Gabriel closes the last cabinet with a defeated thump. “Well, unless you want whiskey and peanut butter for breakfast, we need to make a food run.”
The thought of venturing outside my apartment sends a ripple of unease through me, but I refuse to be scared into hiding.
“You shower.” I nudge him toward the bathroom. “I’ll run out and grab us something.”
Gabriel hesitates, a flash of concern crossing his features. “Are you sure? After everything last night?—”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off, not wanting to revisit those moments of weakness. “Nobody’s going to grab me in broad daylight at a drive-thru.”
“But—”
I cut him off with a kiss. “Go shower. You smell like sex and me.”
“Is that a bad thing?” He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “I enjoy your scent on me.”
I smack his ass. “Go on. Get. I’ll be back before you’re done.”
“Fine.” With a huff, he heads for the bathroom. “Make sure you take your phone.”
“Yes, Mom.”
He flips me off before closing himself in the bathroom.
As I head to the bedroom for a shirt and socks, Gabriel’s pants on the floor catch my attention. With a grin, I bend and dig the sleek, black key fob from his pocket. A leather keyring dangles from it, bearing the Rockford logo embossed in gold.
In one of his many attempts to give me gifts, he’d offered to buy me a new car. This isn’t stealing, it’s a test drive. Besides, I’ll be back before he’s done. I pull on a T-shirt, pocket the keys, and slip out the door while steam still billows from beneath the bathroom door.
Gabriel’s car sits in the visitor spot near my building, its glossy black exterior reflecting the morning sun. It’s not the flashiest of the Rockford fleet. He learned that lesson after his last car got boosted, but it still stands out among the rusted sedans and practical SUVs filling the rest of the lot.
As I slide into the driver’s seat, the leather upholstery cradles my body, softer than anything in my apartment. The interior smells of cedar and citrus,with underlying notes of Gabriel’s cologne, as if his scent has become part of the vehicle itself.
My fingers trace the steering wheel, smooth and cool beneath my touch. The dashboard gleams with untouched screens and buttons, their purpose a mystery to someone who drives vehicles designed decades earlier.
I search for an ignition key before remembering this model starts with a button. My fingers probe around the steering column until I find it, and the engine purrs to life.
With a grin, I buckle myself in, and as I do, my fingers brush the corner of something wedged between the seat and the center console.
Curious, I pull at it, and a manila folder slides free, its edges crisp. I frown, expecting receipts or business documents, the kind of thing Gabriel would keep in his car for meetings with Rockford associates.
When I flip open the cover, though, my breath catches.
Juvenile Detention File: Samuel Ortiz.
My identification number stares back at me from the top of the page, the same six digits from the photograph in the threatening envelope.
Blood rushes in my ears as I flip through the contents, skimming through the family historysection with its clinical description of parental neglect and foster placement failure.
The incident report comes next, detailing my attack on the house manager who had hurt Micah. No mention of what provoked me, only the aftermath of a broken jaw, a fractured orbital bone, and three dislodged teeth.
Excessive force, the report concludes.
Uncontrolled rage.
A danger to others.
My fingers shake as I turn to the next section of disciplinary actions within the detention facility. Each infraction is cataloged with dates and punishments. Three months in, the pattern changes. Fewer fights. Increased isolation. Requests to be left alone during showers.
The psych evaluation notes the shift without identifying its cause.
