Page 33 of No Lies No Promises

From an impossible angle, a video shows me dropping a pill into her drink.

“What the…?” Fists clenched, I snarl, “Check the metadata.”

Quiet now, lips pursed, Curan studies me beneath the dim lights.

Uncurling my fingers, I calm the fuck down. “C’mon, now. It’s complete bullshit.”

As the cellphone-recording crowd closes in, he reaches for my bicep. “How about you come to the station so we can clear this up?”

I slip free of his grasp. “For fuck’s sake. All I did was keep her from falling. Ask anyone.”

His partner, no doubt hoping to make detective any day, twists my arm behind my back. “Sir, you’re under arrest for administering an intoxicant.”

Bastard. “Lawyer.” Facing a wall of held-out phones, my thoughts turn to Lil.

God knows what she’ll think.

Fucking excellent.

Once they’ve processed me, they stick me in a holding cell with inked ex-cons and gang members.

There, I lean against the bricks with my arms folded over my chest, drawing an invisible line on the floor.

Cross it, there will be blood.

No doubt sensing I’m in the mood for a fight, the others leave me be.

It takes a full four hours before a female deputy opens the cell door and motions to me down a hall. “Clark. Follow me.”

She walks me to an old wall phone where DTMF tones sing as I key in Dante’s number.

“Jesus, what now?” My friend’s a saint, but even he has limits.

“I’m at the 83rd. Need bail.” I don’t mention my suspicions about the grifter, not while others might be listening in.

“Can’t happen until morning.” In the background, something clatters.

As he curses, the fluorescent light above me flickers. Closing my eyes, trying not to breathe in the chemical fumes of the dying ballast, I ask, “Can you at least book me a private room?”

“Sure,” he chuckles, “get right on it. Whatever you do, don’t sleep. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks.” Handset away from my ear, I hang up.

Back in holding, smelling of soot, I find my spot against the wall with too much time to think about Lil as the night drags on.

How I left her doesn’t sit right. I should’ve explained why I needed air—how my father was, and still is, a narcissistic prick, and how much I hate talking about it.

Chapter 17

Lillian

After snapping a pod of decaf into my Keurig, I pause at the window. Five stories below, delivery trucks clog the street. Motorists lean on their horns. Teenagers argue while a heavy bass drum thumps from a black Cadillac idling outside the corner bodega.

Mug in hand, I plop down at the kitchen table between Ruthie and my sister. “You guys should get some sleep. Dante says there’s nothing we can do.”

“How much longer?” Rebecca yawns, frowning at her phone.

“Sean might not be released until this afternoon. I’ll call you the moment he gets home. Okay?” Worried about my aging neighbor, I stand and head for the door, hoping she’ll take the hint.