I reach for the latch, but the older one’s voice cuts through the night before I can.
“Step out of the vehicle, sir.”
My gut sinks.
“What’s the problem?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“This car was reported stolen about an hour ago.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “You sure?”
He doesn’t blink. “Positive. Step out, hands where I can see them.”
I obey. My pulse drums against my throat.
The younger one pats me down, pulls my wallet from my pocket. The older cop reads my fake name, glances at me, and then at the car. “You want to tell us how you ended up driving this?”
I don’t.
So I say nothing.
Which is how I end up in cuffs, wrists digging into steel, sitting in the back of a cruiser that smells like sweat.
They don’t say much after that. Just the occasional radio crackle, the click of the partition window sliding shut.
At the station, it’s the usual routine of questions I don’t answer, a mugshot I try not to look at, and a holding cell that smells like bleach and stale fries.
After what feels like an hour, someone finally says, “You get one call.”
I stare at the phone on the wall. One call.
Calling Rico would be suicide. He’d tell my uncle before sunrise. My uncle would do worse than hit me.
I lean my head against the wall, close my eyes. The cold metal bites into my skin. My mind spins, rifling through names.
No one fits.
Except one.
The last person I should call. The one person who’d never let me live this down.
Jamie.
I exhale, long and slow, then dial.
It rings once. Twice.
He answers on the third, groggy and irritated. “Who is this?”
“Jamie.” My voice comes out low, rough.
There’s a pause. “Miles? You drunk?”
I almost laugh. “Not this time.”
“What do you want?”
“I, uh… need a favor.”
