Текст книги "A Little Too Hot"

Автор книги: Lisa Desrochers

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Chapter Twelve

HARRISON . . . OR WHOEVER   he is, gets up and straightens my chair behind me. Then he stands and locks me in his icy gaze. “Special Agent Blake Montgomery. L.A. unit, DEA.”

“Harrison Yates,” Jenkins snickers under his breath from across the table.

It’s a relief when Harrison/Blake shifts his gaze toward Jenkins. His voice turns sharp as broken glass. “That was the cover Special Agent in Charge Navarro put in place. I’ll be sure to give her your thoughts on it, though.”

Jenkins chokes on his snicker, suddenly looking like he swallowed a canary.

Cooper splits a glance between them. “Can we finish this pissing match when we don’t have a suspect to interrogate, gentleman?”

I sit and bark out a laugh.

Cooper’s eyes shoot to me, none too pleased. “You have something you want to share?” he asks, clearly fed up with this whole circus.

I shrug. “It’s just that I don’t see any gentlemen here. Just a couple of horny boys fighting over who got to feel up the girl.”

“Point taken,” he says, rubbing his forehead.

I was hoping to get a rise out of Harrison/Blake, but his expression is aggravatingly blank. “I’ll leave the suspect to you,” he says to Cooper, ignoring Jenkins’s snort. “If you need me, I’ll be in Evidence.” He spares a glance in my direction as he turns for the door, and as much as I hate myself, I can’t deny the tingly rush when our eyes connect. But his stay glacial. No crack in the ice or the cool exterior. “Somebody should get her some clothes,” he adds. Then he’s gone.

It’s just then that I realize I’m still in my skimpy Benny’s uniform. Without even thinking, I cross my arms, covering my bare midriff. “Can I call someone to bring me some clothes?”

“When we have what we need,” Cooper says, shoving the collage in front of me. “So, which one?”

“I want a lawyer.”

He drops his head in defeat. “This is going to be a long night.”

TURNS OUT, I don’t need clothes. The DEA has something special for me. A gray jumpsuit that could double as a potato sack.

It was dawn when Cooper finally led me out of the interrogation room to a holding cell, which really is just another white room. But instead of a table and chairs, this one has a cot. And a window. I watched the sun come up over the city, then laid on the cot and closed my eyes as my body burnt through its last ounce of adrenaline. I might have slept for an hour, tops.

My door clicks open and Cooper steps through. His face is strained and he looks like he hasn’t slept in three weeks.

“You look like shit,” I tell him, though I haven’t looked in a mirror in a while, so it’s probably one of those glass house deals. I really shouldn’t be throwing stones.

He sets a paper coffee cup and something in a McDonald’s wrapper on the table near the door. “Your lawyer will be here in an hour,” he says without acknowledging my comment.

“Thank God.”

His eyes flick to me, and it’s clear I’m getting on his last nerve. “Eat if you want, then we’ll show you where you can get washed up.”

“Fine.”

He nods and disappears out the door.

A combination of my caffeine headache and my growling stomach draws me off the cot, and I drain the coffee, then pull the wrapper off the food to find an Egg McMuffin, which I devour. I’m just licking my fingers when the door clicks open again. I brace myself for Cooper, but it’s a woman in her late twenties with long dark hair pulled back in a sleek bun. And she’s pregnant, a definite baby bump under her blue top.

“If you want to shower, I’ll take you to the bathroom,” she says.

I round up my trash and she takes it as I follow her out the door.

“I’m Special Agent Nichols,” she tells me as she leads me up the hall. “If you need anything, I’m your gal.”

“I need to wake up from this nightmare,” I grumble.

She glances over her shoulder at me. “Can’t help you there.”

“Where’s Cooper?” I ask.

“He’s with the team in Evidence.”

The team. Is Harrison in there?

Harrison doesn’t exist, I remind myself, acid rising in my throat. The guy I wanted was a figment of my imagination. Fake.

Every door we pass has a card scan on it, and when Nichols scans her card and opens a door for me, it’s into a small bathroom, complete with a stall shower. “There’s a shampoo and soap dispenser in the shower, and a towel, fresh toothbrush, toothpaste, and a comb for you there,” she says with a nod at the shelf over the sink. “Take your time and knock when you’re done. I’ll be right here.” She closes the door and I hear it latch behind me.

