“Just go grab one.”
He groans, pushing away and saying, “Wait here.”
My stomach twists as he walks away, leaving me here alone. The second he’s out of sight, I dive right for his locker, knowing I’ve only got like thirty seconds until he gets back and then I’m fucked.
Figuratively. Maybe literally, at the rate I’m going.
I’d rather neither way happen, to be honest.
So I grab stuff, sorting through it, looking for anything that might be something, but it all seems to be nothing. No files, no papers, no journals, no flash drives. Shit. I’m about to give up, on the verge of panicking, when my hand hits something wedged along the back at the bottom.
A DVD.
I yank it out, heart racing. It’s tucked into a worn protective sleeve, a lone word written on the front of it in faded black marker: Aristov.
“Thank you God, and Jesus, and even fucking Krampus,” I mumble, shoving the DVD in my hoodie pocket, gripping it tightly as I scurry away.
I get to the door of the locker room just as it swings open. Gabe.
“Whoa, where are you running off to?” he asks, grabbing my arm to stop me. “Come here.”
“I can’t do this,” I say, trying to pull away. “I’m sorry, I just... I can’t do it. I thought I could, but I can’t, so I’m just going to go now.”
“What?” He grips tighter to my arm. “What are you talking about?”
“This,” I say, shoving away from him. “Don’t touch me. I told you before... don’t ever touch me again.”
“What the fuck? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry.”
I find part of me means those words. God knows I probably shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be sorry about anything, especially if he is working for Kassian, and this DVD in my pocket is certainly suggesting that might really be what’s happening.
But still... I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for whatever led us to this moment.
I used to believe in him, and the sorry part of me still thinks part of him might be good.
But it is what it is, and I can’t stick around here, so I shove out of the locker room to get away from the precinct... fast. I’ve got probably about a minute before Gabe figures out what I’m up to.
I don’t have time to wait on the elevator, so I head for the stairs, scaling them as fast as my legs will carry me down to the first floor of the building.
I almost make it out, am already past the desk officer, when Gabe’s frantic voice rings out from the stairwell. “Stop her!”
Shit.
I run, shoving past people. I can hear others following, shouting for me to stop, but I keep going, out of the precinct and down the block, away from the subway, running into the first alley I come across.
They’re right on my heels.
Shit. Shit.
Looking around, frantic, my mind works fast. I could hide, but they’d find me. I could run, but they’d catch up. My gaze shifts toward the nearby dumpster. Ugh. Heart racing, I yank the DVD out and fling it beneath the dumpster, turning away from it just as somebody rounds the corner.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Officers appear, my hands are in the air, and I don’t know what’s happening, but guns are in my face out of nowhere.
Guns.
Okay, it’s not the first time someone has aimed a gun at me, and being as my life has gone to hell, I’m guessing it probably won’t be the last time, either. But right now there are three of them, and they’re kind of looking like they might want to shoot.
Gabe shoves past them, into the alley, and comes right for me, breathing heavily, his face bright red. Oh, man, he’s pissed. Instinctively, I take a step back, my hands faltering, until the officers start shouting, “Don’t you fucking move!”
“Okay, okay!” I freeze. “Geez, relax.”
Gabe grabs ahold of me, roughing me up as he pats me down, searching places his hands ought not go, before he shoves me against the side of a nearby building, slamming my face into the bricks so hard my vision blurs.
“Geez, detective.” I cringe as he yanks my arm behind my back, standing flush against my body, pinning me there. “I’m pretty sure this breaks protocol.”
“Where is it?” he asks, his free hand still searching. “Where’d you put it, Morgan?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play stupid with me,” he growls. “I swear, if you don’t give it to me right now—”
“You’ll what?” I ask, cutting him off. “You’ll fuck me right here, in the alley, in front of these officers? Teach me a lesson? Show the world what a big, powerful man you are?”
“No,” he whispers, his mouth near my ear. “I’ll call Aristov so he can come pick his little runaway up... just like I did with your daughter when she found her way to my office last month.”
Those words knock the breath from my lungs.
Or maybe it’s the fact that he shoves me harder against the building.
I nearly black out.
“You wouldn’t,” I say. “Tell me you didn’t...”
“Oh, but I did,” he says. “She ran away from him, crying about how she wanted her mommy. You missed her by about ten minutes that morning. Pity, really, since that’s probably the closest you’ll ever get to her again, you dumb bitch.”
Something in me snaps when he says that, my last shred of civility toward this man gone.
I’m not sorry anymore.
I shove off of the wall, throwing my head back, slamming him right in the fucking nose with the back of my skull.
BAM.
He loosens his grip on me, grunting, caught off guard by the blow, and I twist my own arm, damn near yanking it out of socket to get away from him. He pulls himself back together, but not fast enough, because I raise my foot up and kick him right in the nuts.
BAM.
He hunches over, letting out one hell of a screech, as I shove him out of my way, barely making it three steps before reality slams into me.
Guns, remember?
Oh, fuck me...
