And it’s doing a great job, by my standards.

They’re leaving me here on purpose, to contemplate what I’ve done. What I’ve lost. What I’ve thrown away with two otherwise capable hands. They’re leaving me here to stew in my guilt.

I knew though. Deep down. Didn’t I know? Yes, of course I did. As soon as Arden proposed the idea, I knew we would get caught. In my very being, I knew. We have been too cocky. Too risky.

And this was the end-all of risky pranks.

I wonder where Arden is right now. Is he in a room like this, waiting to be interrogated? Or is he already in the comfort of his own bedroom, sitting in his tattered recliner, thinking about how close he came to juvie tonight? But that’s not fair of me. I know that wherever he is, he’s worrying about me.

The same way I should be worrying about him.

It’s just that he’s not trying to smuggle his parents across the border. He hasn’t entrusted his blood, sweat, and almost-tears to a man who gets off on wearing a clown mask and wields a power complex like a machete. Arden will never see the inside of juvie, because of who his father is. Me? I’m a shoo-in. A shudder runs through me.

I am the stupidest person on the planet.

Just as I’m on the verge of a panic attack, the worst of all my imaginings happens: The door opens and Sheriff Dwayne Moss strides in. Slowly, he pulls out the other metal chair from the table and takes a seat. “Carly,” he says, leaning back. “Imagine my surprise at seeing you here.”

I swallow. Hard. I want to cry so badly. What do I have to prove to this man? Who cares if I cry in front of him? It’s what any sane person would do. But I just can’t. Not now. Not ever. “Sheriff Moss.” My voice is shaky. I’ve got to get a grip.

“You seem upset. Want to talk about it?”

“Nope. I want an attorney.” That’s what they ask for on TV. Plus, the state trooper who arrested me mentioned something about me having the right to one.

“Nope.”

Can he do that? “I … I have the right to an attorney.” Now I’m just reciting what the state trooper told me.

“Oh, you’ll get an attorney. When I’m good and ready for you to have one.”

“You can’t do that.” I point up to the camera. “That thing working?”

His smile is unfiltered evil. “Unfortunately, a work order has been put in for it. About ten minutes ago.”

Rage. It sifts through my body like ravenous magma. I stifle the urge to jump across the table. After all, the camera is under repair. It would be his word against mine.

The sheriff twists his wedding ring around and around his finger, watching it like it’s evidence being processed in the investigation of a murder. “Arden has always been a spontaneous person,” he says, amused. “Even when he was knee high to a grasshopper, he’d come up with the craziest of ideas and act upon them without thought to the future. I reckon you could say he’s always viewed life as one big joyride.” Sheriff Moss tucks his thumbs in his pockets and studies me from across the table. “Bet you can’t guess where my son is right now.”

When I say nothing, he laughs. “No? Well then, let me help you out. He’s on his way home. Charges all dropped. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘high cotton,’ Carly? I didn’t think so. To explain it accurately, let me illustrate. Arden is high cotton. You? You’re burlap. Are you reading me?”

Against my will, a tear slips down my cheek. I’ve never felt so helpless in my entire life. I’m at the sheriff’s mercy. And the sheriff is fresh out of mercy.

“You’re going to jail for a very long time, you little tripe. I’m going to personally see to it. By the time you get out, Arden will have moved on to about twenty new flavors of the week, though let’s just hope he doesn’t take an interest in your particular flavor again, eh?”

“You racist bastard,” I say, through clenched teeth. What have I got to lose now? He already said I’m going to jail for-basically-ever. I might as well say my peace. But before I open my mouth again, I see it. How could I have missed it before?

A scar.

On his hand.

Between his thumb and his index finger.

A scar of evil.

“You,” I say, withering on the inside. “El Libertador.”

Sheriff Dwayne Moss stiffens in his chair.

All of it, the whole picture, falls together in my head like a puzzle. “You’re double-dipping,” I half yell. “With one hand you take our money to bring over our families, and with the other you deport them, playing the county hero.”

“Carly—”

“You might send me to jail for the rest of my life, but you? I’ll make sure every reporter in the entire nation knows about what you do. Anyone who will listen. The word privacy will be a pipe dream to you. Maybe you won’t spend a day in jail for what you’ve done, but your days preying on desperate, decent people are over, I swear it. You wait until you decide to let me have an attorney, you piece of—”

“If you talk, I’ll have your family killed. Including Julio.” He leans across the table so quickly I think he’s going to grab me. “Only you? I’ll let you live. Just so you can get the full sense of suffering out of the ordeal.”

My mouth snaps shut.

“Good. Now that I have your attention, I assume your rant is over, Miss Vega?”

I nod. Chewing off my own tongue seems appropriate right now. How could I have done that? Knowing who I was dealing with? Not only the sheriff, but El Libertador? Who do I think I am?