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***
She was in deep shit. She knew that. Roberts knew that. Everyone knew that.
There’d been a string of car thefts last night. Four reported missing on the south side of the city so far.
She should’ve known about it. She should’ve been there. Instead she was sleeping with the goddamn fucking enemy. Her cheeks heated. She hadn’t just slept with him. She’d let him violate her in every delicious way imaginable. And she was way too close to falling for him.
Now Roberts was looking at her for answers.
She straightened her shoulders and put on her best arrogant cop face. “I can’t be parked outside their residence twenty-four/seven. How did you expect me to know shit was going down last night?”
“That’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to find out,” Roberts said as though talking to a small child. “Where? When? Who? If you’d picked up even a hint, we could’ve been there to bust them.”
“Well, they didn’t give any hints,” she countered, hating that she sounded somewhat petulant. “If it is them, they’re careful. They haven’t been doing this a long time because they’ve been telling random strangers about their upcoming jobs.”
“So you need more help with surveillance?” Roberts asked.
No, that was the last thing she needed.
At least she knew Atlas was innocent now. She was his alibi. The brother and cousin though . . . They were still suspects as far as she was concerned. But all she needed was a little more time to insinuate herself into their lives and she was positive she’d get some intel.
“No,” she answered. “No more surveillance. Just . . . give me a few more days.”
“You sure you don’t want a partner?” He raised his brows. “You might have more luck with an extra set of eyes.”
“God no.” She slumped back against the chair. “You know I work better alone. Just . . . give me a few more days. I can do this.”
Roberts nodded. Clearly, his faith in her hadn’t waned despite the setback. She hated disappointing him though. Especially since she knew he’d been the one to push for her to make detective. She couldn’t let him down.
During her lunch break, she drove the half mile down the street to the hospital, carrying the bag of dolls from Vero. The receptionist at the front of the ER buzzed her in immediately.
“She’s in room eight, last I saw,” she told Mila. Most of the hospital workers knew her either through her mom or from her job. Once in a while, on an unlucky day, work landed her there asking a patient questions or checking on someone’s status.
Mila headed toward the room, steering away from rushing orderlies and a group of nurses hunched together staring at a clipboard. She stopped just outside the room and peeked through where the curtain was open slightly.
Her mom, Carrie’s, dark hair was pulled up high in a bun and the oversized nurse scrubs made her look especially petite. Aside from her coloring, Mila looked more like her father’s side of the family. It wasn’t all bad, but in high school she’d wished she looked more like her mom.
The patient—a young male with his leg elevated on an ice pack—rolled his eyes as an older woman standing next to him berated Mila’s mom.
“Just stop, Ma,” he said. “They’re doing the best they can. These things take time.”
“We haven’t even seen a doctor yet.” She threw her hands in the air.
“I’ll go get one now,” Mila’s mom said, stepping backward toward the curtain. “Just a few minutes.”
The patient rolled his eyes and gave Mila’s mom an apologetic smile. “Thank you.”
“Finally!” the woman yelled then began squabbling with her son.
Carrie turned and slipped through the curtain, grimacing. She stopped when she spotted Mila. “Hi. What brings you in?”
“Delivery.” She held out the bag her father had given her. “From Vero for the kids.”
With a skeptical look, she took the bag then peeked inside. “Dolls?”
“She made them herself.”
Her mom’s brows rose then she shook her head. “Ooookay.”