I put my hands up again, surrendering, but it’s too late to go peacefully. Someone tackles me, throwing me face-first to the alley, knees in my back as handcuffs secure my wrists. My cheek stings, asphalt scraping the skin on my face, guns still aimed at me as men shout orders I can’t possibly comply with since I’m pinned to the ground.
I’m yanked to my feet after a moment and come face-to-face with Gabe. Blood pours from his nose, his face contorted with a mix of anger and pain, but he doesn’t feel even an ounce of the hurt I feel.
Fuck him.
“Book her,” he says, staring me dead in the face as he tries to stop the bleeding. “Assault on a police officer.”
The arrest process is bullshit.
I answer what I have to, but I have the right to remain silent, so screw the rest of their questions.
I’m not in the mood to talk.
They transfer me to Central Booking in another part of the borough, where I’m moved from cell to cell, from place to place, in a piss-scented building filled with a lot of nosey-ass people.
Hours.
So many hours.
Signs posted everywhere guarantee the process will be over within twenty-four hours, but as I surpass hour twenty-three, I start to think the signs are lying to me.
Finally... fucking finally... I’m allowed to make a call, dragged to a room by a disgruntled officer and shoved in front of a phone.
My charge doesn’t seem to elicit friendliness from their kind, that’s for sure.
“You get three calls,” the officer says, glaring at me. “Make them quick.”
There’s really only one number I can think to call.
I dial it once. No answer.
I dial it twice. No answer.
So I try for a third time, thinking I’m out of luck. Either it’s coming up blocked on his caller ID, or he recognizes the number and does
n’t accept jailhouse calls. It rings and rings and rings, and I frown, about to give up when the line clicks and his voice cuts on, annoyance in every syllable. “Gambi—”
“Don’t talk,” I say, cutting him off. “I’m being recorded. There’s a big sign right above the phone that says so. So I wouldn’t have called, but I kind of needed to, okay?”
He says nothing, but I know he’s listening.
Or well, he hasn’t hung up yet, so I know he’s still there—pretending to listen, at least.
“I went on sabbatical to my favorite precinct and got arrested in the alley near it. I’m going to be arraigned tomorrow sometime. But really, that’s beside the point. I just...” Shit, how do I say this without giving up the goods? “Remember the time at my apartment where we went falling off the roof of the building and I played a bit of Hide & Seek? My hiding spot was so good they didn’t find me, but you did... you found me easily. I was hoping to play again, you know, if you want to go do some seeking, same basic spot this time.”
He’s still quiet.
I don’t know if he understands.
I don’t know if I’m making sense.
But I can’t just say ‘look at the fucking dumpster beside the precinct’ because who knows who else is listening and might go look themselves?
“I got you,” he says after a moment, his voice low.
“You got me?”
“I got you.”
He hangs up without another word.
I don’t know if he’s got me, really, but I’m hoping like hell he does. Hanging up, I look at the officer, who watches me curiously, like I’m speaking in riddles and he’s trying to crack the code.
“So, any idea when I’m getting out of here?” I ask, motioning to one of those ‘twenty-four hours’ posters. “Pretty sure time’s up.”
“Time’s up when we say it’s up,” he says. “We can hold your ass here for as long as we want... especially if we misplace your paperwork.”
“Ah, so you’re one of those...”
His eyes narrow. “One of what?”
“Those big guys that get off on picking on women. What, your mommy didn’t love you enough, so you’ve gotta take it out on us?”
He looks like he wants to punch me, but being as there are cameras everywhere, he can’t. Instead, he roughly grabs my arm and drags me back to a holding cell, whispering, “you should probably get comfortable,” before shoving me in.
More hours.
So many more hours.
I doze off, lying on the filthy concrete floor, but it doesn’t bother me much, considering I used to live on the streets. Do you know how many nights I slept on the cold ground when I was fourteen?
Pfftt, that’s nothing.
Do you know how many days I survived chained up in a basement?
I’m eventually woken, taken to yet another cell. Time passes, almost another entire day, before someone shouts my name. “Morgan Myers!”
“Showtime,” I mutter, staggering off to a little room, where I see a bald guy behind plexiglass with a file on me. Public defender.
“They’re offering a deal: plead guilty to misdemeanor disturbing the peace and you walk right out of here a free woman, the rest of the charges dropped.”
“Wait, what? What other charges?”
The man rattles off a whole host of offenses, like they’re trying to nail me for every teeny-tiny infraction they could possibly think of.
“Okay, wait... so what if I don’t want those charges dropped?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “You’ll probably end up in Rikers for years.”
Ugh, don’t want that, either, but I’m not sure just walking out of here is something that’s possible. I’ve been stationary for too long under my real name, which means Kassian has had forty-eight hours to sniff out my very public location.
And my suspicion is confirmed a few minutes later when I’m ushered into the courtroom and see him.
Him.
I come to a halt.
My feet won’t move anymore, cementing right into the floor. Shit. Kassian stands in the back corner, dressed impeccably in a dark suit. I’ve heard his voice, and I’ve breathed his same air, but this is the first time, in so many months, that the two of us have come face-to-face. The first time I’ve looked at him the same time he was looking at me, our eyes meeting for no more than a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity.
