What is she doing? Jessica wondered, watching as her mother spritzed window cleaner on one of the front windowpanes, then energetically rubbed it dry with a paper towel. Geez, of all times to be washing windows!

  "This is what I've put together for tomorrow so far," Mr. Wakefield said to Elizabeth, holding up the legal pad.

  Even Jessica could see that the pad was blank. Steven winced; Elizabeth didn't even blink.

  "Only you can put words on this paper," Mr. Wakefield told his daughter with unaccustomed sternness. "More than anything in the world, Liz, I want to help you, but in order to do that, you have to help me." His voice softened. "This is our last chance, honey. Most likely, the trial will wrap up tomorrow. This is our last chance to be heard. So, tell me," he urged. "Tell me what happened the night of the accident."

  "I can't tell you what I don't know," Elizabeth said in a voice devoid of all emotion. Her gaze shifted; she was watching Mrs. Wakefield whisk around the room with a feather duster. "Don't you think I would, if I could?"

  Mrs. Wakefield breezed past Jessica on her way into the kitchen. She reappeared a moment later with a tray of drinks and snacks. Jessica followed her mother as far as the entrance to the living room and stood watching her family from there.

  It was a bizarre and disturbing tableau. Her father and Elizabeth remained locked in a hopeless stalemate; her mother's unnatural happy-homemaker behavior only fueled the tension, like a log on a fire. With a bright smile, Mrs. Wakefield offered the tray. Mr. Wakefield waved it away, his expression testy; Steven's face clouded with concern. And Elizabeth just sat motionless and composed, as if she knew the worst was inevitable but was resigned to it.

  Jessica stood rooted to the spot, mesmerized. Tomorrow is the day, she thought. The third and final day. Elizabeth is going to be found guilty of manslaughter.

  All at once, an odd sensation rushed over Jessica. It was as if she were swept out of her body, and suddenly looking down from above at the scene . . . and at herself.

  How can I be so calm? she asked herself desperately. How can I stand this?

  She clenched her hands into tight fists; if she didn't, she was afraid she might start shaking. She might start shaking—crying—screaming. She might just fly apart into a million pieces. Her heart was ready to burst; her secret was struggling to get out. Her horrible secret. . .

  "Jessica."

  Jessica jumped. "What?" she cried, startled, guilty.

  It was her father who had spoken. He was looking at her; they were all looking at her.

  "Jessica, come here," he pleaded, his voice low and urgent. "Join us. Please."

  Jessica stared at her parents and Steven and Elizabeth, warring impulses raging within her. She was torn between wanting to run to her family and wanting to run away from them . . . and away from herself and the awful truth of how Elizabeth came to be drunk and why she had driven off the road the night of the Jungle Prom. The awful truth of who was really responsible for Sam's death.

  Jessica didn't respond to her father's request. Biting back the words of self-condemnation that welled up from deep inside her, she turned and fled from the room.

  As Margo stepped off the bus on Sunday evening, her eyes lit up, shining as brightly as the neon signs that flickered all around her. I'm here, she thought reverently. The City of Angels. Los Angeles, California. I'm here!

  She wanted to jump, to sing, to dance. After so many long, dusty days, after countless hours and endless miles, she'd come to the end of the line. The bus stopped here, and it didn't go any farther.

  But I'm not quite to the end of my road, Margo reminded herself. Shouldering her bag, she strode purposefully into the crowded transportation terminal and looked around for the appropriate Sign. There it was: NORTHBOUND TRAINS—TICKET SALES.

  Margo crossed to the counter. "I'd like to buy a ticket to Sweet Valley," she informed the clerk.

  "One way or round trip?" he inquired.

  For the first time in ages, a smile of genuine pleasure illuminated Margo's face. "One way," she replied.

  Five minutes later, she was back on the sidewalk, the precious ticket tucked safely in the pocket of the shorts she'd just changed into in the women's room. And now she was hungry. She looked around for a place to eat, her mouth watering at the thought of a real meal, hot and home-cooked. I'm going to treat myself, she decided as she walked toward a diner on the corner. I'm going to celebrate.