I pull open the glass door and start the shower, then shuck off my jumpsuit. The water is super hot when I step in, but I don’t turn it down. I stand here for a long time as it scalds my skin, thawing me a little. Once I’ve shampooed, washed, and dried off, I climb back into the same jumpsuit I just took off.

I try tugging the comb through my thick hair for a few minutes before giving up and peeling the plastic wrapper off the toothbrush. I look at my pink face in the mirror as I brush. Without my stage makeup, I look younger. Really young. And scared. I pull my eyes away from the mirror as my face crumples and spit into the sink. I’m not going to cry.

But as I brace my hands on the sink, I do. Tears trickle over my lashes and into the basin.

I rest on my elbows and let them flow for a minute to get them out of my system, then take a few deep, calming breaths and drag my sleeve under my eyes. I move to the door without looking back into the mirror. When I knock and the door opens, my heart stalls and an electric jolt zings up my spine.

I didn’t expect Blake.

I lower my face. He’s never seen me without my layers of stage makeup, and I feel suddenly too exposed without a mask to hide behind. Vulnerable. “Where’s Agent Nichols?”

“Elsewhere,” he says, his tone as flat as his expression. Without a word, he leads me to a room and scans his ID, then pushes open the door.

Sitting at a table is a gray-haired woman in a charcoal business suit. She looks up and sees me, and her voice is a deep purr as she says, “I’ve got to go, but I’ll check back later,” into her phone. She tucks it into a briefcase on the table next to her and pulls out a file, then stands and holds out her hand. “I’m Yvonne Grantham, your court appointed lawyer. You must be Samantha.”

“Sam,” I say, shaking her hand.

She gives Blake a narrow-eyed look. “You can leave.”

My bunched insides relax, and I immediately know I can trust her.

Blake splits a glance between us. “We’ve got some questions for her,” he says through a tight jaw, obviously not happy with his dismissal.

She gives him a hard look. “They’ll have to wait until I figure out if you’ve even got a case against my client, Agent.”

His icy gaze cuts through her as he steps into the hall and closes the door.

“This is highly unusual,” Yvonne says, sliding into a chair and indicating I should do the same. “I wasn’t able to find another case of the DEA arresting someone on solicitation charges. They usually leave that to the local police.”

“He set me up. I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, flicking a hand at the door.

“Him?” she says, her eyes widening. “He’s your arresting agent?”

I nod. “He came into Benny’s the night I started and sat at my stage, then he hired me for privates that night and the next. He got all touchy and told me—”

“Back up,” she says, jotting notes on a pad. “What do you mean, ‘he got all touchy’?”

I squirm a little in my chair. “He said he wanted to touch me . . . and I sort of let him.”

“At any point in all this . . . touching, did he identify himself as a federal agent?”

“No, never,” I say, shaking my head adamantly. “At least, not until he pulled out his badge and arrested me.”

“So, let’s talk about that,” she says, her eyes lifting from her pad to my face. “They haven’t disclosed if there are tapes yet, so tell me, what exactly happened?”

A jolt of fresh panic freezes me in my seat. “Tapes?”

She nods. “It’s unlikely your arresting agent wore a wire because they can’t try you in federal court for solicitation, and California has a two-party consent law. If they taped you without your knowledge, that would be grounds for dismissal, and they know that. But the Feds don’t always give a rat’s ass about state law, so it’s possible.”

I picture Blake’s body as his shirt fell open: ink over sculpted perfection. “I didn’t see any wire.”

“It would have been concealed under his clothing.” She’s riffling through some papers in her briefcase and stops at the look on my face, which I’m sure is somewhere between mortification and chagrin. “How far did this go, Sam?” she asks warily.

“Um . . . just . . . not too far, but I saw his chest. There was nothing on it.”

Her lips press into a line. “So tell me in as much detail as you can exactly what happened.”

I take a deep breath. “He hired me for a private dance, and . . .” Shit. “We’d been flirting for a few days and all, and I told him I wanted to go back to his hotel with him.”

“Did you ever ask for money in exchange for sex acts?” she asks, unfazed by my admission.

“No!” My fingers dig into my knees. “I mean . . . he didn’t agree to go back to his hotel because he said someone else was staying in his room with him. And then, somehow, we ended up kissing and I sort of started taking off his clothes—”

Her eyes flick to me again. “Right there in Benny’s?”

