Overdrive (2 page)

I can see her and the two officers in another room on the other side of the window. She paces while “good cop” sits at a round table pawing through a file.
My
file. “Bad cop”—I've decided to call him Frank; all the Franks I know are dicks—leans against a counter, sipping coffee between intermittent scowls. He's got one of those resting asshole faces.

Everyone's lips move but it's like I'm watching
CSI
on mute. There's shrugging, a what-the-fuck type motion from Frank, and then all eyes land on me, like they think they're invisible on the other side of the glass.

I'm a maggot under a microscope.

I shift my gaze before they catch me squirming. Begin re-counting the scuff marks on the floor to distract myself from thinking about how much shit I'm in. It's not just this stunt—more than eight thousand cars in Vegas are jacked every year. But by now, Frank over there has probably figured out I'm the infamous Ghost. No wonder his lips are twisted into a perma-smirk.

Movement outside the door pulls my attention.

The handle turns.

I fold my arms across my chest and steel for confrontation. Whether they throw me in juvenile detention, dish out community service, or stick me with a stuffy, twig-up-his-ass probation officer, I'm done. My foster parents will never let me back into their doublewide shit-hole.

And Emma.

My breath hitches. We've spent the last four years bouncing from one shitty place to the next. Together. If we're separated now . . .

I swipe away a tear with the back of my hand. Not if I have anything to say about it.

The door wedges open. I roll my shoulders back. Sweat beads across my forehead.

Muffled voices.

Terse good-byes.

And then the
click-click-click
of my social worker's heels.

Vanessa, as she likes to be called, stands in the doorway, the hall light glowing around her white pantsuit like a damn halo.

I shift to take some of the pressure off my ass.

“Julia.” Her voice tenses, just like her expression. “Or perhaps I should call you Ghost?”

My mouth glues shut.

Vanessa closes the door and makes her way over to the table. She opens her briefcase, reaches inside, and drops my file in front of me before dragging her chair across the vinyl with an extended
scraaape
. Two more scuff marks.

My bottom lip trembles. “It's bad, right?”

Vanessa sighs, folds her hands on the table, and crosses her legs. A thin blue line streaks the side of her pants. Probably ink. Her left hand is covered in it, little nicks and dots where her pen missed the paper. It's the jarring inconsistency of her otherwise perfect demeanor. I zero in on a leopard print heel that screams middle age.

“The police suspect you are linked to more than forty car thefts in the last nine months.”

Forty-three, but who's counting? “Am I going to jail?”

Vanessa lifts one eyebrow. “The typical sentence for tonight's crime is about five years.”

Unease winds around my neck like a noose. Even though it's my first time being charged, I'm still looking at two years, maybe three.

“But . . . ,” Vanessa begins, and a small balloon of hope swells in my chest. My teeth sink into the side of my cheek and start gnawing until blood tickles my gag reflex. “The owner of the vehicle has decided not to press charges.”

I blink. “That doesn't make sense.”

The RX is basically trashed. Stripped wires dangle from the dash and the right side rims are gouged where I bounced off the curb. Shit, the transmission will probably fall out with the next sloppy gearshift. This guy should want my scrawny ass behind bars—or worse. He's clearly a crook. Maybe the car's stolen, not insured, something, because there's no logical reason for him
not
to press charges.

“I'm afraid the law isn't quite as generous,” Vanessa continues. “You eluded police and put their lives, the
public's
lives, in danger. That's not a misdemeanor. There will be charges for that high-speed stunt, and because you're almost eighteen, there's a chance you'll be tried as an adult.” She blows out a long breath. “Jesus, Julia. What were you thinking?”

Solid question.

It's also rhetorical because Vanessa has that look on her face, the what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-with-you expression that makes the Grand Canyon look small compared to the crevices spider-webbing across my heart.

I could blame a lot of things. Claim I panicked. Make her believe Kevin made me do it. But the excuses are just a smokescreen for the inexcusable truth: I
wasn't
thinking.

Rookie move.

“You won't be charged with theft—God only knows why—but you've broken more than one law . . . tonight.”

