Page 1

one

EDEN

“This is all a big misunderstanding.” I try to sound innocent as the officer leads me through the sliding glass doors into the police station. Not that I look particularly innocent right now. The handcuffs that have my arms locked behind my back are a dead giveaway.

Not to mention the red paint smeared over my thighs, my denim shorts, and – the pièce de résistance – the bright red handprint on my right breast. My own, in case you were wondering, inadvertently left when I thought I could brush paint off me like dust.

Before we reach the desk, I know I’m done for. You shouldn’t make a scene in front of one of the most expensive hotels on the strip if you want a quiet life. Not even when they’re holding an International Fur Convention inside their hallowed hallways

And you definitely shouldn’t stay around to get caught when one of the idiots you’re next to decides to throw a bucket of bright red paint on the elegant white walls of the hotel to make their point.

The desk sergeant looks up when I’m in front of her.

“What’s your name?” she asks in a low voice, her eyes flicking over me before she looks back at her computer screen.

“Eden Fitzgerald.” There’s no point in lying, the arresting officer already knows my name.

The desk sergeant types into her keyboard. Her hair is dark, tied back so tightly it looks almost painful. “And your date of birth?” she asks.

I give it to her, and she says something like, “You look much younger than that.”

I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be a compliment or not, to be honest. But since I like to assume the best about people I give her a smile. “Thank you.”

“Address?” she asks, not reacting to my thanks. Okay, maybe it’s not a compliment. More like a commentary on the fact that I should know better at the grand age of twenty-five than to be involved in something as futile as this.

“It’s complicated,” I say, because it really is. If you asked me where home was, I really wouldn’t know. And I’m not giving her the address of the project I was working on in Peru for the last few months. Firstly, they don’t need any bad publicity, and secondly, that wasn’t home. No where is home anymore, not even the small town I grew up in.

If home is a feeling, I’ve been numb for a long time.

“It really shouldn’t be complicated,” she says slowly. “Where do you live? The street address would be a good start.”

Oh boy. “Honestly, I really don’t have a home. I’ve spent the last few months in Lima, working on a project, living in a tent. Before that I was in Europe, staying in hostels, and now I’m making my way to the east coast to visit my sister. She’s pregnant and really wants to spend some time together before the baby arrives.” And I’ve already run out of excuses not to visit her.So please just let me go.

The tiniest bit of empathy passes over her face, and I decide to jump on it.

“Please,” I say, trying to appeal to her kinder nature. “This really is a mistake. I honestly didn’t do anything. I didn’t throw the paint. I don’t even like the color. It’s too orangey. I prefer blue reds.”Oh God, shut up, Eden! You’re making it worse.I take a breath. “Can’t we just… I don’t know, pretend this never happened?”

She stares at me for a long beat. “I’m sorry, but you defaced private property with red paint. Which at the very least is misdemeanor vandalism. So no, I can’t pretend this never happened.”

I bite my lip, hating how unjust that feels.

From the corner of my eyes, I see the arresting officer pinch the bridge of his nose like he’s getting a migraine.

The desk sergeant looks at me. “Just give me your last known address so I can put something in the computer,” she says like she’s doing me a favor.

In the end, I give her the address of the motel I stayed in last night. She doesn’t blink, just types it into the keyboard, then gives a curt nod to the officer at my side. “You can take her through to booking,” she tells him.

I can almost hear him sigh with relief.

Checking his watch, he takes my elbow in his rough palm and leads me past a door that buzzes open with a heavy click. As we step into the booking area the air feels different. More ominous, maybe.

A fluorescent light overhead flickers in a stuttering rhythm, casting the gray-painted walls with a pale yellow haze.

He walks me into the holding area – a long, narrow corridor with a row of metal benches bolted to the floor. Each one has a ring attached to it for cuffing suspects in place. Dear God, this is not what I had planned today. Or ever. I don’t break the law, Idon’t get arrested. Yes, I might be known in my family for being the forgetful, flighty one, but I’m not a criminal.

Or maybe I am. I swallow hard because I’m going to havea mugshot. And my prints will be on file. I’m pretty much atAmerica’s Most Wantedlevel.

More importantly, my brothers are going to kill me.