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I need his help, but how much help is he really going to be if he was the one who made this happen? Maybe he’s angry that I rejected him, that I called him out on his shit, that he can’t treat me like a toy to be discarded. And like a spoiled brat, he’s using his power and influence to get revenge.
The cop may be right that a misdemeanor won’t send me to prison, but I could get into serious trouble. First Ethan King screwed me, and then he screwed me over. It’s not just my heart that he decimated, but my entire fucking future.
Thirty-Four
Ineed a lawyer. A phone call to someone who can help me. But I don’t have anything or anyone. I’m all on my own in this and have no idea what to do. That fact becomes increasingly obvious when I’m brought into the police station, marched into an interrogation room, and peppered with incriminating questions.
“So let me confirm.” The police officer writes everything down while I sit across from him, trying not to cry or panic. “Malory King asked you to leave the house three weeks before you actually vacated the property?”
I nod and then I shake my head. “Did you write down the part about my ferry ticket being canceled? Or that Ethan King came and told me I could stay?”
The cop swallows a grimace and a quick nod. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.” He leaves and I’m sitting in the integration room with my glass of water and wondering if his comment about comfort is some kind of sick joke. Just when I feel like I can’t take another second alone with my thoughts, he returns, sitting across from me with a pitying expression. “I’ve spoken with the Kings, told them your side of the story, but they’ve decided to continue with the charges.”
I should reply, should demand something, but the words die on my tongue.
“You are free to go but you will need to come to the court on . . .” The officer is talking about my rights and what to do next but I’m not hearing a thing. Everything is buzzing. Everything is too bright.
This can’t be happening.
“If I’m convicted, will I go to jail?” I blurt out, fears of being locked up swirling through my mind.
The cop goes quiet for a moment and I make myself focus on what he says next.
“I’m not your lawyer so this isn’t legal advice, but since this is your first offense that is unlikely. This is a misdemeanor charge. You need to treat it seriously, but it also doesn’t have to ruin your life. If you do get booked, it probably won’t be for longer than thirty days, but that all depends on the judge.”
I nod because I don’t know what else to say. It seems like he wants to add something more, but, with a long sigh, he stands and I follow him to the front of the police station.
“Take my advice and go hire yourself a good lawyer.” He pats me on the back.
“I don’t have money for a lawyer,” I mumble.
He nods like he figured as much. “Kids like you rarely do.”
“So what do I do?”
“You hope the court appointed attorney is decent or that the judge takes pity on you. Preferably both.” He doesn’t say this with a lot of confidence.
“Thanks.” What I don’t add is that the university will also have to take pity on me. Once they find out about this, there’s a good chance I’m going to lose my scholarship. When I got in, I made sure to read the fine print. A criminal misdemeanor means I’m not eligible for scholarships anymore.
I step out the door and start down the sidewalk. A minute later he catches up. He looks both directions and then right into my eyes. His are older, wiser, like they’ve seen things nobody should have to see. “Take my advice and don’t trust people like Conrad King. I see it in my line of work all the time. People like that don’t care about people like you.” He takes a step back. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“No, I’m good.”
He nods and then he’s gone.
I appreciate that he took the extra time to warn me, but I already know all too well that the King family can’t be trusted. I should’ve taken Camilla’s warning from day one and I certainly never should’ve stayed back at that house by myself.
It doesn’t take long to walk back to the hotel because it’s less than a mile from the station. I just need to get my stuff and get out of here. Too bad the very same front desk clerk from earlier motions me forward with his index finger like he’s motioning a toddler to come forward for a stern talking-to.
He’s going to throw me out of his hotel. I just know it. But at this point I don’t even care. Tomorrow is finally move-in day. I’ll sleep on the street tonight if I must. I’m just so over this whole thing. I’m tired of being scared. I’m tired of losing. I just have to take it day by day and hope I don’t end up worse off than I already am.
“Ms. Davis, how are you? Well, I hope.” he asks in a professional and kind tone. It throws me off—these are the last words I expected out of his mouth after today’s display.
“I’ve been better.” I draw the words out, not sure where this conversation is going.
He nods as if he gets it, as if people get arrested at his hotel every day and it’s a necessary inconvenience. “There are some people here to see you.”
My stomach drops. “Who?”