Her hesitation on the last word doesn't go unnoticed.

Vanessa flips open a manila folder and the pages of my sister's and my clichéd history spring to life. Four years of memories swipe back and forth like windshield wiper blades.

I was ten—Emma's age—when we moved to Vegas, twelve when Dad bet our lives away on the slots, and not even a teen when Mom threw him out on his cheating ass. Go, Mom! Too bad she couldn't hack the single life. She spiraled out of control faster than a Nevada dust devil. Classic Vegas.

Vanessa's been our caseworker for almost four years, ever since Mom lost custody after choosing her bong—or latest boy toy—over our basic needs. Again.

I'm over it.

But Emma. My insides twist at the memory of her face streaked with giant tears, her tiny fingers wrapped around her Princess Barbie with the strength of a socket wrench. Terrified and confused. Six years old and abandoned by a mother she was better off without. But how do you tell that to a kid?

I zero in on the picture of her paper-clipped to the corner of the file. The lump in my esophagus swells to the size of a softball. I rub under my eyes with the back of my hand and avoid Vanessa's gaze. She's seen me at my worst. This is different. We both know it.

Her voice softens. “If you provide some information about your boyfriend . . .”

“Ex-boyfriend,” I say, my voice thick. “I'm not a rat.”

Vanessa nods and I'm glad she doesn't push. I've run out of reasons for my misguided loyalty to Kevin.

“And then there's the matter of the Millers.”

My stomach plummets so fast I jolt forward. “They don't want to foster me anymore.”

Not like it's A-plus living anyway—Mr. Miller drinks too much and his wife's too dumb to see her husband's a cheat. The roof leaks, the trailer reeks of old people and stale beer, and Mrs. Miller couldn't bake a decent chocolate chip cookie if Pillsbury force-fed her step-by-step instructions. But it was a house, and more than that, Ems and I were together. At the thought of being separated from her—

Fuck that.

“I'm afraid it's more complicated,” Vanessa says, cheeks pink. Her frustration transforms into something sympathetic and raw.

Discomfort.

The tension in the room thickens.

“Emma's out too,” I say, filling in the gaps.

Vanessa takes my hands in hers. They're cold, like she's got antifreeze pumping through her veins. My whole body goes numb. “They warned us, Julia. They're not wired for this.”

I snicker at her choice of words. “Why'd you have to go and tell them, anyway?”

Anger fuels the question, but the emotion bubbling beneath the surface is something stronger, something foreign.

Desperation.

My gaze flits to the hole in the wall and I imagine my knuckles making contact. I never should have taken this boost, never should have trusted Kevin. I let my guard down—
for what?
—and now everything's fucked.

“I know it looks bleak,” Vanessa says. “But there are some options.”

At this, she actually brightens, and a faint glimmer of light shines through the thick fog of my dismay. Vanessa is a kind, practical woman with the patience of a saint. But unless she's working miracles on the sly, I can't piece together a Happily Ever After here.

I yank my hand away and slide the chair back. My heart hammers like it's mainlining nitrous oxide.

“Think about it, Julia. You're almost eighteen,” Vanessa says. “You have no legal”—she levels me with a knowing look that shrinks me to the size of a dashboard bobblehead—“income. I know you want to support Emma, but you don't have the means. Is this the kind of role model you want to be? What if Emma found out what you've been doing?”

The lump swells.

My sister's jaded, but somehow still innocent despite the shitty life cards we've been dealt. I've kept this—my not-so-legal side job—from her, but for how long? The lies are stacked so high I'm practically tripping over them.

“Isn't this supposed to be the part where you tell me everything's going to be fine?” I snap. Sarcasm comes second nature to me, but the question sounds harsh even to my trained ears. I feel my eyes start watering. Truth is, Vanessa's touched a nerve.

“There's a man,” she says, cautious. “Roger Montgomery. A local art dealer and a philanthropist. A bit of an eccentric.” When I don't say anything, she continues. “He checks out.”

I actually
harrumph
.

Vanessa worries her wedding band and I know what's on her mind. The Millers “checked out” too, but they weren't exactly up for Foster Parents of the Year.

