Chapter Ten

“She isn’t your curse.” I keep my eyes shut at the sound of my grandmother’s voice. “You can love her.”

“I’m trying,” my mother whispers. “But every time I look at her, I see the truth, and I know I’ve lost him.”

“Not because of her,” my grandmother says gruffly.

“Yes,” my mother counters sadly, “because of her.”

“Here,” Nina says, holding out a pair of sparkly black flip-flops.

“You have flip-flops in your purse?” I ask incredulously.

“You try wearing stilettos for hours. Of course I carry around a pair of flip-flops. They’ve saved me more times than I can count, and now, they’re saving you. So, you’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” I say, apology in my tone. I slide my feet into them and am grateful for the gargantuan purse Nina lugs around with her everywhere.

We step out of Stella’s and start walking across the parking lot.

“My place?” I confirm.

The girls nod, knowing I’m within walking distance. The walk isn’t nearly as shady as a bus ride at two o’clock in the morning.

Tori hands me my leather jacket, and I happily put it on. “Thanks.”

“Parker says we’re done,” Nina announces.

I try to read the emotion behind the declaration but can’t. At least Parker told me the truth.

“Are you okay with this?” I ask delicately.

She shrugs indifferently. “You know he doesn’t mean it. But whatever. He’s kind of a slut, and he definitely doesn’t respect me. So he can go to hell.”

I laugh.

“What did Joey do?” Tori asks. “He a slut too?”

“I don’t know,” I tell them, “but he is a liar.”

Tori sighs, shaking her head. “So no more Harrisons.” She pauses and bites her lip. “Except … I’m going out with Lincoln again … so you may have to tolerate Joey. But I’ll try to make sure it’s from a distance.”

I study her curiously. “You’re serious about Lincoln? You really like him?”

A girlish smile emerges. “He’s so nice. And his body? Un-be-lievable.”

“At least one of us ended up with a good one,” Nina says. We round the corner and start down my street. “I think we need to visit the ‘party in a bag.’ I remember seeing a joint in there, and we could definitely use it.”

“Definitely,” I agree adamantly, searching my pockets. I pull out the switchblade, wishing I’d had it earlier in the stairwell with Vic. And then I pat the inside pocket and reach for the small plastic bag. Before I can put the switchblade back in my pocket, a car pulls up beside us.

“Lana Peri?” a deep booming voice confirms.

Instinctively, Nina rolls her hand beneath mine, removing the knife from it and slipping it in her purse. A beam of light blinds me just as I drop the bag of drugs to the ground and step on them.

“What was that?” a female voice asks. A car door shuts.

I raise my hands in the air to show that they’re empty, familiar with the routine.

“Are you Lana Peri?” the guy asks again.

“Yes,” I tell him, shielding my eyes from the flashlight.

“Take a step this way.”

With a sigh, I do.

The female officer snaps a pair of rubber gloves over her hands and picks up the plastic bag. “Looks like you’ve been having an eventful night, Lana.”

“Step behind the vehicle,” the male officer instructs.

“Are you ladies with her?” the female asks Nina and Tori.

I silently connect with them, and they know what I want them to do.

“We just got here,” Nina tells them.

“What are your names?” she asks, setting the drugs on the trunk and pulling out paper and a pen to write them down.

I don’t hear what else they say because the male officer’s voice is too loud in my ear.

“Place your hands on the trunk. We’re arresting you for possession of narcotics. Do you understand?”

I nod.

The female officer comes around behind me while the male officer drops the drugs into an evidence bag. “Do you have anything sharp on your body before I pat you down?”

“No,” I answer flatly, staring at the back window, shutting every emotion down.

My face doesn’t flinch with the slightest expression. I don’t move when her hands pat down my body, tucking her fingers along my waistline. This part is never fun. She grips my wrist and brings it behind my back.

The weight of the cool metal settles around my wrists as the handcuffs click, tightening. I turn my head away from the flashing lights as the male officer grips my arm, moving me toward the open door of the police car.

Tori stands next to Nina, biting her lip. Nina has her arms crossed, wearing a defiant scowl. I want to assure them that I’ve got this. That everything’s going to be okay. But I don’t know if that’s true. I have no idea what I’m being brought in for, other than possession. There could be so many reasons they were looking for me—theft, assault, armed robbery, trespassing or, depending on who’s been talking, attempted murder.

The officer places his hand on the top of my head as I duck down. And that’s when I see the red Jeep pull up in front of the house next to us. A phone to his ear, he stands up on his seat so I can see him.

He mouths the words, Keep your mouth shut.

Not a problem. I don’t plan on confessing to anything. Even if I did do it.

I watch Nina and Tori disappear in the distance with Lincoln and Joey by their sides, staring after the police car. Usually they’d be asked a lot more questions. Thankfully, the cops are only interested in me and chose not to call backup to bring the girls in too. I don’t dwell on it, although their rush to take me in should concern me.

The ride to the station is uneventful. As is the booking process.

