the dark, no flashlight, easy access.

  It’s too simple.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Kev.”

  He gives me a wolfish grin.

  Annoyance shakes through me. I get that he’s got this whole Bonnie and Clyde fantasy going on, but his slurred encouragement isn’t doing much to inspire confidence in his skills. This is a mistake.

  I touch the starter wire to the battery cable and zzzzt-zzzzt-zzzzt, the engine sparks. A couple of revs later and the RX purrs.

  Kevin hisses out a “yes!” as I sit upright and pull the driver’s-side door closed. He practically climbs over the console for a congratulatory kiss. Of course I give in.

  “Knew you could do it,” he says, nibbling on my lower lip. And damn if my adrenaline isn’t jacked. I know it’s not right, but the truth is, I’m addicted to it—the danger, the rush.

  Kevin kneads my right breast. “You’re so hot, baby.”

  Sweating, actually.

  Something still feels wrong and it’s more than Kevin’s overly obnoxious drunk-guy pawing. I yank his hand off my chest and shimmy up in the seat for a better view. He’s supposed to be my lookout, but clearly he’s using the wrong head. Figures.

  I squint into the rain-soaked shadows, looking for something—someone—out of place. Vibrant graffiti slashes across Dumpsters overflowing with trash. A single lightbulb flickers at the back door of a run-down apartment complex. If the owner of the RX is out there waiting for me to fuck up, he’s keeping it low-key.

  Time to move out.

  Kevin folds the passenger seat back, stretching out his long, scrawny torso, legs drawn almost up to his chest. I’ve pulled my trademark white hair up into a bun, but one police-issue flashlight pass over my alabaster skin and I’ll go from the Ghost to living, breathing criminal. My saliva turns to paste.

  His fingers skim the inside of my thigh. “Let’s blow,” he says. “We can get five large for this, easy.”

  Five thousand dollars.

  It’s not my biggest boost and the cash won’t last long—especially when we split it. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “And then what?”

  Kevin’s fingers dance across my knee. “I didn’t think you were into dirty talk, but I’m happy to give you a play-by-play.” He yanks the seat upright with a jolt, leans over, and brushes his lips against my neck.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say, rubbing off his spit. “Like, after this grab . . .”

  “You wanna get a burger or something?”

  I punch the side of his arm. “No, you dick. I’m talking about the future. We can’t steal cars forever.”

  At least I can’t. Not if I want custody of my little sister someday.

  Kevin’s face blanks. “Shit, Jules. You’re not thinking about dipping, are you? I’m just getting my feet wet here. What about Ems? Isn’t this all about her?”

  I doubt Kevin and I are on the same page, but I’m always thinking about my sister and her slightly crooked front teeth, the jeans that fit a little too tight, her bedroom in our foster parents’ run-down trailer, the size of a broom closet.

  I’ve tried legal life, but boosting cars is the fastest way to get Emma away from the Millers, out of the foster care system for good.

  My moral equilibrium shifts out of gear.

  I swat Kevin’s hand away from my crotch, give the whiny engine another rev, and twist the wheel to unlock the steering. He’s right, now’s not the time for second-guessing.

  My pulse thrums.

  Hit the gas and I’m doing this. Again.

  Jesus. It never gets easier.

  I catch movement from behind a garbage bin and my hesitation drains like a deflating Goodyear. Clutch engaged, I step on the gas and the car shoots forward. I quick-shift into second. The back end twists, the tires squeal. Holy shit!

  This thing’s got guts.

  Kevin lets out a loud whoop just as the warning siren in my head becomes ominous and real. Blue-and-reds blaze in my rearview, two cop cars gaining on me, on this now stolen RX.

  Sweat pools in my palms and my hands grip the steering wheel so tight they’ve almost gone translucent. One glance at Kevin and I know he’s spooked too.

  “Floor it,” he shouts over the thunderous rumble in my chest. “I get pinched and it’s no juvey for me. I’m doing time.”

  I shift into third, crank the wheel. The car careens around a corner and skips across the asphalt. I’m terrified and I can’t shout, can’t remind Kevin that this is bad—real bad—for me too. An image of my sister shimmers across the water-streaked windshield and I choke back a lump of terror.

  I cannot, cannot, cannot get caught.

  At the intersection of Hoover and Las Vegas Boulevard, I take a sharp left. Water rolls off the tires and splashes across the glass, blurring my vision. For a second, I think we’ll hydroplane, but then the wheels smack against the road and we surge ahead. Kevin’s head snaps back.

  “Fucking buckle up!” I scream over the wailing sirens.

