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That money that was donated at the cleanup doesn’t belong to the center. It needs to go back to the pawn broker, and that earring needs to go back to Maya. Its rightful owner.

And it’s okay—it’s fair—because Grace Livingstone’s legacy will live on. Her generous contributions to the center will continue.

I know what I have to do.

I check first to be sure that Shauna and Rosa are out in the yard. I wait until the last of the volunteers have finished with their lunch and gone back downstairs.

Even though I know I’m doing the right thing—that the universe has my back in this—my heart is still drumming as I open the door to Shauna’s office.

The glass jar is sitting on the corner of her desk, still full of green bills andspare change. My palms are clammy as I shut the door, leaving it open just a crack so that I’ll be able to hear if anyone is coming.

Okay. Let’s make this quick.

I slip over to the desk and untwist the jar’s lid. I reach inside and grab a fistful of cash. I drop it onto the desk and start sorting through the bills, but it’s slow-going. Much slower than I thought it would be. People don’t just throw money into these donation jars. No. They fold and roll them, like little origami trinkets. I have to unfold each one, smoothing it out and stacking like bills together.

On first glance, the amount in the jar had looked extremely promising, but the more money I pull out, the more skeptical I become. It’s almost entirely one-dollar bills. A few fives, a handful of twenties. But mostly ones.

Probably the beachcomber would have dropped her donation in all at once, but there is no stack of hundreds or fifties. I keep digging. Keep unfolding. Keep sorting.

Sweat is beading on the back of my neck. Anxiety claws at my throat. Every time the animals start yelping down in the yard, it makes me jump out of my skin.

I’m not guilty. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not stealing. I’m just helping to return that earring to Maya, without hurting anyone. And this doesn’t hurt the center, I tell myself. No one will even know that some of it has gone missing, and what they don’t know can’t hurt them.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, all the while silently promising to work extra hard on the next fundraiser to make up for it.

I hear clomping, uneven footsteps. Someone is entering the break room.

I freeze.

I listen as whoever it is gets something from the fridge.

Water runs in the sink.

More footsteps. Someone else comes in—

“Oh, hey! You’re back!”

My breath hitches.Quint.

“Yeah. Finally,” says a female voice. “Still lugging this thing around, though.”

There’s a loud thud.

“I like that you went with the bright pink. Gutsy choice.”

I dare to crane my head, peering through the gap in the door. I can’t see Quint, but I catch a glimpse of the girl. It’s Morgan, sporting a fluorescent-pink cast on her leg covered with doodles and words. Two crutches are propped up against the counter as she sips from an aluminum water bottle.

She glances my way.

I jerk back. I’m trying not to breathe, but the pressure from unspent breaths is building up inside my chest. I try to let the air out slowly, silently, but it only seems to make it worse.

“I feel like you’ve missed a lot,” says Quint. “It’s been exciting around here lately.”

“Yeah, I heard there’s some new girl who’s been shaking things up.”

“Prudence. Yeah. She’s…” He pauses. I strain to hear what he’s going to say, but whatever it is he’s thinking, he must change his mind. “You’ve met her, actually. When we went to that place with the karaoke? She’s the one that slipped and hit her head.”

“Oh. Right. Is she doing okay?”