My face is burning. “Yes. In the VIP room. But I never asked for money.”

“How do private dances work? There’s a fee involved?”

“Yeah.” I swallow. “Two hundred for a half hour. He bought an hour.”

So, I guess I did ask for money. I hang my head and my face pulls into a grimace.

“And, did he ask you for sex?”

My stomach tightens, and I swear I’m going to be sick. “Not in so many words, but he kissed me . . . and I could tell he wanted it . . . if you know what I mean.”

The pen in her hand stops moving, and she levels me in her severe gaze. “You were clear that he’d paid for your services.”

“Yes.”

“And to the best of your knowledge, was he clear those services did not include sex acts?”

Panic starts to cloud my brain, twisting my thoughts into a jumble. “I told him he wasn’t allowed to touch me. There was a three feet rule.”

She jots another note. “At any point would you have given him reason to believe it was okay to break this ‘three feet rule’?”

I rub my forehead as the sinking feeling in my stomach intensifies. “I modified it to one foot.”

“But you didn’t tell him he could touch you.”

“No. He said he wanted to and I told him he couldn’t.”

“And did he?”

God, it’s hot in here. I wipe beads of sweat off my upper lip with the back of my hand. “Yes.”

“Who initiated the contact?”

When I don’t answer right away, she looks up from her pad. “I need you to be honest if I’m going to be able to help you.”

All I remember is his body pressed against mine, but I don’t know for sure how we got there. “That’s a little bit fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy,” she repeats.

I want to say it was Harrison, but I honestly don’t remember. What I do remember is that I wanted him. “I don’t know . . . it was pretty mutual.”

Her expression takes on a cynical edge. “So you just sort of collided in the middle of the room?”

“No.” I close my eyes and picture the room—where we were. I was at the door, totally embarrassed that I’d just propositioned him and he’d turned me down, and then the next second, we were kissing . . . “Up against the door. He came to me.”

She nods. “Good. If we’re going to go with an entrapment defense, that will help.”

“What if it’s just his word against mine? What if I can’t prove it?”

“The beautiful thing about the United States of America, Miss West,” she says, arranging the papers in front of her into a stack and tucking them into her briefcase, “is that you’re innocent until proven guilty. The burden of proof is on them.” She snaps her briefcase shut. “I’m assuming they can’t produce a witness?”

I shake my head. “We were alone.”

“Even if they have tapes, they won’t show proximity.” She scrapes her chair back and stands. “Don’t talk to anyone about the case without me present. I expect they’ll get your arraignment on the docket within the next day or two. I’ll come back before then to fill you in on what to expect.”

“So . . . how will this work? Can I go home?”

She leans her hands on the table. “Because you have no criminal record, and this isn’t a violent crime, I don’t think they’ll hold you here until trial.”

I lean back in my chair. “When will I know?”

“The judge will make that decision at the arraignment.”

I’m suddenly cold as my blood returns from my face to my bloodstream, the mortification ebbing. “So, I’m stuck here until then?” I say, wrapping my arms around my middle.

Her face softens. “Let me talk to them. I’ll see what I can do.”

She turns for the door, and as it clicks closed, I slouch into my chair, feeling more alone than I ever have in my life.

Chapter Thirteen

THERE’S A COBWEB in the corner of the window. No spider. Just a cobweb. I tried doing my karate kata to calm myself down, but this room is so small I nearly broke my foot on the cot with my first kick, so for the last three hours I’ve been watching that damn cobweb sway as the air conditioner kicks on and off.

I can’t stop my mind from running over everything that happened in the VIP room last night: the thrill of kissing Blake, the heat of his body against mine, the disorientation when he pulled out his badge. I’ve been over every detail a thousand times, trying to pick out signs I missed that he wasn’t who he said he was. So far I have nothing—no way I could have avoided this. I swear to God, I’m ready to dig out my own eyeball with a spoon just to give my mind something else to obsess over.

I haven’t seen my lawyer since she left me sitting in the interrogation room yesterday morning. Agent Nichols has brought me food and coffee, and taken me to the bathroom when I needed it, and that’s been the extent of my social interaction.

So when she steps through the door with a McDonald’s bag and sets it on my table, I jump off my cot and blurt, “When are you due?” just so she won’t leave right away.

