Criminal Destiny by Gordon Korman Page B

sorts through the contents, his brow darkening. “There’s no money in here!”
    â€œThey might have won ten million dollars,” Amber reminds him. “They also might not have.”
    â€œThe outside world stinks. All they do is get people’s hopes up.” He crumples the envelope into a ball and tosses it back onto the counter. “I’m going to grab a shower.”
    There are two bathrooms upstairs. The boys take one, and Amber and I take the other. It’s only after we’re clean that we realize how much our clothes aren’t. We’re still in our Serenity Day outfits from the night of our escape, and they’re totally ripe. They’ve been wandering through the desert, riding in a boxcar, running from the Purples, and rolling in a Dumpster. And they’re sap-, leaf-, and blood-spotted from our ride in the tree service truck.
    â€œWell,” Amber reasons, “you can’t keep a low profile when you stink to high heaven.”
    Even Eli reluctantly agrees. Like it or not, we’re going to have to “borrow” some clothes.
    The Campanellas are a family of five and, between them, they have sweatshirts and jeans to fit everybody. The dad is a fair match for Malik, but the teenage son isquite a bit bigger than Eli, who looks skinny and lost in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans. I have the same problem with the younger daughter’s stuff (she’s at least a size and a half larger than me). Amber can make do with the older daughter’s, although the clothes are tight, which has her worrying about her goal weight for a change.
    â€œRight,” Malik says sarcastically. “Because being a fugitive is fattening.”
    We also take backpacks from the kids, and an extra outfit each. By the process of first dibs, Malik ends up with a sparkly pink princess knapsack.
    I can’t hold back a smirk, and Amber practically giggles, which doesn’t happen very often. “It looks good on you,” she manages. “Very manly.”
    He glares at her. “You’re talking to someone who’s out ten mil, so watch it.”
    Eli leaves a note for the Campanellas: We’re very sorry about taking your things. We’ll pay you back someday.
    â€œA little short on details,” I observe.
    â€œWe can’t very well tell them who we are and where to find us. And we can’t leave them any money. We’re going to need every cent we’ve got and more.”
    Malik is sprawled out on the bed beside the princess backpack, flipping channels on the TV. Suddenly, he sitsbolt upright. “Guys—get over here!”
    There on the screen is a picture of the rear façade of a four-story building and the alley below. It doesn’t take us long to realize that we’re looking at the Medical Arts building in downtown Denver—the window we climbed out of, and the Dumpster we landed in.
    â€œ. . . the young girl, who appeared to be in a disturbed condition, was being taken for psychological evaluation when three other young people engineered her escape. They rappelled down the side of this building using a fire hose and disappeared into the city. Police are investigating the sighting of four youths in a municipal services yard in Mountain View, but caution that they have not yet confirmed that these two incidents are related. ”
    Another photograph appears on the screen—Amber, seated in a chair, in a dingy office.
    â€œThey took your picture!” I exclaim.
    She’s sheepish. “I guess I should have mentioned that.”
    â€œSo everybody in Denver has seen the crazy girl who ran away from the cops?” Malik exclaims. “Yeah, that might be something we should know!”
    â€œ. . . police released this photograph, but withheld the girl’s name. At a press conference early this evening, a spokesman was careful to point out that she has not been accused of any crime, and was never under arrest . .