Page 52 of Crossed
Besides, insurance is a scam, made specifically to ruin my fucking life, but even I know it still needs to be paid.I will pay for it, I console myself. I feel guilty enough I’m only able to bring him in twice a week and barely able to handle the co-pay on that.
Anger buzzes beneath my skin when I think of all Icoulddo if it weren’t for fucking Parker.
My phone starts to vibrate in my hand at the same time as Quinten runs up to me and pulls on the sleeve of my arm. “Ready to go home?” he asks.
“Let’s roll, dude.” I smile at Gabby and slip my phone into my pocket. “See you next week.”
She tosses a wave and I follow Quinten down the carpeted hallway where he’s skipping his way to the exit.
My phone vibrates again, but despite the salted sidewalks, the concrete’s still a little slippery, and I don’t want Quinten to trip or for me to fall and take him down with me, so I ignore it.
Probably just Dalia checking in anyway, and we’re about to see her.
Or maybe it’s Parker, who I definitelydon’twant to talk to right now.
I get Quinten buckled in and set up with his headphones and music, and then we’re off, nothing but the roads and the silence, leaving plenty of room for me to ruminate in my thoughts. It’s been a few days, and I haven’t been back to work. I’ve made excuses with my boss, saying that I’m sick, but Gabby bringing up the insurance issue is a stark reminder that I really can’t afford to not be bringing in nightly money.
It’s just…every time I think about going back in, I imagine Andrew showing up to finish what he started.
My phone rings again, vibrating in the center console right as we pull into the open space in front of our apartment.
I barely have the key in the lock when it’s swinging open, Dalia’s wide and frazzled eyes meeting mine. “Where the hell have you been?”
The look on her face makes my stomach drop. “Quin’s therapy. Why? What’s wrong?”
Quinten hops in place beside me before slipping between Dalia’s body and the doorframe to disappear into the living room. She doesn’t even spare him a glance, and now I’m really concerned.
“I tried to call you. I’vebeentrying to call you, Amaya. Jesus Christ.” She reaches out, gripping my forearm tightly.
“Miss Paquette?” A deep voice comes from behind Dalia.
She sighs when I look around her, seeing the two men standing in our kitchen.
I push her to the side and make my way in the house. My eyes immediately find Quinten, who’s in the living room, side-eyeing the strangers but keeping his distance.
“Miss Paquette?” the man on the right says again.
“Who’s asking?” I don’t like random men in our apartment when it’s supposed to be our safe place.
“I’m Detective Fuller, and this is Detective Allan,” the same man says, his graying brows furrowing as he gestures toward his partner. “We’d just like to talk to you for a minute, if you don’t mind.”
I cross my arms and look at Quinten then Dalia before jerking my head toward the living room to let her know she should keep him occupied. She nods and sucks on her lips before moving, and I make my way closer to the detectives, a sick feeling creeping into my stomach and up my throat.
Is this about my mother? Ridiculous. It’s been years.
“Sure,” I finally reply, reaching into the fridge to grab the creamer before I turn to make a pot of coffee. “Either of you thirsty?”
Detective Fuller smiles, his thin lips stretching across his tan face as he shakes his head. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”
Nodding, I reach up to grab the coffee grounds and start scooping them into the filter. “What can I do for you two?”
Detective Allan pipes in, his blue eyes sharp and his voice clipped as short as his buzzed hair. “Where were you three nights ago around the time of one forty- five?”
I pause with the grounds halfway poured, my brows drawing in.
What the hell?
“Uh…at work, probably.”