  A few people glanced up at her as she entered the diner and made her way to the counter—a few men. Margo smiled to herself as she sat down on a stool and crossed her legs seductively. She knew she looked good, and she felt good—better than she'd ever felt in her life. Because for the first time in her life, everything was going her way; she was doing everything right. She'd figured out how to overcome the obstacles that stood in her path, how to deal with the people who tried to keep her down. She used to be a pawn of forces beyond her control; now she was smart and beautiful and powerful. She was in charge.

  And this is only the beginning, Margo thought. The world had only just opened up to her—she was only just reaching out to take what was rightfully hers. As soon as she got to Sweet Valley, she'd grab it—she'd grab it all.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, Margo tossed back her glossy dark hair and reached for a menu. A waitress stood ready to take her order, pen and notepad in hand. "Let's see," Margo murmured, drawing out the pleasure of choosing. "I think I'll have . . . the California burger."

  "Fries or coleslaw with that?" the waitress asked briskly.

  "Fries. And a large iced tea, please."

  Margo stuck the menu back in between the ketchup bottle and the saltshaker. She rested her elbow on the table, cupping her chin in her hand, and swung her bare leg gently. She knew she made a pretty picture, and gradually she became aware that someone was watching her.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could tell that he was young and tall and fair-haired. A California boy, she thought, suppressing a smirk. They're the same out here as they are everywhere. If she really set her mind to it, how long would it take her? Thirty seconds? A minute? How long before she could lure him to her and have him wrapped around her finger, ready to do her every bidding?

  It's getting way too easy, she thought, sipping the iced tea the waitress had placed in front of her. Drop a few well-chosen words, show a little leg . . . where was the challenge anymore?

  The man continued to watch her. After a few minutes, Margo grew uneasy. He wasn't just admiring her; there was something aggressive and relentless about his gaze. It began to madden her—and frighten her. It diminished that precious new feeling of absolute self-command she'd been savoring just a moment before.

  Margo knew how to fix him. She had made him look—now she'd make him look away. Slowly, she turned her head, ready to freeze the man with an icy, discouraging glare.

  Instead, she was the one who froze. Her eyes widened like those of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, and her heart leapt into her throat, nearly choking her. It wasn't a stranger who'd been staring at her. It was Josh Smith, Georgie's older brother!

  Quickly, Margo faced forward again. Her head spun; for an instant, she felt as if she might faint. How did he find me? she wondered, breathing fast. Has he been following me all the way from Ohio? How am I going to get away from him?

  She sensed her power slipping away from her. She knew she could fall apart just like that. But I won't. I won't do it, she determined. I won't lose what I've fought so hard for.

  She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down and stay in control. See what happens when you let your guard down? she said sharply to herself. Never, ever let your guard down.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Josh stand up and begin to walk toward her with slow, purposeful strides. She steeled herself for the encounter. He has no proof, she reminded herself. Absolutely no proof that I had anything to do with Georgie's death, or the robbery. She was in a tight spot, but she'd been in tight spots before. She'd get out of this one the way she had all the others. I have nothing to be afraid of. . . .

  The waitress had just brought Margo's food. Margo kept her eyes on her plate as Josh sat down on the next stool. He leaned closer to her, until she could smell him. He smelled like soap and sweat. He smelled like danger . . . but, she thought triumphantly to herself, he also smelled like fear.

  "Don't bother trying to run," Josh said to her, his voice low so that only she could hear. "Your running days are over."

  "Pardon me?" Margo said loudly. "I don't believe I know you. I've never seen you before."

  It worked; a few people turned to look in their direction. Josh shifted uncomfortably on his stool. "I'm onto you," he continued with a bit less confidence. "I know about the fire in New York, and the death of the little girl. And I know you're the one responsible for Georgie's death." His voice cracked. "I'm onto you," he repeated, louder now. "And in about one minute, I'm going to turn you over to the police."

  Margo kept her expression blank, not revealing a thing. She knew she could win this face-off, if she held her cards close to her chest while Josh scattered his all over the table. Didn't he know he was making the fatal mistake? Didn't he know you had to keep your emotions in check if you wanted to get your way? Didn't he know that cool, calm control would always triumph over passion and heat?