  His face is almost green when he glances over his shoulder. Cop lights reflect off the Mazda’s black polished interior. “I gotta jump, Jul
es.”

  I crank the RX up to fourth, then fifth. “Like hell.”

  One gear left, but even with it, I know there’s no way I’ll outrun the cops. I don’t want to—I am not a cop outrunner. I’ve never had to before.

  Kevin reaches for the door handle.

  I swerve to avoid an oncoming BMW and the driver lays on the horn.

  The police are up my ass now. I should pull over, stop the car, take the heat—I’m underage, what can they do?—but it’s like the fuel line to my brain is clogged with motor oil. Everything is muddy and out of focus.

  “Don’t do it,” I say. My voice cracks, tears brim, and I’m pissed that I sound desperate.

  Kevin turns to me, his catlike hazel eyes wide and bulging—scared sober. And suddenly I’ve forgotten what I ever saw in him. The day-old stubble, the ripped jeans and eighties-style leather coat. He looks homeless, not badass, and I can’t believe I ever let myself stoop to this. We were never going to be a team. A boil of emotions roll along the back of my throat.

  “If I go to jail, I’m finished,” he says. “We’re finished.”

  But I already know we’re done. I thought we hooked up because we both needed something—companionship, connection, more than a partner in crime—but I should have known better. I’m worth so much more than this.

  Buildings, bystanders, palm trees pass in a blur. The hot Vegas Strip pulses like a lighthouse beacon ahead. I crank the wheel and spin a one-eighty, my guts practically projecting out of my open mouth. Somewhere in my subconscious I hear myself scream.

  The tires hit the curb and we bounce into oncoming traffic.

  I take a hard right into an alley. My stomach flips over. It’s a fucking dead end.

  “Back up!” Kevin yells.

  Blood rushes to my head as I work to get the RX in gear. It’s stuck. No matter how hard I push in the clutch, I can’t hit reverse. The car lurches forward.

  “Reverse, Jules! Reverse!”

  Panic seizes my vocal chords. “It won’t pop into gear,” I screech.

  Lights flash-blink-flash in my eyes.

  Sirens roar.

  I ram the stick shift left, up, left again, and stomp on the gas. The RX sputters and then pitches forward. Fast. Too fast. I slam on the brake, lift my foot off the clutch, and jam the car into neutral. It stutters to a stop.

  Kevin’s curse pinballs off the dash, and before I can even register what’s happening, there’s a sharp rap at my window. I’m surrounded by cops and staring into the barrel of a gun.

  My stomach begins a downward spiral.

  I turn to Kevin for some kind of assurance, for him to tell me he’ll stick with me on this. But the passenger door is slung open and somewhere in the distance I catch a glimpse of my ex-boyfriend’s retreating ass.

  My heart stalls with a twinge of pain. I shouldn’t be surprised he bailed—everyone does. Still, nausea coils in my gut.

  I swallow a dry heave and slap my hand over my face.

  Fuck my life.

  2

  ELEVEN SCUFF MARKS ON THE checkerboard floor. I missed a couple on first count—two black streaks under the far side of the table. They’re important. Part of the interrogation process.

  I picture “bad cop” yanking back the chair, metal legs screeching across the vinyl. He sits, stares, passes me a smoke like they do in the movies. Or maybe that’s just for big-time criminals, like murderers and shit.

  My stomach pirouettes.

  I rub my wrists, red and raw from the handcuffs. Truth is, I didn’t make it anywhere near the slammer. “Good cop” threw me in this room instead, leaving me to stew about Kevin, my stupidity, my very bleak future.

  I should be at the chop shop collecting my cash and hitting up In-N-Out Burger with my boyfriend. Instead, I’m staring at four beige walls and a fist-size hole I bet one of the big-time criminals made after “bad cop” delivered “bad” news. My fingers curl until they form fists.

  Ineffective anger management, my social worker’s voice plucks in my subconscious.

  I can see her and the two officers in another room on the other side of the window. She paces while “good cop” sits at a round table pawing through a file. My file. “Bad cop”—I’ve decided to call him Frank; all the Franks I know are dicks—leans against a counter, sipping coffee between intermittent scowls. He’s got one of those resting asshole faces.

  Everyone’s lips move but it’s like I’m watching CSI on mute. There’s shrugging, a what-the-fuck type motion from Frank, and then all eyes land on me, like they think they’re invisible on the other side of the glass.

  I’m a maggot under a microscope.

  I shift my gaze before they catch me squirming. Begin re-counting the scuff marks on the floor to distract myself from thinking about how much shit I’m in. It’s not just this stunt—more than eight thousand cars in Vegas are jacked every year. But by now, Frank over there has probably figured out I’m the infamous Ghost. No wonder his lips are twisted into a perma-smirk.

