CHAPTER ONE
Blue Ivanov
Stale coffee and vinyl flare around me. Every turn throws my shoulder into the police car door, and the cuffs bite deeper. The divider rattles when the officer accelerates. Codes crackle through the radio, meaning nothing to me and everything to them. Sunlight streaks across the back window, hitting my head while my breath comes in short bursts I can't quite tame.
Why did they arrest Red?
Tears won't stop falling. The question piles up behind my teeth, heavy and loud, but I swallow them because anything I say becomes another line in a report that already decided who I am.
The car jerks as we turn. My shoulder slams into the door hard enough to rattle my teeth. I stare at the scratched window, at the warped reflection of my own face, and try to anchor myself to something solid.
Red's voice keeps cutting through my thoughts, sharp and commanding, telling me to go home and to get out of the way. The memory twists tight in my chest.
The car slows and turns into a narrow drive behind a building with peeling paint and concrete that looks tired of holding secrets. A side door opens, and light spills out in a flat white sheet that makes my eyes sting.
My door gets yanked open. The officer I hit snarls, "Turn your body toward me. Feet out first."
I obey.
He grabs my cuffed wrists.
"Don't touch me!" I warn and try to shrug out of his grasp.
"You're not in a position to give orders," he retorts, gripping tighter.
"Ouch! You're hurting me."
"Then stop fighting, or it's going to be worse," he threatens.
My lips tremble. I force myself to let him guide me. He pushes me through the door, and bleach and damp paper hit my nose. My stomach flips while my shoes squeak on tile. We pass a row of doors that buzz and click shut behind us. Each sound lands heavy, stacking on my ribs, and the air thickens in each new room.
I assess each one, hoping to see Red, but he's nowhere. My insides quiver harder.
What if I never see him again?
A woman with her hair pulled into a tight knot takes over. Her uniform is crisp, her expression sharper. I barely register what she says while she directs me to stand with my arms and legs apart.
She pats me down with quick, efficient hands, fingers sliding over my sides, my waistband, my pockets. Nothing slows her or softens.
"Forward," she says.
The cuffs come off. Relief rushes through my wrists, hot and dangerous,then vanishes when she points at a metal plate embedded in the counter.
"Hands."
The plate is cold enough to burn. She inks my fingers, one finger at a time, rolled and stamped onto a card.
The desk sergeant doesn't look up. "Name."
I lift my chin and square my shoulders, narrowing my eyes. "Blue Ivanov."
He peers closer. "Related to Maksim?"
"Yes. He's my uncle, and he's not going to be happy about this," I warn.
"You're being booked for assaulting an officer," he deadpans, pen scratching steadily.
"He grabbed me. He put his hands on me for no reason!" I argue.
