I do not understand what to do with a woman who looks at the wreckage of my life and still steps closer.
CHAPTER 11
EVIE
The Lark Street precinct smells like wet uniforms, burnt coffee, old fear, and institutional cleanser strong enough to make my eyes water.
Everything in the place is too bright. The white floor reflects the overhead lights in hard rectangular gleams. The walls are painted the color of resignation. A row of molded chairs sits bolted to the floor beneath a cracked public information display that cycles through cheerful municipal safety slogans while three angry people argue with the reception desk about stolen cargo, a parking fine, and whether an intoxicated cousin technically counts as missing if everyone knows which bar he is probably unconscious behind. Rainwater drips from my coat onto the polished floor, and every drop feels like a tiny, expensive second ticking away from the life I am supposed to be holding together.
The bail clerk does not care that I own a damaged bakery, that my display case is dead, that my repair fund is now being fed into municipal bureaucracy like meat into a grinder, or that the man in their holding cell is seven feet of injured, stubborn alien honor who should have known better and somehow did not.
“Processing fee is separate,” the clerk says without looking up.
I stare at the number glowing above the payment pad. “Of course it is.”
“Bond amount does not include administrative surcharge.”
“Right. Because when someone is arrested, the real victim is paperwork.”
The clerk finally glances up. She has short silver hair, tired brown eyes, and the emotional warmth of a freezer drawer. “Do you wish to proceed?”
No. I wish to go back in time, kick Ron Sanchez in the shin before he ever walks into my bakery, hide Kauss’s boots so he cannot storm an abandoned zoo, and maybe sleep for one uninterrupted night without criminals, police, or enormous emotionally constipated aliens turning my life into a tragic street opera.
“Yes,” I say. “I wish to proceed.”
The payment pad accepts my authorization with a soft chime that sounds far too cheerful for what it does to my finances. I can almost feel the credits leaving me. Window repair. Display case parts. Replacement chairs. Lost inventory. All of it drains into the precinct system because Kauss kept his promise in the most expensive possible way.
The clerk hands me a receipt. “Release may take twenty to forty minutes.”
“Can I see him?”
“You already saw him.”
“Can I see him without the dramatic force barrier and the officer hovering like I’m going to smuggle him out in my purse?”
Her gaze travels over me. Bruised cheek, rain-damp hair, exhausted eyes, coat too thin for the weather, purse absolutely incapable of hiding one Vakutan. “No.”
“Worth asking.”
“Wait there.”
I take the receipt and sit in one of the bolted chairs. The seat is cold and shaped by someone who clearly believes discomfort builds civic character. My ribs ache. My cut palm throbs beneath its bandage. I smell the stale coffee from a machine in the corner and consider drinking some purely because I deserve punishment, apparently.
My compad buzzes.
Darlene.
I answer before the second buzz. “He’s alive.”
“That was not my first question, but it was near the top.”
“I paid the bond.”
“How much?”
I close my eyes. “A lot.”
“Define a lot.”