I don’t know how long I’ve been in the holding cell, shivering on the slab that’s meant to be a bed, when a balding male cop finally unlocks the door.

“The detectives have some questions for you,” he tells me.

He takes hold of my arm and escorts me to a small interrogation room with gloomy gray walls. I sit in a hard metal chair at a dented wooden table and glance up at the two-way mirror in front of me.

Things just got serious. This has nothing to do with possession.

I take a breath, trying to steady my pulse. But it continues to pick up speed.

A few minutes later, the door opens and two men in suits walk in, nodding toward the cop, who leaves us. They say something, probably their names, but I’m not listening. I’m staring at the small figure behind them, clutching a rose-colored duster sweater around her body.

I stand up in a sudden movement, the chair scraping against the floor. “What is she doing here?”

“Lana,” my mother says gently, “it’s okay. They said I needed to be here.”

A lanky, bald detective points to a chair in the corner of the room, near the door. She smiles at him nervously and sits.

“Have a seat,” the detective with the horrible complexion and bushy mustache instructs firmly.

Keeping my eyes on my mother, I lower myself onto the chair again. She’s ghostly pale, and her eyes are rimmed red. I know she’s not well, and she shouldn’t have to be here.

The detective with the mustache—Freddy, I’ll call him since I missed his name and his skin reminds me of a nightmare—sits across from me with a file in his hand. He proceeds to recite my Miranda rights and has me sign the paper stating I understand them. The other detective leans against the wall next to the door with his arms folded.

“Want to let you know that we’re recording this right now,” he tells me, tilting his head toward the two-way mirror. A red light is faintly visible on the other side.

I flip it off with an obnoxious smile.

“Nice,” he mutters.

I give him a let’s-get-on-with-this look of impatience as I lean back in the chair with my arms crossed. If they actually did their homework and looked me up, they know they’re about to waste a lot of time because I don’t talk. Ever. No matter how long they keep me in this depressing room.

I watch him flip open the file folder on the table between us, and he spreads a couple grainy photos in front of me. Now I know why I’m here. It’s next to impossible to make out the faces, the imagery is so poor, but my blinding blond hair is hard to miss, as is the gun in the hand of the guy dressed in black.

“What have you been up to tonight, Lana?”

I raise my eyes to look at him, my face expressionless. And that’s how I remain for the next hour or two. It’s hard to tell since there isn’t a clock in this oppressive room. They ask questions. I don’t answer.

“Tell us who the male with the gun is, Lana. Make it easier on yourself,” the detective with the pockmarks along his jawline asks me for the hundredth time. “If you didn’t do anything wrong, then you have nothing to worry about.”

The corner of my mouth quirks. His eyes narrow into a glower. I know better. The truth won’t save me. There’s a reason Honesty’s my curse.

My mother continues to look frailer with each passing second. I don’t want her in here, but I’m a minor, and they don’t want to worry about my rights being violated if they question me without a parent present. It’s worse for her than it is for me. And I’m concerned she’s about to pass out.

“Could you get my mother some water?” I ask the detective who’s remained standing by the door with his arms crossed. I think he’s supposed to look intimidating. It’s not working.

The detective glances at my stricken mother and back to Freddy.

Freddy gives him a subtle nod and glances at the two-way glass, making sure the red light is on and the camera’s still recording this pathetic interview.

“Lana, we have you on tape at the convenience store. We have the statement from the clerk. We recovered the stolen lottery tickets from your possession. You know who the guy is holding the gun. All you have to do is tell us; otherwise, it looks like you’re his accomplice. Either way, you’re obstructing the investigation.”

I glance at my mother again. She wipes a tear from her cheek with a shaky hand. I try to reassure her with a small smile. She bites her lip to keep from crying.

“Does she really need to be in here?” I ask again for the tenth time.

The door opens. The wall art reappears with a bottle of water. Once he’s through the door, I notice someone’s behind him. A tall, regal-looking man in a suit. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back—not in a slimy mob-boss way, but in a distinguished I-have-money-and-power kind of way. His vibrant blue eyes take in the room with an assessing glance, from my mother to Freddy, and then steady on me. His face is expressionless, but his eyes tell me everything I need to know. He’s confident, intelligent, and he gets exactly what he wants … just like his son.

“This interview is over,” he announces.

My mother stands, her crystal-blue eyes wide. “Niall?”

The man’s face softens when he turns toward her, a small, sad smile on his face. “Faye,” he acknowledges solemnly, like he’s silently apologizing for something.

Her eyes flood with tears that she blinks back, gratitude and relief dancing in them. The relief confuses me—like she knows he will fix this.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her. Why don’t you wait out in the hall for me?”

My mother nods, quickly glancing at me before slipping out of the room. With the click of the door closing, Niall focuses back on us—or I should say, on me. He stares at me stoically, his face not giving anything away.

Freddy’s jaw clenches. “Niall, you’re her lawyer? I didn’t think you took these kind of cases.”

Niall Harrison doesn’t respond to his question. “I need a moment alone with my client.”

Knowing You: Part 2 of The Cursed Series.