Page 103 of Steal My Heart
“Money.”
Gritting my teeth, I toss the wallet over the fence.
Dad catches it, giving me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, baby girl. Take one for the team.” He hops off the box and disappears.
Shocked, I turn around to find myself surrounded by officers. “You’re under arrest.”
Angelo
“So your father was the confidential informant,” I say gently, petting her hair.
“What do you mean?” She looks up at me, her chin trembling.
“I pulled your arrest report; an informant ratted you out, leading to the setup and your arrest.”
“If that’s the case, my dad screwed me twice,” Remi says sadly.
A shame he’s dead, because I’d love to get my hands on him.
“What happened after that?” I ask, running my fingers through her soft hair.
“I posted bond and bounced,” she says. “Probably wasn’t the best decision skipping out on my hearing. But without the cash for a decent lawyer, I figured my odds weren’t that good anyway.”
“Is that when you began doing palm reading?” I ask, grabbing her hand and kissing her palm.
“No, I only came back to the city after I got word that my dad had died.”
“Where did you go?”
“Took a bus to Nashville. Tried my hand at the music scene there, but so did every other musician in the country.” She shakes her head. “Plus, Nola wasn’t a fan of country music.”
“Of course she wasn’t,” I say.
“But when I got word that my dad had died, I risked coming back to the city. I had every intention of going straight,” she says emphatically. “All I needed was one good grab; the charity gala was going to help me get a lawyer and figure out my legal mess, but then you politely kidnapped me.”
I chuckle as she settles into my arms, her body relaxing as I continue petting her hair.
“By the time I got back home, he was already dead and buried.”
“No funeral?”
Remi shakes her head. “Too broke. Word is he’s buried in the city’s indigent cemetery. They’re unmarked graves, so I don’t know which one to spit on. Or cry on.”
She begins crying again, and I squeeze her tight.
“It feels weird to both hate him and miss him, if that makes sense,” she whispers.
“It makes sense.” I reach inside my pocket, handing her my handkerchief.
Her eyes widen. “I can’t blow my snotty nose on your silk, monogrammed handkerchief!”
“What’s the point of a silk, monogrammed handkerchief if you can’t blow your snotty nose on it?”
She accepts it, blowing her nose before holding it out. “Why did you not tell me Laurie was your queen?”
“She’s not my queen. My queen is trying to return a snotty handkerchief; please, you keep it.”
“Ugh, there you go again, being all swoony?—”