  "I wanted to see you again before you're locked up, though," Josh told Margo. "Locked up for good, as you should be. You're a sick girl, Michelle, or whatever your name is." His voice shook with fury and pain and disgust. He jumped to his feet, grabbing her arm. "A sick—"

  "What do you think you're doing?" Margo shouted, her voice high-pitched with outrage and distress. "Get your hands off me! I told you, I've never seen you before in my life!"

  The sudden outburst threw Josh off balance. Instantly, a number of people hurried to Margo's aid. "Hey, buddy, what's going on?" one man demanded, seizing Josh's arm and pulling him away from Margo.

  "What do you think you're doing, giving the lady a hard time?" asked another man.

  Suddenly, the whole diner was in chaos. Somebody jostled a waitress; she dropped a plate and it shattered all over the floor. Josh raised his voice above the din, trying to explain. "She's lying!" he yelled. "She does know me—she murdered my brother! I'm telling you, she's wanted by the police! Don't let her get away!"

  But it was too late. Margo saw her opportunity and took it without hesitation. As Josh was restrained by the men who'd jumped to defend her, Margo gave them all the slip, ducking out of the diner.

  She took a rapid, circuitous route back to the train station, walking fast rather than running. She couldn't risk drawing attention to herself. Now more than ever, anonymity was her only hope.

  At the entrance to the station, she glanced over her shoulder. She didn't see Josh, or any police officers. But that didn't mean they wouldn't come after her.

  She couldn't risk it—she couldn't risk anyone following her to Sweet Valley.

  Margo hastened to the ticket counter. "Excuse me, but could I possibly exchange this ticket?" she asked, handing over her ticket to Sweet Valley. "I'd like to go to . . ." She needed a town in the opposite direction. ". . . San Diego instead."

  "Here you go," the clerk said, giving her a new ticket. "But you'd better hurry—the San Diego train's about to leave. Track nine!" he called after Margo, who'd already started to run toward the platform.

  She jumped on board just as the southbound train started to move. Careening down the aisle, she sank, weak-kneed and breathless, into the first empty seat.

  She leaned back against the old vinyl, her eyes closed and her entire body rigid from the adrenaline that was pumping through it. That was a close call, Margo thought, shivering as she remembered the moment she'd recognized Josh. Had she shaken him? Her whole life depended on it. She was so close to her dream now—she couldn't let anything happen to destroy it. . . .

  "Your ticket, ma'am. Ma'am, your ticket, please."

  Distracted, Margo didn't hear the conductor until he'd asked for her ticket three times. "Oh, sorry," she mumbled, giving him the sweaty and crumpled ticket she'd been clutching in her fingers.

  The train rumbled out of the station. Through the window, Margo saw the L.A. skyline. Five minutes passed, then ten, and she remained undisturbed. No one approached her—no one had followed her onto the train.

  Suddenly, Margo smiled. She'd had a brush with exposure—Josh had almost cornered her—but she'd turned the tables. She'd come out ahead. She was still free. He thought he was so smart, tracking her down like that. But she was the clever one!

  Margo let out a loud, unbidden laugh. Several people sitting nearby turned to stare at her, their eyes suspicious.

  Slumping in her seat, Margo hid her smile behind the pages of a magazine she pulled from her shoulder bag. She couldn't give herself away now, not when she was so close. She had to learn from Josh's mistake. She had to be extremely careful to suppress her emotions and watch her every step.

  All will come in due time, Margo reminded herself, her eyes glittering with anticipation. In due time, I'll be happy. I'll have everything I've ever wanted, be everything I've ever wanted to be. In due time . . . but not before.

  Chapter 10

  "Dilworth and I have been called to the judge's chambers," Ned Wakefield said to Steven as they stood in the lobby of the courthouse on Monday morning. "I'll see you inside."

  "What's it about?" Steven asked.

  "I don't know, son." Mr. Wakefield's tone was gloomy; clearly, he didn't look upon the summons as good news. "We'll find out soon enough." He gave Steven's arm a brief squeeze. "Take care of your mother."