Her hand migrates to her paunch, and her expression turns wary. “A little over three months. September twentieth. Why?”

“Just curious.” Or desperate. “Is it your first?”

She nods.

I reach for the bag and pull out a burger. “You want some of my fries?” I ask, holding the bag out to her.

Her wary expression pulls into a cringe. “I bought some for myself too. I crave french fries all the time,” she says with a swirl of her hand over her belly, “but my husband won’t let me have them. Says they’re bad for the baby. You’re my excuse to get my fix every day.”

I smile, plucking one from the bag and popping it in my mouth. “Glad I could help.”

She closes the door and moves deeper into the room, giving me a chagrined squint. “I know you’d probably like something other than McDonald’s for every meal.”

I shrug. “If I could get a chicken sandwich for dinner instead of a burger, you know, for a little variety . . . and a large order of fries, which I may or may not be able to eat.”

She smiles. “Hey . . . do you play cards?”

“Um . . . not really.”

“If you’re bored, I have a cribbage board.”

I need something to do before I drive myself crazy. “You’ll teach me?”

She nods. “Be right back.”

She’s back a few minutes later with a small plastic board and a deck of cards. We spend the better part of the next hour playing cribbage, but just as I’m figuring it out, my door clicks open and Harrison drags through with a file in his hand. He looks tired. I’m not sorry.

“Come with me, Sam.”

“Why?” I ask, splitting a glance between him and Nichols.

“Your lawyer’s on her way.”

My heart kicks in my chest. I hand Nichols my cards and follow Blake up the hall.

We settle into chairs in the interrogation room, and Harrison tosses his folder onto the table. He tents his fingers over the top of it and just stares at me, his gaze cold as ice. I’m starting to sweat a little, but I won’t break his gaze. I wonder if this is his version of Jenkins’s bad cop thing.

I put up the toughest front I can muster, which I’m sure isn’t all that tough, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he still affects me. I don’t want to show him anything I’m feeling. “You can use your intimidation tactics all you want. I’ve got nothing to tell you.”

He arches an eyebrow at me, and that’s the biggest reaction I’ve gotten out of him since he left me standing in the VIP room. “Am I intimidating you?”

I feel like the mouse as the cat bats it around in the air before snapping its neck. I should have kept my mouth shut, so now I do.

It feels like hours later, though it’s probably only minutes, when the door clicks open and Yvonne sweeps into the room. She swings her briefcase onto the table and lowers herself into the chair next to me. “How are they treating you, Sam? Is there anything you need?”

“Just for you to get me the hell out of here before I chew off my own arms and try to shimmy down the air duct.”

I can’t read her expression, and I wonder if that’s a skill all trial lawyers cultivate.

She looks down her nose at Blake, where he sits across from me. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

He stands and rests a hand on my shoulder on the way to the door. “We’ll be in as soon as you’re ready.”

My hand migrates to the burning path his fingers leave on my shoulder, and I force myself to lower it as he steps out of the room.

Yvonne watches after him as the door closes. “I could be mistaken, but isn’t he the bad guy?”

As I contemplate that, I realize how fluid good and bad are. Though I was only there for two weeks, I really liked working for Ben. He and Nora treated me well, paid me well, and believed in me enough to give me a shot, even when my own parents hadn’t. And now I know why their rules were so important. I never would have thought of them as bad.

And Blake.

It was more than his looks that drew me to him. He was so amazing: passionate and smart and sweet and vulnerable. Yes, if he’d never zeroed in on me, I’d still have my life, but could he really be the “bad guy”?

“I guess.”

Her expression turns skeptical. “So why is he touching you like you’re precious cargo?”

I glance at the door and my hand goes to my shoulder again. “I didn’t know he was.”

She looks at me another long heartbeat before pulling her iPad from her briefcase. “First order of business, your arraignment is tomorrow and I’ve petitioned to have your preliminary hearing immediately following. Once we’re in the courtroom, this will to go pretty fast,” she says, poking at her iPad. “This isn’t a trial. We won’t get a chance to present our case. The judge will read the charges against you and we’ll enter our plea.” She looks over a document on the iPad. “I’m assuming we’re going with not guilty?”

I nod.

“I’ve been looking over what little I have and it seems the entrapment defense is going to be our best shot, so I’ll continue to peruse that. In the meantime, if Special Agent . . .” She glances down at her iPad. “. . . Montgomery does anything inappropriate, I want you to document it. It will only help your defense.”

