Jersey Six(6)

“Her bag?” Na?ve and obviously-new-to-the-job Amy questioned.

Without hesitation, Jersey dropped her bag. Thud! The unexpected eviction left no time to make alternative arrangements for the contents in her bag.

Amy eyed her for a few seconds before squatting down and unzipping the bag. “Drugs? What exactly am I looking for?” Inexperienced Amy stabbed her hand into the contents of the bag before Jersey could warn her. “Ouch!” She seethed, jerking her hand from the bag.

Lips twisted, nose wrinkled, Jersey’s gaze followed the blood oozing down Amy’s hand, right onto the clean, beige carpet.

“Knives, Amy.” Jersey laced her fingers behind her back. “Officer Dickhead wanted you to inspect my bag for knives. But his lack of respect for you—probably because you’re a woman—prevented him from suggesting you use caution.”

One of the knives was sheathed. Amy managed to find the one that was not. And a third knife Jersey carried on her. Officer Dickhead retrieved a towel from the kitchen and wrapped Amy’s hand while scowling at Jersey. “Johnson will take you to get this stitched up. I’ll deal with Jersey.”

“How did you know she’d have knives?” Amy hugged her wrapped hand to her chest.

“Less than a year ago, Jersey gutted a man from groin to throat when he tried to take photos of her naked in the shower.”

Amy gasped, meeting Jersey’s gaze.

On a heavy sigh, Jersey rolled her eyes. “Gutted is not the correct word. It implies I removed his organs. Slashed, sliced, cut, maybe even lanced … but definitely not gutted. That’s gross.” Jersey had a limited vocabulary, except when it came to knives. She knew everything a knife could do.

Amy cringed as every ounce of sympathy drained from her rigid body. It didn’t faze Jersey. She doubted Amy’s genuine sympathy anyway. It was a job. Jersey was Amy’s job—and not her only one that day.

That was fine. The fifteen-year-old didn’t want sympathy; she just wanted Amy to get that hand stitched up before she dripped any more blood onto Dena’s clean, beige carpet.

The officer dumped out the rest of the bag’s contents, using more caution to retrieve the knives. “I’m not going to lie … the asshole deserved it. But, we still can’t let little Jersey take the law into her own hands whenever she sees fit.”

Little Jersey mumbled a “fuck you very much” as she hiked up her oversized jeans before bending down to stuff everything back into her bag. The asshole did deserve it. Jersey wasn’t his first victim, but she was his last one. She never feared going to jail for murder—it would have been a welcomed opportunity at that point—but they didn’t charge her with a crime. Instead, she won the lottery … They placed her with the Russells.

Officer Dickhead waited for everyone else to leave the house before turning toward Jersey. “No one wants a fifteen-year-old delinquent.”

Her hard gaze remained affixed to him. He wasn’t sharing any new information.

“Jersey Six …” He shook his head, scratching his scruffy chin before running his hand over his dark, buzzed halo of hair. “Did anyone ever tell you why that’s your name?”

She narrowed her eyes, clenching her jaw.

“You weren’t swaddled in a number six jersey. It’s not the day of the month. Or any other rumor you’ve probably heard. You were dropped off at the door to the fire station, a New Jersey fire station, on Christmas. And you were the sixth abandoned baby that month. A foot of umbilical cord was still attached to you, pointing to a trail of bloody tracks that ended at a bus stop.”

Dipping her head, Jersey took slow steps toward the officer.

“No.”

She halted, glancing up.

“It ends here. If you can slaughter a grown man, you don’t need anyone to take care of you.”

Slaughter. Not a terrible description. Jersey thought it was better than gutted.

“I know you don’t want to see what’s behind the next door. The system is flawed. Most homes are good. Most foster parents are loving. How you’ve managed to find the rare exceptions …” He shook his head. “Well, it’s beyond me.”

Searching for the true meaning behind his words, Jersey canted her head. Was he going to draw his weapon and put her out of her misery? Kill her with her own knife? So many questions kept her from speaking or moving another inch.

“What did you say to those other kids before they left?” His expression mirrored hers as he cocked his head to the side. “Be brave and run fast?”

Jersey nibbled the inside of her cheek, wondering where he was going with his questions.

“No one will miss you. Run, Jersey. Don’t stop. Keep your head down. Stay out of trouble. And maybe you’ll live. Maybe you’ll find some way to turn this shit life of yours around.”

Her eyes flitted between him and the door. He stepped to the side and opened it for her.

Fifteen. A police officer encouraging a fifteen-year-old girl to run, nowhere in particular, had to be wrong on too many levels to count. But that’s exactly what he did.

That girl took cautious steps, waiting for the trap to snap on her. There had to be a catch.

“You could freeze to death in one night or be raped and left for dead in a week. Tell me you understand.”

Jersey’s steps faltered at the threshold. “I understand.” Her voice was soft but sure.