Sarah's gaze flicked to Gloria, then to the narrow gap beside the pavement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her shoulders tightened, decision made.
"Oh no you don't," Gloria said, and revved the scooter like it was a motorbike.
Sarah darted sideways anyway, quickly trying to slip past the front wheel.
Sloan saw it and moved at the same time, taking one long step, then she launched, grabbing a fistful of Sarah’s green top.
“Not so fast,” Sloan said, and hauled her down.
It wasn’t graceful. Sloan went down with her, skirt and all, and they hit the pavement in a tangle of limbs and fury.
“Get off me!” Sarah snapped, twisting, trying to scramble up.
Sloan kept her grip. “Stop it.”
“Stop it?” Sarah barked a laugh, wild-eyed. “You’re attacking me!”
Matty broke into a jog, skates thumping against her leg, phone jammed to her ear. “Sloan!” she shouted, and her voice came out higher than she meant it to.
Ahead, Sloan had Sarah pinned, one hand twisted in the fabric of her top, the other braced on the pavement. Sarah was all elbows and panic, wriggling like she could simply unmake the situation through sheer refusal to participate.
“Thought you could pin everything on Matty and get away with it?” Sloan sneered. “Not on my watch, lady.”
Gloria circled them on the scooter like a deranged rodeo rider.
“She’s no lady!” Gloria yelled. “Don’t let her up! Hold her!”
“I am holding her,” Sloan snapped, breathless, hair in her face.
Sarah kicked out, desperate now. “Get off—get off me!”
“Stop fighting,” Sloan said through her teeth. “You’re making it worse.”
Matty got close enough to see the whites of Sarah’s eyes—wide, terrified. She swallowed hard and spoke into the phone. “Sloan’s got her on the floor.”
“I’m just round the corner,” Saint said. “Don’t let her go.”
Gloria swung the scooter in again, front wheel edging into Sarah’s line of sight. “Try it,” she told her, cheerful as anything. “I’ll clip your ankles.”
“Gloria,” Matty gasped, finally reaching them, “please—”
And then Whitton was there, Saint running behind her.
One second he was a voice in Matty’s ear, the next he was dropping beside Sloan, taking Sarah’s wrist and snapping a cuff around it with practised speed.
“Police,” he said, calm as Sunday.
“Nice one.” Whitton grinned at Sloan.
Sarah froze—properly froze—like her body had finally caught up to the fact she’d lost.
Sloan let out a sharp breath and sat back on her heels. “Thanks.”
“You good?” Whitton asked Saint.
He nodded. “I’ve got her.”
Sloan stood with a helping hand from the female detective, dusted herself down, and watched as Saint turned Sarah over, caught her other wrist, and cuffed that too, quickly and efficiently.
