Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(78)

Maybe the dog decided I wasn’t dangerous.

Maybe…

I swallow. The first officer unholsters his gun, comes abreast of the car door. My pulse was running swiftly before. It starts hammering now. I can’t think. I have no idea why he’d pull a weapon now, but there it is. Dark, lethal metal. The morning sun reflects off its edges.

He raises it in my direction. “Get out of the car with your hands up.”

My hands shake as I open the door. I have no idea what just happened. I can’t think. I don’t understand. This is all going so wrong.

He gestures to me to turn for a pat down.

I place my hands on the side of the vehicle. As I do, I look into the back seat.

Blake took his bag with him when he went into the hospital. But he left something in the car when he went—a duffle bag scarcely the size of a backpack. I was so upset it didn’t even register. I’ve been so upset that I’ve been smiling at the dog, not realizing what I know all too well in the back of my mind.

But it registers now. It registers with cold, icy clarity. I can almost hear the promise Blake made to his father. I’m throwing out all your stupid cocaine if I have to come through the house with a f*cking dog.

That wasn’t an attack dog; it was a drug dog. And when that cute, sweet lab sat down, it pointed a doggy paw at me and said, “This one!”

This is not something I can simply talk my way out of. Abject won’t do it. Conciliatory won’t do it.

I’ve just been pulled over by the cops while driving one hundred and thirty miles an hour in a car that doesn’t belong to me, and I have an unknown quantity of cocaine in my back seat.

I am so f*cked.

They let me have one phone call. I entertain the idea of calling Blake, but he’ll find out—or his people will find out—eventually.

But, I realize on the drive into the station, the only defense I have to offer is this: No, sir, this cocaine doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to Adam Reynolds. Arrest him instead. I’m not even sure Blake and I are on the same side anymore.

Hell, even if Blake were willing to help, he has enough on his mind right now. He doesn’t need me bothering him.

I tell myself all those things, but there’s one fundamental reason I’m not calling him. Maybe the stars have it right. Maybe mortals dabble with gods at their own peril. But then, those Greek gods of old? They never met my mother.

I think she could take them.

I can envision my mother getting out of bed. Walking to the Felix-the-Cat phone she loves so much and frowning at it, wondering why it’s ringing at this hour of the morning. I can envision her putting her hand out.

And somehow, just as I imagine her lifting the receiver, she picks up.

She no doubt hears the recording warning her that the call is coming from a police station and that unless the other party is a lawyer, it will be monitored. I can hear her breathing. She’s probably wondering which of her friends is calling her this time.

“Mom?” I say. My voice sounds thin.

“Tina?” She’s shocked.

I inhale. “Ma. I’ve been arrested.”

She doesn’t say anything for one fraught second. Any other mother would be sputtering at this point. What did you do? How could you? What’s wrong with you?

My mother switches to Mandarin. “You remember what I told you?” she tells me. “Never tell the police anything, not for any reason.”

“Mom, I—”

“No,” she interrupts. “Don’t tell me anything that happened, not even in another language. I’m not a lawyer. They’re going to record this. Don’t you know anything about the law? Don’t talk, not where they can hear you.”

“I know,” I say. “Put it on my next birthday cake.”

“Where are you?” she demands.

I tell her. She doesn’t ask how I came to be in a police station near Modesto. She doesn’t ask what I’m doing. She doesn’t demand any explanations at all.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” she says. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“You have to be at work in an hour.” My protest is half-hearted.

“This is what I do,” she says in English. “If I can’t do this for my own daughter, what good am I?”

Maybe that’s what I wanted—no, needed—to hear. That I matter. That it will be okay with her if I f*ck up, that my mother will still love me.

“Don’t talk to the police, heh? They tell you lies.”

This is my mother in fight mode—the way she is for all the people she works with. This is what Mom does. She’s there for people who need her. All those interrupted nights—she’s been someone’s first phone call.

If there is one person I could have on my side against impossible odds, it’s her.

22.

BLAKE

“Hey, Dad.” I sit by my father’s bed. “Are you coherent yet?” The room is finally empty of doctors, nurses, and other helpful personnel. Dad has his own room in the ICU decorated in industrial gray. There’s a clip on his finger, attached to another machine nearby.

“Huh.” He turns his head and rubs at his eyes. “I’m pretty f*cking muzzy. What do they have me on?”

“Some kind of painkiller. I can find out exactly what it is.”