Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
The deputy opens an office door and points me inside, where the sheriff is sitting in a polo shirt behind his desk. My father stands from his chair and gives me a tight nod.
“Good?” he says.
“Fine.” As fine as I can be, anyway. When I notice the paper bag and cup of coffee sitting on the corner of the desk, I quirk a brow. “That for me?”
“Yeah, I brought you something,” Dad says. “Figured you might be hungry.”
I tear into the bag and practically inhale the two greasy sausage-and-egg sandwiches. I don’t taste any of it when I wash it down with hot black coffee, but I feel better immediately. The exhausted haze has been chased away, my belly no longer fighting itself. Though now I really need to pee.
“Let me say,” Sheriff Nixon speaks up, “I’m sorry about this whole mix-up.”
That’s a start.
“I had a look at the purse,” he continues. “The ID, credit cards, and other personal items clearly all belong to a young lady named Katrina Chetnik.”
I look to my father. “That’s what I tried to tell him.”
Dad nods, then narrows his eyes at the man behind the desk. “Sitting next to a purse at a crowded bar ain’t a crime. Correct?”
“No, it isn’t.” To the sheriff’s credit, he looks irritated with the whole scenario too. Annoyed to have been dragged down here on a Sunday to clear this mess up. “We’ll make an effort to locate the owner.”
Meaning Trina’s problems are just beginning. But I can’t say I care much about that. After spending a night in jail, I’m not about to run interference for her. She knew the risks. In hindsight, it was shitty of her to leave me sitting there with her coke in the first place.
There’s a sharp knock on the door. A moment later, Rusty Randall enters. Apparently called in from home, he’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and I do take some small joy in the idea he was woken by an urgent call telling him the boss said get your ass down here.
Randall appraises me, then my father. Nothing about the scene appears to jostle him in the slightest. With his hands on his hips, he stands in the center of the room. “You needed to see me, sir?”
“Rusty, we’ll be sending Ms. West home with our sincere apologies for her trouble. You can take care of the paperwork. I’ll want to see a report on my desk by EOB.”
“Fine,” he says, voice tight.
“Anything you’d like to say?” the sheriff prompts, cocking his head.
Randall doesn’t so much as blink in my direction. “I acted on probable cause for the arrest. My actions were entirely appropriate. Of course, I respect your decision, and will handle that paperwork at once.”
Coward.
But we both know he’d sooner wax his legs than apologize or admit he was wrong. Doesn’t make much difference to me, though, because I couldn’t care less what that man thinks.
“Ronan,” Sheriff Nixon says, “go and get her home. And Ms. West …” He regards me for a moment. “I don’t imagine I’ll see you in here again.”
I’m not sure how much I should read into his remark. Whether he means he’ll see to it there aren’t any further dirty arrests, or that he expects I’ve been scared straight. Either way, no, I don’t believe we’ll be seeing much more of each other. Not if I can help it.
“Not a chance,” I agree.
Despite having my name cleared, the ride home only exacerbates my shame. I might have been wrongfully arrested, but my dad still had to call the sheriff first thing in the morning to get his only daughter out of jail. It was humiliating for me, so I suspect it was no picnic for him, either.
“I’m sorry,” I say, cautiously studying his profile.
He doesn’t respond, intensifying my guilt.
“I get that what I do reflects on you and the business. And even though the drugs weren’t mine, and I wasn’t using, I still placed myself in that situation. I knew Trina had the coke and I should have walked away. ’Cause let’s be honest, a couple years ago, it wouldn’t have been unheard of that the purse would have been mine.”
“First of all,” he says. “I’m not mad.”
He watches the road as his jaw works, like he’s trying to arrange his thoughts.
“Sure, you’ve made some mistakes. A couple years is a long time, though, and you’re not that girl anymore.” His voice softens. “I’d have gone down there no matter what you told me. You’re my daughter, Genevieve.” Dad glances at me. “But let’s be clear. I had no doubt you were telling the truth. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the changes you’ve made. They matter.”
Emotion clogs my throat. It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve spent so much time trying to convince myself I was for real, I missed when other people started to believe it. My dad. My friends. Evan.