I nod again.

“Honestly, the fact that this whole case is your arresting agent’s word against yours means they’ll probably get the summary judgment, and we’re not going to be able to mount any defense until the actual trial, but it may force them to show more of their cards than they want.”

My heart sinks as I get what she’s saying. “So, there’s no chance I’ll just be done tomorrow?”

The skin around her eyes creases. “It’s possible, but not probable. They don’t need to prove anything. They only need to show the court that they have enough to maybe prove it later.”

I prop my head in my hand and rub the sharp pain in my temple. “Great.”

“But, even if the judge decides to hold you over, we can ask for bail. You have no priors, and you’ve lived here all your life, so flight risk is minimal. I think he’ll set a reasonable bail.”

The image of my mother coming in and posting bail is enough to tighten my stomach into a hard knot. Greg said he was done throwing good money after bad. I’d bet my bail he’d consider this “bad money.” I can’t call them. “What if no one can afford to post my bail?”

“It will be a bail bond, so they’ll only need to come up with a deposit. It’s not the whole amount.”

“But . . . what if no one has any money?”

She tips her head. “You must have a friend or family member who can come up with a few thousand dollars?”

I bite my lips together. “I doubt it.”

She leans on the table, her expression going all sympathetic. “I’ll push for getting you released on your own recognizance.”

“Thanks.”

“So, as far as the agency’s questions. Keep your answers short. Yes or no when possible. Only answer what they ask. Never volunteer any information. But you also want to answer honestly. If there’s something you’re not sure about, or that you think might incriminate you further, consult with me before answering. And if I tell you not to answer something, zip it.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling a little dizzy.

Her hand is warm as she lays it over mine. “It’s going to be okay, Sam.”

I just look at her, because nothing is okay.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

She gets up and knocks on the door. It opens a second later, and Cooper comes through with Blake on his heels. They take seats across from Yvonne and me and Cooper slaps his file on the table. He flips a recorder out of his pocket and clicks it on.

“Special Agent Ellis Cooper and Special Agent Blake Montgomery interviewing suspect Samantha Erin West. Lawyer present,” he says, nodding at Yvonne.

She nods back.

“Miss West,” he continues, opening the folder. “During your employment, did you ever see any illegal drugs on the premises of Benny’s Gentlemen’s Club?”

“No.” I start to add that Blake asked me to hook him up, but remember Yvonne telling me to keep it to yes or no.

He flips out the collage of men’s faces that he showed me two days ago. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

“Are you alleging that my client prostituted herself to these men?” Yvonne asks, laying a hand on the collage and pushing it back toward Cooper.

“No,” Cooper says, “but whether any of these men were on the premises is relevant to the case we’re building against Benjamin Arroyo, and if your client is able to help us with that case, we might be able to reduce or drop her charges.”

Her face twists into a scowl. “So you made the arrest to strong-arm information out of my client for your case against this Arroyo character?”

“No,” Cooper says again as Blake’s jaw tenses.

“But he told me right after he arrested me that it wasn’t about me,” I offer, holding Blake’s gaze.

“Really . . . ?” Yvonne drawls, jotting a note on her pad. “I’m sure the judge will be interested to know that.”

Blake presses back in his chair, and his eyes betray nothing as he stares me down.

“Go ahead and answer, if you can,” Yvonne tells me with a nod at the collage.

Cooper pushes the picture at me again. “Which one?”

“I don’t see how it could matter if I saw one of these guys. It’s not like Ben let me sit in on his meetings.”

Cooper’s gaze becomes more pointed. “But the fact he was having a meeting with any of them could be significant.”

I stab a finger at the face of the guy I saw come in the back door of Ben’s office with Nora. “Him. He met with Ben at the club.”

“When?”

I shrug and look up at Blake, whose eyes are trained on me. He’s got one elbow hooked over the back of his chair and an ankle propped on the other knee, like we’re talking about the latest Super Bowl commercials or the weather, instead of my future. I feel an irritated burn start under my skin, like an itch that can’t be scratched. “What night was it that you couldn’t keep your hands off me? A week ago Friday, maybe?”

He holds my gaze without flinching. “The twenty-sixth.”

Cooper jots a note then turns back to me. “What did he say?”

