My heart was a jackrabbit in my ribs, but my voice stayed steady. “I worry more about what’s coming through that door every day. The rest of it’s background noise.”
He laughed, maybe genuinely. “Fair enough.” He looked down at his notepad, then back up. “If you see Dean Medina, tell him we have a few questions. Routine stuff. But it would be easier if he just called in.”
“Sure,” I said, not missing a beat. “But he was with me all night. Left just before sunrise.”
Reyes scribbled something, then looked up, face slack with disbelief. “The whole night?”
I nodded, adding a little smile for effect. “The whole night. We watched TV, made pasta. It was boring.”
He watched me for a beat, then shrugged. “Guess that rules him out.” He started for the door, then stopped. “Take care, Em. You ever need anything, you know where to find me.”
I watched him go, the relief washing through me in a wave of sweat. For a second, I just stood there, the lie still burning in my mouth. I’d never lied to a cop before. I hadn’t thought I could.
Sergeant trotted in from the back, tail wagging, and pressed her head into my hip. I sank a hand into her fur and let her weight ground me.
The rest of the day went in a blur. I moved through my rounds on autopilot, scrubbing cages, popping open cans of wet food, scanning the endless emails about lost pets and adoption fairs. Every time I let my mind drift, I found myself replaying the conversation—Reyes’s probing questions, the way my voice didn’t even tremble when I covered for Dean.
I tried to tell myself it was nothing. That the Sultans had it coming, that Dean was only protecting his crew, that what I’d done was just loyalty, not some sick Stockholm thing. But the more I turned it over, the less sense it made.
At lunch, I ate a peanut butter sandwich at my desk, staring at the screen saver cycling through animal rescue photos. Most were dogs, some cats, the occasional goat or chicken. I tried to picture myself from the outside: a woman with no family, living alone, spending her nights patching up a biker she barely knew. The self-portrait wasn’t pretty.
I reached up, fingers brushing the paw print tattoo behind my ear. The habit always came back when I was lost.
Around three, the shelter quieted. I found a spot in the sun outside, Sergeant at my feet, and tried to breathe.
The truth was, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know if I was protecting Dean, or just protecting myself from whatever loneliness had burrowed into my bones.
But I’d made my choice. And for now, that would have to be enough.
I scratched Sergeant behind the ears, then looked up at the high, empty blue of the sky. The world kept moving, indifferent and wide. I wondered what kind of animal that made me.
***
Dean showed up just after dusk, the sun already gone from the courtyard but the sky clinging to its last streaks of orange. He knocked, not with his usual two-finger tap but with the flat of his hand, just once. When I opened the door, he stood with a paper sack in one arm and a six-pack of cheap beer in the other, shoulders hunched like he expected a beating.
Sergeant trotted forward and got the loving she needed, took a treat from Dean, and then padded back to her favorite spot.
Dean smelled like the road and cigarette ash and, beneath that, the sharp tang of worry. The bruises on his face had blossomed into deep violets, and the cut above his eyebrow was stitched with a line of medical tape that made his scowl look permanent.
“Dinner,” he said, holding up the bag as if it was a peace offering.
I stepped aside and let him in. Sergeant padded over again, sniffed at his boots, then settled by the couch, satisfied that nothing worse was coming.
We ate at the kitchen table, both of us hunched over burritos that leaked salsa down our wrists. He drank his first beer in two gulps, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then watched me as I picked at my food.
I waited. Whatever he’d come to say was wedged in his chest, just waiting for the right angle.
He finished the burrito, crumpled the foil, and started on the second beer. “Damron wants me to lead the next run,” he said. Voice flat, careful. “It’s happening tomorrow night.”
I set my fork down. “The Sultans?”
He nodded. “All of them. Word is, they’re regrouping at the motel out on 285. Damron thinks we can end it if we hit hard enough.”
He didn’t look at me. He studied the condensation on his beer, tracing a line through the water beads.
I thought about the story he’d told this morning. About lines and rules and what came after you broke them.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
