Page 5 of Reckless Devotion

“That’s not the bloody point!” Mr. Clay bellows and lifts a knobbled walking cane to shake at me menacingly.

My brows rise and I stab the button a few more times in desperate hope.

“I understand, sir. I apolog—oops!” The doors ping and slide jaggedly shut whilst I make an apologetic face and indicate to the closing steel doors to demonstrate I have no choice but to leave this conversation half-cut. In all fairness, the sensors on them are dodgy enough that I wouldn’t trust them to put my hand out to stop them, even if I had wanted to.

A grumble escapes me as I start the clunky decent. That man never misses an opportunity to moan. He took one look at me when he moved into the building, with my pink pearlescent hair, and decided that I was trouble. Lord knows what he would do if he ever saw my tattoos. Call the cops, presumably. The elevator rattles to a halt and the doors ping and clunk slowly open.

“And another thing!”

My eyes fly wide with alarm as Mr. Clay appears at the threshold, his cheeks mottled and that walking cane shaking in my face.

“How the—” I trail off, utterly perplexed.

“That son of yours keeps treading mud onto the hallway carpet and—”

I peer around him as he rants, checking that we are in the cramped ground-floor lobby area of our apartment building.How the ever-lovingshitdid this octogenarian with a cane shuffle down two flights of stairs so quickly?

“Mr. Clay—” I begin to tell him that Sunny is not my son, but he cuts me off.

“It’s simply not acceptable to—”

“Mr. Clay!” I yell, distantly aware that the entrance to our building buzzes open behind him. The old man is shocked into silence. “I really am sorry for any—”

As if summoned by my earlier thoughts, two tall male NYPD officers loom at the old man’s back, a wall of navy blue blocking us in. I blink up in surprise. Has this asshole seriously called the cops over some redirected mail?

“Miss Quinn?” the older officer of the two asks as Mr. Clay realizes our company and moves to one side, his bushy brows hiked.

“Er, yeah?” My mouth runs dry, something cold and heavy plunging into my gut. It suddenly occurs to me that even if Mr. Clay had called the cops, they wouldn’t have arrived this quickly. Not only that, but he looks almost as shocked as I feel.

The younger officer steps forward, one hand reaching back for the cuffs on his belt. “You’re under arrest.”

“What?” I croak, taking a stuttered step back, my synapses rapid-firing to catch up.

“Thief!” Mr. Clay cries by my side, followed by a torrent of raving, righteous exclamations that I don’t follow.

I feel cool metal click around one wrist, and before I know it, I’ve been twisted around and have a cheek pressed against the rigidized metal elevator wall.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do say, can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Panic explodes into my frontal lobe, adrenaline spiking out in all directions, a faint ringing in my ears droning out anyfurther sound. Through the fog of disbelief and shock, I can think of one thing and one thing only.

The fifteen-year-old two floors up cooking breakfast, wholly unaware that life as she knows it is about to be snatched away forever.

Chapter 3

Mia:Dinner at our place next Sunday? Everyone is coming.

Chase:I’ll bring something to keep the kids occupied.

Mia:No instruments this time please.

Chase:Sorry for trying to expand their skill sets.

Mia:Playing the recorder is a skill set I can live without them having. In fact, I insist.

Chase:Harmonicas it is.

Mia:Do you want to die?