Page 122 of Things We Hide from the Light
Crap.
“What’s wrong, Lina Weena?” Naomi asked. “You look sad.”
“Or constipated,” Sloane added. “Do you need more fiber in your diet?”
“I need to go to work for an hour or so and I don’t know what to do with you two. How do you feel about checking into a hotel and sitting quietly in a room until I get back?”
Sloane gave me a thumbs-up, then flipped it upside down and blew a raspberry.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Did you find Huncan Dugo?” she asked. Her glasses were askew.
“No. I have to find another person for a coworker.”
“Let us help! I’m so good at finding stuff. Yesterday, Knox looked for the ketchup for ten minutes in the refrigerator and I found it in half a second!” Naomi announced.
“Thanks, but I don’t want your help. I want you two to stay out of the way while I go catch a bail jumper. Do you think you could pretend to be sober for as long as it takes Knox to drive down here and pick you up?”
They exchanged glances, then shook their heads and dissolved into giggles.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“We’re coming with you,” Naomi said firmly.
“No, you’re not,” I said just as firmly and without slurring.
“Itoldyou to stay in the car,” I said as I muscled my FTA down the sidewalk. My face hurt, my hip ached, I was sweating profusely, and my favorite sweater was ruined.
“Sorry,” Naomi said, trying to look contrite.
“We helped you catch him,” Sloane said defiantly. Naomi elbowed her. “Oh, I mean, sorry.”
“I should have left town when I had the chance,” I muttered as I limped around the block.
“Ow! These zip ties hurt!”
Melvin Murtaugh, a.k.a. ShadowReaper, was no violent criminal. The second he’d seen me reach for my restraints, he’dbolted out of the kegger his cousin was hosting. I’d followed him out the back, off the rickety porch, and down the alley.
The kid was wearing sneakers and I was in heeled boots, but my athletic prowess and cardio endurance were way more effective in a footrace than his keyboard skills.
He’d also made the monumental mistake of pausing at the alley entrance, distracted by something.
That “something” turned out to be Naomi and Sloane playing drunken sidekicks.
It had given me enough time to tackle him to the ground. I was getting rusty. I used to know exactly how to execute a tackle while using the tacklee as a cushion for landing. This time, my hip and shoulder had made direct, painful contact with the asphalt while my face had bounced off Melvin’s sharp elbow.
This was why I’d switched from bounties to asset recovery. People were too much a pain in the ass…and face.
“Where are my glasses? I can’t see anything without my glasses!”
“You should have thought of that before you ran when I told you not to,” I told him, sounding like an annoyed mother dealing with a teenage son who never bothered to pick his underwear up off the floor.
I hooked my hand in the back of his shirt and marched us all back to the car. Thank goodness it wasn’t a neighborhood overrun with car thieves, because my two drunken charges had left the Charger’s doors wide open.
“Oops,” Naomi said when she spotted the car. “I guess we forgot to close the doors.”
“It was the thrill of the chase,” Sloane said.