I press forward. “What's the catch?”

She tilts her head and offers me one of those sad, sympathetic smiles I've come to associate with personal disappointment.

“This life . . . it's got to stop.” She licks her lips. “If the police had enough evidence to link you to those other stolen cars, this would be a very different conversation.”

“I meant, what's the catch with
Roger
?”

Vanessa sighs. “I can't find one.” She flips over the paperwork in my file until she lands on a picture of a dude in a beige fedora, thick Coke-bottle glasses, and a brown leather coat buttoned up to his neck. A black scarf looks like it's choking him into a smirk. Dark patches of hair dot his chin and upper lip.

Gross.

“I can't trust anyone that wears a fedora.”

Vanessa trips on a light chuckle. “You don't trust anyone.”

True, but can you blame me? My parents, foster parents, Kevin, even Vanessa—they've all betrayed me somehow. Emma's my only constant, the only one who's never sold me out. My heart aches. For her, I need to make this work.

I exhale slowly. “What's his wife like?”

Vanessa shakes her head.

“So, he's some kind of creeper?” Call me paranoid, but something doesn't feel right here.

“He lost his wife in a tragic accident,” Vanessa says with quiet admonishment.

Tough break, but I still don't like the idea of me and Ems being alone with this guy.

“You won't be,” Vanessa says, when I tell her as much. “Mr. Montgomery has a soft spot for teenagers—he's already taken in three kids about your age.”

“Perfect. Insta–Brady Bunch.”

Vanessa smooths out the crinkles in her pants. Maybe I imagine it, but when she finally meets my gaze, her eyes have gone all glassy, like she's teetering on tears. “You know the drill here, Julia. It's this, or separate group homes for you and Emma, and I know you don't want that.” Her cell rings and she jumps to silence it. “You're basically a good kid, but you've committed a felony. I can't sweep it under the carpet. I'm sorry. This is a great offer—better than you deserve. You need to think about what's best for your sister.”

Emotion strangles my voice. “Because I don't all the time?”

“Roger checks out,” she says again, softer now, not answering my question. My stomach does a slow roll of acceptance. “He's kind and generous. At least give him a chance. Because if this doesn't work out . . .”

No need to elaborate. Her underlying threat hits me with the force of a head-on crash.

EMMA'S BLOND HAIR FALLS LOOSELY
on her stiff shoulders. Her chin juts out, her spine straightens. She's trying to keep it together, but her fingers are wrapped so tight around the handle of her suitcase that they tremble.

A red flush creeps up the side of her neck.

“Deep breath,” I say through the corner of my mouth. “You got this, Ems.”

I get why she's anxious. It's a miracle I'm not speechless after our long trek up Roger Montgomery's cobblestone sidewalk to the enormous brick entrance of his mansion. Two dog statues stand as sentries on either side of the door. It's an absolute beast of a house—sharp-angled walls and round turrets, giant windows, interlocking marble blocks, and limestone siding. My insides squirm.

We can't possibly live here. It's too big, too showy, too . . .

Not us.

A couple of cars loiter in the cul-de-sac driveway—an expensive-looking Audi and a baby blue Chevelle with white racing stripes across the hood. I lick my lips. That muscle car rates high on the black market—probably worth $50K in mint condition. My mind starts working out logistics, checking security, drafting a plan.

Emma catches me and narrows her eyes in disapproval. Jesus. Sometimes it's like she can read my mind.

Behind us, Vanessa fidgets. Her suit jacket rustles as she reaches over Emma's head to press the doorbell. The resulting chime warbles like it's badly in need of a tune-up. She coughs. “Quite the place.”

“It's like a castle,” Emma says.

The door opens before I can spit out a response.

Roger Montgomery peers through thick, black-rimmed glasses that rest tight on the bridge of his nose, zeroing in on me with eyes the color of milk chocolate. His black goatee and mustache are trimmed almost to perfection. No doubt there's something quirky about him, but I sense behind his nerdy appearance he's—
distinguished? good-looking?
—something.