“Shit,” Painter muttered, reaching for his pants. He threw me a sheet that he used as a drop cloth and I pulled it over my half-naked body as he walked to the door. “Yeah?”
“This is Kandace Evans,” a woman’s voice rang through. “I’m your new parole officer. Please open the door.”
“I thought your parole officer was a guy,” I whispered.
Painter frowned. “He was. Be ready to call Picnic, okay? I got a bad feeling about this.”
He ran a hand through his hair, then stepped over to peer through the peephole.
“I’m opening the door,” he announced, turning the dead bolt. A tall woman with dark hair pulled back behind her head waited outside. Behind her were two cops. The look on her face wasn’t friendly.
“Levi Brooks?” she asked, looking him up and down. Painter crossed his arms over his bare chest.
“I’m Levi.”
She peered around him to look at me. “And this is?”
“Melanie Tucker. My girlfriend.”
She stepped inside, staring me down.
“What’re you hiding under the sheet?”
I coughed, looking away. “Um . . .”
“She’s naked,” Painter said bluntly. “You caught us in the middle of something. I don’t know you. Where’s Torres?”
The woman turned back to him, expressionless.
“Chris Torres is on administrative leave, pending further investigation.”
“Why?” Painter asked, frowning. This couldn’t be good news for him . . . shit. I needed to get dressed and find my phone. Call Reese. There was something seriously fucked up going on here.
“He and four others have been accused of taking bribes, including his supervisor,” she said, her voice cold. “His files have been reassigned to me. I’ve reviewed yours, and it’s very clear that he’s been giving you a pass. Where were you this morning, Mr. Brooks? Around eleven a.m.?”
“Work.”
“No, you weren’t,” she said, and I caught a hint of triumph in her voice. “I checked. And you just lied to me about it—that’s a parole violation. Your second violation, because according to your file, you were pulled over out of state without permission, yet Torres only sent you to jail for the weekend. You’ll be spending more than a few days inside this time. I still have nearly a month of discretionary detention time left and I plan to use it. Now. The officers are here to take you into custody.”
“You’re just taking him away?” I asked, stunned. “You can’t just do that—he was working, it just wasn’t down at the shop. He had to get supplies for a commission.”
“Parole is a privilege, not a right,” she replied, her voice smug and satisfied. “The Reapers have been holding themselves above the law for way too long now. Time for that to end, starting with Mr. Brooks. We’ll be searching the entire apartment as well. You’ll need to leave.”
“But . . .” I looked to Painter, feeling almost panicky.
“Call Picnic,” he said, his voice firm and reassuring. “He’ll get it all figured out. Go up and get dressed and grab your stuff. I’ve given up my right to a search without a warrant, but you haven’t.”
“I’ll send an officer with you,” the parole officer said. I narrowed my eyes at her. I didn’t like this woman. Not even a little bit.
“I’d like to see some identification first,” I said.
She strutted over to me, holding out a badge.
Kandace Evans, sure enough.
“That name looks familiar,” I said, frowning. Kandace cocked her head.
“You probably read about my brother, Nate,” she said, her voice cold. “He disappeared a little over a year ago. We don’t know what happened, but he was investigating the Reapers and then suddenly he was gone. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence? Now get your things and get out of here. Run off and tell Reese Hayes that I’ve got his boy here, and he won’t be the last Reaper to go down. Then I’d suggest you find a new boyfriend. This one’s future isn’t looking bright.”
FOUR WEEKS LATER
I ran for the bathroom, hoping rather desperately that Jessica was still sound enough asleep that she wouldn’t hear me barf. Again. Today marked the fifth time that I’d woken up puking . . .
At first I’d been in denial.
Maybe it was just stress—my boyfriend was in jail, after all. She’d dragged him off and locked him up and there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do to stop her. That kind of stress lowers your immune system’s ability to fight off bugs. That had to be why I was so tired out all the time and why I was having strange hormonal swings . . . and no period . . . and the throwing up . . .
Unfortunately, after a life like mine (drunk dad, missing mom—Go team!) you can’t afford denial long-term. Not if you want to survive. That’s why I’d stopped by Walgreens last night and picked up a couple pregnancy kits (two different brands, because if they carried news that would explode my life, I wanted to be damned sure). I planned to take them just as soon as I stopped puking long enough to pee.
Ten minutes later I sat leaning against the tub, staring down at the two sticks on the floor. One of them had a bright blue plus sign. The other had a picture of a baby on it, like they thought I wasn’t smart enough to read the results without illustrations.
This couldn’t be happening. I refused to accept this as my reality. True, we hadn’t always used a condom, but he’d never actually come inside me, either. I mean, what were the odds?