I’m pulled away, forced to keep going, and avert my gaze as I’m lead to the front of the courtroom.
The District Attorney and the judge exchange words, but I’m not paying them much attention. I keep glancing over my shoulder, toward the back corner. I can’t help myself.
Kassian isn’t smiling. He isn’t laughing.
He just stares at me, his expression a blank mask.
“Miss Myers?”
I turn to the judge when he calls my name. “Yes?”
“You need to plead on the charge of disorderly conduct.”
“Oh.” I hesitate. “Guilty.”
He says something else. I don’t know. My ears feel clogged, everything foggy as my heart crazily pounds. I glance behind me again, stalling this time when I find back corner empty.
Kassian is gone.
The judge is still talking but all I keep thinking is Kassian is here somewhere, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce.
“Miss Myers is hereby ordered to be held for pick-up by the seventeenth precinct...”
Whoa.
I look at the judge, confused, before turning to the public defender. “What?”
“You have an outstanding warrant,” he says.
That only confuses me more. “A warrant? For what?”
He shrugs.
The man shrugs.
Like he doesn’t give a shit at all.
I raise my hand, trying to get the judge’s attention before he can bang his gavel.
“Put your hand down,” the public defender hisses. “He’ll hold you in contempt if you disrupt his proceedings.”
I ignore that, because really, at least those charges would make sense. The seventeenth precinct is in Midtown, Manhattan. There’s no reason for me to have charges there.
“Excuse me?” I call out. “Your honor?”
The judge looks at me.
Man, he looks like he’d like to smack me with the gavel, but instead he says, “Yes, Miss Myers?”
“A warrant?” I ask. “What kind of warrant?”
“Conspiracy,” he answers.
That’s it.
Conspiracy.
“What kind of conspiracy?” I ask, but it doesn’t matter, because the man bangs his gavel and I’m dragged away.
Hauled back to another holding cell to wait again.
Back to being watched by the disgruntled officer, who personally seems to be monitoring me, a fact that isn’t really surprising.
He’s probably on somebody’s payroll.
A hundred bucks says it’s Kassian’s.
“So, any chance you know what a ‘conspiracy’ charge is?” I ask him.
“It means you conspired to do something.”
“Well... no shit. But what?”
He shrugs.
Another shrugger.
Awesome.
It’s only an hour this time before someone comes for me, two men in plainclothes, only their badges giving them away as officers. Big, and built, the rough-and-tumble types. The officer that had been watching me steps back, letting out a low whistle. “The violent felony squad, huh? Must be a doozy.”
My stomach is in knots as a sinking feeling consumes me. None of this ever felt right, but this without a doubt is wrong. These guys hunt down the bloodthirsty murderers. I’ve never even fired a gun.
Although, okay, I probably would, if I had one.
But I don’t, so I haven’t.
Which means there’s no reason for them to come for me.
I’m handcuffed and shackled, like a hardened criminal, before being
led out of the back of the building, where inmates are loaded up to be taken over to Rikers. An older white man in a gray suit lingers in the darkness, casual as can be, waiting beside an unmarked Crown Vic, a black SUV parked right behind it at an angle, blocking my view of the exit of the underground garage.
The man in the suit opens the back door of the car, and I’m immediately shoved into it, the door slammed. It’s like a little prison, a cage separating me from the front, the windows all obscured.
“We’ll follow, just in case,” one of the plainclothes says. “Any problems, radio us.”
“You know I will,” the man in the suit says.
The man climbs behind the wheel and pulls out of the garage, not saying a word to me at all. It’s nighttime, well past sunset, maybe even pushing midnight. It’s hard to tell. I look around, glancing behind me, seeing the SUV is, in fact, following.
“Is all of this really necessary?” I ask, my shackles jingling as I turn back to the man in the suit, glaring at him through the bars of the cage.
He glances in the rearview mirror. “You broke a detective’s nose two days ago, did you not?”
“His nose is broken?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” I’m pleasantly surprised. “Well, I mean, in my defense, he deserved it... off record, of course. You can’t double jeopardy that, right? Wait, shit, that’s not the Conspiracy charge, is it? Is this like some special prosecutor thing, making an example out of me for assaulting your prized detective?”
The man laughs. “I have no interest in seeing you prosecuted.”
Those words rub me wrong. “What, exactly, are you interested in doing?”
“Just delivering you where you need to go.”
My heart races so hard my chest starts to hurt. I look out the windows at the neighborhood around us, but it’s hard to see much of anything. I know we’re not in the city, though. We haven’t crossed a bridge, but we should’ve by now, I think, so we’re still deep in Brooklyn.
“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter, leaning forward, smacking my head against the cage. He’s delivering me somewhere, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem to be Midtown for a warrant.
“What did you say?” the man in the suit asks.
I look up, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. “You know he’s a terrible person, right?”
His brow furrows. “Who?”