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“I don’t think so,” Anna said. “I’m really sorry to run out like this.”
Jenna reached out and touched Anna’s arm. “Girl posse, remember?” she whispered.
Anna’s sigh was a ragged breath of frustration and sadness, “My star witness against a sexual predator is an eleven-year-old boy who’s scared to death to testify, and he’s due in the judge’s office tomorrow morning.”
Jenna’s eyes bugged out, “What happens if he doesn’t show?”
“Predator goes free,” Anna said, shaking her head. “And he’ll be right back on the streets to do it again.” She glanced at Gate, “So as soon as I can get to my car, I’m heading to their house.”
“What will you do?” Talon asked.
Anna dropped her phone back into her purse and threw the bag over her shoulder, “Speak with his mother to try to give her some kind of assurance for her son’s safety, but if I can’t, she won’t let him go, and I can’t blame her.”
Gate took the food from Anna and asked, “Which judge?”
“Judge Hawthorne,” Anna answered, starting for the front door. “He’s a stickler for protocol, but he’s honest. I really thought we could send this bastard to prison.”
Gate threw Talon a look, “I know someone who might be able to help.”
He held up a hand, and Talon tossed him a set of keys.
Anna stopped and turned around, “Who?”
“Let me make a call,” Gate said, following her out.
Deuce answered in one.
Chapter Sixteen
The Years Between
Anna
Gate maneuvered Talon’s mammoth truck through the maze of streets between Jenna’s house on Gaston and my witness’ trailer on the outskirts of town like he drove a monster truck every day of his life.
For all I knew, he did.
Before we’d left Jenna’s, Gate had spent about thirty seconds on the phone, and then secured the food in the back seat, using a seat belt because he said Talon’s steak was worth the extra security measure.
He’d spent the rest of the miles in silence, following directions as I navigated, neither one of us up for much conversation.
But then, after all this time, I really wasn’t sure what we’d say.
At least we weren’t fighting anymore.
By the time we rolled to a stop in the driveway, I could hear the rumble of Harleys in the distance. More than one.
My eyes went wide, “Gate, what did you do?”
The front door of box-shaped house opened, and Clara, my witness’ mother, stepped out onto the tiny front stoop.
“You said the boy is eleven, right?” Gate asked.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“What are most eleven-year-old boys into?”
“Superheroes?” I guessed, trying to remember what Lucky had gone on about at that age.