“Blake? Something like, ‘Jesus, Sam. Are you sure I can’t touch you?’ ”

Yvonne barks a laugh, but Blake is still cool as a cucumber.

I picture wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing. I bet that would get a reaction.

Cooper looks like he’s had just about enough of this whole extravaganza. “This guy,” he says, stabbing a finger onto the paper on the table with more vigor than necessary. “Did he say anything?”

“No. But Ben didn’t seem all that happy to see him. I thought it was because he was flirting with Nora.”

“This guy was flirting with Arroyo’s wife?” Cooper asks, stabbing the picture again.

I nod. “He was.”

Cooper picks up the collage and pokes at the guy’s face. “Talk to me, Montgomery.” He motions toward the hallway, and Blake follows him out the door.

“This is starting to make sense now,” Yvonne says. “They don’t care about your prostitution charge. It was just their in to your employer’s inner workings.”

“So, how does that help me?”

“First, if they get something they can use on this . . .” She glances down at her pad. “. . . Arroyo person, they’re not going to blink at dropping your charges.”

“So I should help them?”

“Let me work out your deal before you give them more, but my gut is to say yes. If you can help them without incriminating yourself, you should.”

“But I really don’t know anything else. I only worked there for two weeks.”

She cracks the first real smile I’ve seen from her. “That’s almost funny.” But then her expression clears. “They seemed pretty interested in the man you indicated. If there’s anything else you can remember . . .”

“No. He came in and Ben asked me to leave.”

She taps her fingernail on her pad. “I’ll see what I can do with that.”

I’M DRAGGING A McDonald’s french fry through a puddle of catsup five hours later when Cooper lets Yvonne into my holding cell. Her expression is a mix of hopeful and grave, and my heart speeds up.

“Is this what they’re feeding you?” she asks, frowning at my McChicken sandwich.

“So far,” I say, setting it aside and standing from my cot.

She indicates with the wave of her hand that I should sit again, so I do. She sits next to me. “There’s been a development.”

My stomach knots, and all of a sudden the greasy fries I ate feel like a really bad idea. “What happened?”

“The man you pointed out? His name is Richard Weber. For the last few months he’s been under investigation by the FBI, and he turned up dead in a Dumpster in the Tenderloin twelve days ago.”

All the blood drains from my head and I feel suddenly dizzy. I rest my elbows on the table and prop my head in my hands, trying to steady it. “Oh, Jesus.”

“You’re sure you saw him in Benjamin Arroyo’s club on Friday the twenty-sixth?”

I can’t think at all at the moment, but I dig deep and try to remember. “I started at Benny’s two weeks ago Thursday, so . . .” It was the next night; Blake’s second private, that I let him closer than three feet. “Yes. It was definitely the twenty-sixth.”

Her lips purse and she nods once. “They’re going to ask you to place Richard Weber in Benjamin Arroyo’s office that night. They’ll want any details you can remember, and a time, as close as you can estimate. And, for that, they’ll drop your charges.”

What if I’m wrong? I like Ben, and they’re asking me to help them prove that he killed someone? “Can I see the picture again?”

She nods and clicks open her briefcase. She pulls out a file and spreads three new pictures on the cot, different than the one Cooper keeps shoving in my face. And it’s definitely him. I feel suddenly sick. “What if I don’t want to testify against Ben?”

“I still think we can get you off on entrapment, but it will mean going to trial.”

And it will be in the newspapers, and Mom and Greg will see it and say, Yep, we always knew she’d go bad. Good thing we threw her out before she ruined the golden boys.

My stomach twists harder, sending a sharp pain through my insides. I hang my head between my shoulders. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“I think it’s the right decision, Sam. From what I can tell about your former boss, he’s not an upstanding guy.”

I take a deep breath and bob a nod. Deep inside I know that. I’ve always known it. But I wanted him to be the guy he seemed to be when he told me I was family.

She lays her hand on my knee. “I’m sorry they’re putting you through all this. But the good news is, if you agree to their offer, I think they’ll send you home tonight.”

I smile, but it’s forced. More than anything, I want to go back to my life, but all of a sudden I’m not really sure what that is or where I belong. Lexie, Trent, Mom, Dad, Blake, Ben: they’ve all either given up on me or let me down. No one is turning out to be who I thought they were. “Thanks.”