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"What? No. No, I'm not talking to that shithead anymore. Haven't seen him in months."
I arched an eyebrow. "Really? Is that why the time on the Facebook message you sent him, begging for a dime bag, says four hours ago? Is that why he just fucking asked if you were still looking?"
Tristy's mouth fell open. She shook her head once before saying, "No . . . wha . . . Wait, what were you doing on my Facebook page?"
Great. Of course, she'd twist this around to make it all my fault. That's what she always did. Gritting my teeth because I felt caught, I muttered, "I was trying to look something up and you were still logged in. Then these messages started popping up and, fuck! You've been fucking lying to me." Grabbing handfuls of my hair, I gritted my teeth to keep myself from reaching out to shake her. "Damn it. I've been busting my ass to keep you clean and safe, and you do this? With Quick Shot? The dick who left you abandoned in an alley the last time you overdosed?"
If it hadn't been for a complete stranger calling the cops, who'd in turn called an ambulance and rushed her to the hospital, she'd probably be dead right now.
"Keeping me safe?" Tristy snorted and folded her arms over her chest. "You've been keeping me prisoner is what you've been doing. I've been trapped in this goddamn apartment for—"
"You have not been trapped. You know damn good and well you can do whatever the fuck you like. You're free to come and go as you please."
Tris snorted and rolled her eyes. "As if I could go anywhere with a baby strapped to my hip. I have no freedom. No—"
"You got yourself knocked up. And if you ever need a break from Julian, I'll find you a fucking babysitter. Damn it, Tris. This is no reason to go to Quick Shot for fucking drugs!"
"It's what I know, okay. Those people, that life, that's what I know. Who I am. And you're trying to change me. Turn me into something I'm not. Into her."
I gritted my teeth and glanced away when she mentioned Tinker Bell. I regretted the night we'd gotten drunk together and I'd spilled everything to her about Madam LeFrey and the glimpses she'd given me. She'd never forgotten, never let me live it down.
"I'm not trying to change—"
A pounding on the front door of the apartment interrupted me. "Police. Open up."
I closed my eyes and hissed out a breath. Of course, someone had called the cops on us. The walls in this building were paper-thin. Someone probably heard me every time I sneezed.
Fuck.
"Are there any drugs in my apartment?" I asked quietly. "Don't lie to me, Tris."
When she answered, "No," I opened my eyes and sent her a hard look. She scowled and hissed, "There's not. I swear to God."
"There better not be. Because if I get arrested tonight, you have nowhere to go. Julian has nowhere to go."
"If Quick Shot was asking if I still needed a hit, that meant I hadn't gotten anything yet, right?"
If anything, she at least managed to look guilty that she'd just confessed she'd been planning to bring drugs into my home . . . the one thing I'd made her swear never to do.
I sniffed and shook my head. "Unbelievable." Whirling away from her, I stormed down the hall to the front door and yanked it open.
Two officers stood in the hallway, and one of them had arrested me the last time I'd gotten into a fight. "We received a domestic disturbance call from one of your neighbors."
"Yeah, I'm sure you did." I pulled the door open wider to let them in. After growing up in the foster care system, I was well aware how this worked. When the cops showed up at your place, you cooperated, you didn't turn belligerent, and you answered whatever questions they asked. Nothing more.
They stepped over the threshold and immediately turned their attention to Tristy. "You okay, ma'am?" the shorter one asked.
Tristy clammed up in the presence of cops, mostly because we'd always been treated like suspects, even if we were the victims.
"I'm fine," she mumbled, ducking her head, which only made her look like an abused spouse.
God, this better not end badly for me. She might regret my interference in her life and feel as if I was keeping her prisoner, but without me, she'd be on the street right now and Julian would probably be dead.
When she wasn't any more forthright than that, the men turned to me. "So what's all the commotion about?"
"I shouted," I confessed. "And I pounded on her bedroom door, trying to wake her up so I could talk to her. But I wasn't even loud enough to wake the baby."
"And just what did you need to talk to her about at . . . four in the morning?"