  "I will," Steven promised.

  He watched his father until Mr. Wakefield disappeared down the long corridor. Then Steven took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, trying to prepare himself mentally for the grueling morning that lay ahead of them. This is it, Steven thought grimly, adjusting the knot in his necktie. He'd worn his best suit because he knew that, one way or another, he'd probably get his picture in the newspaper. Today was the day.

  He glanced at his mother, who was standing in a corner of the lobby with Jessica. Steven was glad to see that having Jessica with her seemed to steady Mrs. Wakefield somewhat. Jessica . . . Steven shook his head. She was a puzzler. He didn't quite understand why she'd decided to make this eleventh-hour appearance at the trial; it certainly didn't represent a change of heart, as she still wasn't speaking to Elizabeth. Elizabeth, meanwhile, was already seated inside the courtroom, shielded from the crush of reporters and spectators.

  Tense and anxious, Steven paced up and down, waiting for the signal that the morning session was about to commence. He wanted to feel positive. He knew everyone was looking at him and, for the sake of his family, he tried to exude optimism and confidence. But he had a feeling he wasn't pulling it off. The dread he felt inside just had to be visible on his face; he simply didn't have the strength to hide it anymore.

  Steven stuck his hands deep in his trouser pockets, frowning. He knew why he felt gloomier, too—he knew why the past weekend had been the most depressing of his entire life. On top of everything else, he'd spent the weekend alone. . . missing Billie.

  Shoving the thought of Billie from his mind, Steven wandered over to a cluster of Sweet Valley High students. Enid, Olivia, Lila, and Amy were all wearing nice dresses; Winston had on a jacket and tie. They stood with their arms folded, conversing in low, solemn voices. They look like they're at a funeral, Steven thought grimly. And maybe, in a way, they were.

  "Hey, Steven," Winston said quietly, patting Steven on the shoulder.

  Enid gave Steven's hand a reassuring squeeze.

  Even Lila's manner was gentle and solicitous. "How are you, Steven? I'm really glad to see your mom looking so well. I've been worried about her . . . health."

  "Her health?" Steven echoed, reminded—unpleasantly—of his conversation a few days earlier with Bart Lloyd.

  Lila glanced at the others, biting her lip. "Well, Jessica told us that she seemed a little . . . shaky," she explained delicately. "Of course, the trial has put a tremendous strain on her—it's completely understandable. I just hope she knows—you all know—that if there's anything any of us can do . . ."

  At that moment, a bell sounded, indicating that court was in session. As he hurried inside with the others to take his seat, Steven mulled over Lila's little speech. Suddenly, it registered. "Jessica told us . . ."

  Jessica, Steven thought, shaking his head in disbelief as he slipped into a chair next to his loudmouthed sister. So she's the one who's been blabbing all over town about Mom's mental state! Or maybe she only blabbed to Lila and Amy. But, even so, the way those girls gossiped, Steven figured it probably only took about thirty seconds for the rumor of a nervous breakdown to reach the university and Bart Lloyd.

  Which means, Steven realized, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach, maybe Billie didn't have anything to do with this after all.

  Jessica sat bolt upright in her seat, captivated by the scene before her. So this is what Liz has been up against, she realized, experiencing an unwanted flicker of compassion. All these people prying into her life and staring at her as if she were a circus sideshow. . . .

  The judge, Mr. Wakefield, and the prosecuting attorney emerged from the judge's chambers and took their places. Jessica noticed that her father looked more energetic than he had in weeks. He's probably just glad it's almost over, she thought to herself. Steven had told Jessica there would be a few more questions for Elizabeth, after which their father and Mr. Dilworth would make closing statements. And then . . . the judge would render the verdict.

  What will it be? Jessica wondered, her heart racing. Guilty or innocent? She asked herself another question . . . an even harder question. What do I want the verdict to be?

  "The state calls Elizabeth Wakefield to the stand."

  It sounded like a line from a movie. But this wasn't a movie, Jessica knew; this was real life. And a life—Elizabeth's—was on the line.