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house,” he continued. “If you move beyond the one-hundred-meter radius of the perimeter, the authorities will be alerted.”
    Great. She’d be a prisoner in her own home. Still better than being stuck in juvie for another day.
    Once the monitor was securely in place, the guard led Bree into the holding area, where a tall, expensively dressed womanwas deep in conversation with another officer.
    Bree didn’t recognize her mom at first. The sun-streaked hair and deep tan threw her off. And the conservative vest and pantsuit made it look as if her mom were a legal consultant on a twenty-four-hour news network rather than a dilettante homemaker who’d run away to the French Riviera.
    But her personality hadn’t changed one bit. The sparkling voice, the easy manners—Bree’s mom possessed the singular talent of making everyone feel instantly comfortable, from CEOs to panhandlers. The trick, Bree had observed, was flirtation. Male or female, gay, straight, or other, anyone was fair game for her mom’s shameless flirting. And it almost always got her what she wanted.
    “She’ll have to wear the anklet all the time?” her mom asked, eyes wide, voice plaintive.
    “Yes, ma’am,” said the young officer.
    “I can’t even take her out to dinner?” her mom pressed. “Or to the movies?”
    The officer shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
    She sighed in resignation, then turned and looked directly at her daughter.
    Bree expected some kind of recognition, but after a few seconds, her mom glanced down at her wristwatch. “Any idea when my daughter will be ready?”
    The guard eyed Bree. “Um . . .”
    “Hey, Mom,” Bree said, hoping her voice sounded as unenthusiastic as she felt.
    Her mom started, and slowly returned her gaze to Bree. Shestared, confused, for a full ten seconds, before her face lit up.
    “Darling!” Bree’s mother flew across the room and embraced her daughter, encircling her with the aromatic mix of Jean Patou and gin. “I’ve been so worried.”
    So worried that it took you three full days to fly back from Europe ?
    “Let me look at you.” Her mom pulled away and gripped Bree’s head on either side of her face. “When did you cut off your hair? Is that a prison thing?”
    Bree narrowed her eyes. “Six months ago.”
    “Oh.” Her mom pursed her lips. “Well, no wonder I didn’t recognize you.”
    Right, not the fact that you haven’t been home since Christmas.
    “Mrs. Deringer,” the processing attendant said. “There are just a few forms you need to sign, accepting custody of your daughter.”
    With a dramatic sigh, as if signing her name a half-dozen times was some kind of supreme sacrifice, Bree’s mom finished the paperwork, and then she and Bree were escorted from the building.
    Neither of them said a word as they followed the guard across the courtyard. Bree wasn’t going to make things easy on her mom by opening the conversation, and Mrs. Deringer seemed content with the silence.
    An enormous black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows was parked just outside the fence. It looked like the kind of car used by drug cartels. Or the CIA. As soon as the entry gate began to roll, the driver’s side door burst open and an equallyenormous blond man emerged.
    He looked like a Norse god: bronzed skin, flowing hair, and muscles practically ripping through the taut fabric of his black jacket. The skinny tie that encircled his neck resembled a piece of dental floss trying to contain a hot air balloon, and as he walked around the car, Bree was pretty sure she could feel the earth tremble with each mighty step.
    Without a word, he whisked open the rear passenger door and offered a hand to Bree’s mom, which she accepted with a dainty coquettishness that made Bree’s stomach churn.
    “Thank you, Olaf.”
    Olaf?
    He nodded, and without offering Bree the same courtesy, he closed the door in her face.
    “Yeah,” Bree muttered, stomping around to the other side of the car. “Thanks,