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“Whatever.” Exhaustion softened the edges of her words as she dragged a hand through her hair. “Just tell them to back the hell up.”
Sam phoned one of the officers. The second Murphy picked up, he asked her if anyone was hurt. Sam said no, feeling the burn of Moxie’s stare as she glanced in her direction. Murphy paused, then asked if Sam wanted the officers to hold their position until otherwise instructed. Sam hesitated before she said yes. She was betting on her ability to get through to this girl, but she was very aware that that’s exactly what it was. A bet, one she could lose in a split second.
Sam slipped the phone back into her pocket. Moxie traced the lines of the gun with her finger, then tipped her face to the ceiling. A tear slipped off her chin and onto the black barrel in a silent splash.
Sam looked around until she found what she knew would be there. A rumpled black trash bag stuffed to the top and slumped against the table leg where the deputy had been cuffed. “So,” she said, waiting until Moxie met her eyes. “Foster kid, huh?”
“What?” Her eyes locked onto Sam’s in a look of delayed shock. “How’d you know that?”
Sam nodded at the limp bag leaning against the side of one of the tables. “Your fancy luggage kinda gave that away.”
She nodded, swiping at another tear with the heel of her hand. “Yeah. I feel like I live out of those.”
Sam nodded, noting th
e bruise on her cheekbone that had faded to a greenish-yellow outline. “So the deputy was taking you to your next placement?”
Moxie nodded, then reached for the water and drank it greedily with a shaking hand, as if she’d just remembered she was thirsty. Afterward, she crushed the cup, sinking it into the corner trash like a pro.
“You play?”
“I did. I was at my last place for my first two years of high school.” Moxie shook her head, still staring at the trash where the cup had disappeared. “I made the varsity team, but who knows now? I don’t even know where they’re sending me.”
“So just a sudden shift, huh?”
Moxie nodded, her eyes fluttering closed for just a second before she tightened her grip on the gun in her lap.
Sam nodded toward her. “Something to do with that bruise on your cheek?”
Moxie’s fingers rose slowly to the side of her face. “How could you possibly know that?”
“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out a shiner like that and a new foster placement at the same time means trouble.” She softened her voice and met Moxie’s eyes. “You get in a fight?”
“Nah. Not really.” Moxie shook her head. “My foster mom caught her new man picking the lock on my bedroom door a couple of nights ago and decided she needed to remind me who he belonged to.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t want to lose that one.” Sam rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “He sounds like a straight-up prize.”
That made Moxie laugh, and the tears had cleared from her eyes by the time she looked up. “Hey, didn’t I hear you tell someone that you were bringing them a cinnamon roll?”
“Yep, my wife, Sara.” Sam smiled. “She owns the restaurant across the street.”
Moxie nodded, clicking the safety back into place. “Gus’s Place or something, right? I saw it as we came into town.”
“Exactly. Sara makes the most amazing food, but I’ve got to be honest, she’d trade me in a heartbeat for a Moxie Java cinnamon roll. And I’m not sure I blame her.”
The girl glanced at the trash bag across the dining room. “What are they going to do with me out there? When we leave?”
Sam got up slowly, retrieved the bag, and set it down between them as she helped Moxie to her feet. “You’re worried about your stuff, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Yeah, it’s kinda everything I own.”
Sam looked out the window at the officers, who lowered their guns slowly in response to her signal. “Listen, here’s what’s going to happen. First, I’m going to wrap up a cinnamon roll for Sara. Frankly, I’m scared of what’ll happen if I don’t, and then we’ll walk out there together. But no matter what, I won’t let anyone touch your stuff, okay?”
Moxie looked up, worry fading from her eyes as she carefully handed Sam the gun. “Thanks for being so nice to me. You didn’t have to be, especially with me threatening to shoot the place up and everything.”
“So how old are you? Really?” Sam laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter and dropped the only cinnamon roll the busboy hadn’t touched into a bag.
“Fifteen.” She hesitated, starting to say something twice before it fell out in a rush. “And you’re a real cop? No offense, but you don’t seem like one.”