  Movement outside the door pulls my attention.

  The handle turns.

  I fold my arms across my chest and steel for confrontation. Whether they throw me in juvenile detention, dish out community service, or stick me with a stuffy, twig-up-his-ass probation officer, I’m done. My foster parents will never let me back into their doublewide shit-hole.

  And Emma.

  My breath hitches. We’ve spent the last four years bouncing from one shitty place to the next. Together. If we’re separated now . . .

  I swipe away a tear with the back of my hand. Not if I have anything to say about it.

  The door wedges open. I roll my shoulders back. Sweat beads across my forehead.

  Muffled voices.

  Terse good-byes.

  And then the click-click-click of my social worker’s heels.

  Vanessa, as she likes to be called, stands in the doorway, the hall light glowing around her white pantsuit like a damn halo.

  I shift to take some of the pressure off my ass.

  “Julia.” Her voice tenses, just like her expression. “Or perhaps I should call you Ghost?”

  My mouth glues shut.

  Vanessa closes the door and makes her way over to the table. She opens her briefcase, reaches inside, and drops my file in front of me before dragging her chair across the vinyl with an extended scraaape. Two more scuff marks.

  My bottom lip trembles. “It’s bad, right?”

  Vanessa sighs, folds her hands on the table, and crosses her legs. A thin blue line streaks the side of her pants. Probably ink. Her left hand is covered in it, little nicks and dots where her pen missed the paper. It’s the jarring inconsistency of her otherwise perfect demeanor. I zero in on a leopard print heel that screams middle age.

  “The police suspect you are linked to more than forty car thefts in the last nine months.”

  Forty-three, but who’s counting? “Am I going to jail?”

  Vanessa lifts one eyebrow. “The typical sentence for tonight’s crime is about five years.”

  Unease winds around my neck like a noose. Even though it’s my first time being charged, I’m still looking at two years, maybe three.

  “But . . . ,” Vanessa begins, and a small balloon of hope swells in my chest. My teeth sink into the side of my cheek and start gnawing until blood tickles my gag reflex. “The owner of the vehicle has decided not to press charges.”

  I blink. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  The RX is basically trashed. Stripped wires dangle from the dash and the right side rims are gouged where I bounced off the curb. Shit, the transmission will probably fall out with the next sloppy gearshift. This guy should want my scrawny ass behind bars—or worse. He’s clearly a crook. Maybe the car’s stolen, not insured, something, because there’s no logical reason for him not to press charges.

  “I’m afraid the law isn’t quite as generous,” Vanessa continues. “You eluded police and put their lives, the public’s lives, in danger. T
hat’s not a misdemeanor. There will be charges for that high-speed stunt, and because you’re almost eighteen, there’s a chance you’ll be tried as an adult.” She blows out a long breath. “Jesus, Julia. What were you thinking?”

  Solid question.

  It’s also rhetorical because Vanessa has that look on her face, the what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-with-you expression that makes the Grand Canyon look small compared to the crevices spider-webbing across my heart.

  I could blame a lot of things. Claim I panicked. Make her believe Kevin made me do it. But the excuses are just a smokescreen for the inexcusable truth: I wasn’t thinking.

  Rookie move.

  “You won’t be charged with theft—God only knows why—but you’ve broken more than one law . . . tonight.”

  Her hesitation on the last word doesn’t go unnoticed.

  Vanessa flips open a manila folder and the pages of my sister’s and my clichéd history spring to life. Four years of memories swipe back and forth like windshield wiper blades.

  I was ten—Emma’s age—when we moved to Vegas, twelve when Dad bet our lives away on the slots, and not even a teen when Mom threw him out on his cheating ass. Go, Mom! Too bad she couldn’t hack the single life. She spiraled out of control faster than a Nevada dust devil. Classic Vegas.

  Vanessa’s been our caseworker for almost four years, ever since Mom lost custody after choosing her bong—or latest boy toy—over our basic needs. Again.

  I’m over it.

  But Emma. My insides twist at the memory of her face streaked with giant tears, her tiny fingers wrapped around her Princess Barbie with the strength of a socket wrench. Terrified and confused. Six years old and abandoned by a mother she was better off without. But how do you tell that to a kid?

  I zero in on the picture of her paper-clipped to the corner of the file. The lump in my esophagus swells to the size of a softball. I rub under my eyes with the back of my hand and avoid Vanessa’s gaze. She’s seen me at my worst. This is different. We both know it.

  Her voice softens. “If you provide some information about your boyfriend . . .”