Page 49 of Not Mine to Rescue

Have you ever wanted to chew your own arm off?

Or maybe, there was something to the whole, “It’s not you, it’s me” attraction imbalance. But in this instance, it was definitely her.

I worked Walt’s plan. Ask a few noncommittal questions about her boyfriend, get the dirt on the college crowd, and see who was moving and shaking what.

But no one warned me I was working with a nutjob. Yeah, that’s harsh, but one-hundred percent true with Winter Fuller. Tonight’s “emergency” was a prime example. It was all, “Oh no, Wombat! He’s here, he’s going to kill me.”

Was it wrong of me to stop at every red light? Naw. I’d just gotten off probation and didn’t want to go back. So, I arrived late to a scene.

And not how you think that scene would be. There was no blood. No dead bodies. Just Winter in a nightgown she’d torn off one shoulder.

There was a table tipped over in her apartment. Conveniently, the vase on top of it was standing up on the floor next to it. The dry floor, mind you. That tipped me off that the whole thing was staged.

It was on the tip of my tongue to call her out on the lie. Instead, I stuck to the program. Butter her up, get the info, and exit as cleanly as possible. “What happened?”

“Oh thank god you’re here. He was crazy. I’m so scared.” She pressed against me but wasn’t trembling. Which meant she’d told another lie.

If I were any other Destroyer, I’d leverage fear to stop her from doing that.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t my default setting.

Half-heartedly, I prompted her to keep talking.

“From the top.” No wonder cops sound so jaded when they question you. They already know you’re going to lie.

“Christian broke in and started pushing me around.” She held up her nightgown strap as evidence. “He tried to rape me.”

Really? The last time I talked to good old Christian, he almost pissed his pants thinking I was looping back around to break his other hand. Imagine his relief when I only asked about Winter. He flat out told me he was glad I took her off his hands.

That should have been wrapped in a big-ass red warning flag. Stupid me, I thought he was just kissing Destroyers’ ass.

I pushed Winter out to arm’s length and stared her in the eye. She looked down quickly. But if any shame lingered there, I’d bet my patch it was over the flat-out fiction she was weaving. “Do you need to sit down?”

Her eyes went wide. “No, I just need you to hold me.” A couple of sniffles, the slight awkwardness as she snuggled in, and she played the part well.

I held my hands away from her body. If she was recording this for blackmail, I wasn’t going to take the bait.

Then she started touching places she had no invitation to touch.

“Stop. Maybe holding you isn’t the best thing.” I pushed her as far away as possible without losing control of her, because as soon as I did, she slipped right back in.

That was hella sus.

I pushed her away again, using the excuse of looking for bruises that weren’t there. “Do you want me to take you to county?”

“No!”

Bingo. “Why not? Don’t you want to press charges?” It was a risk offering to take her in, but I might be wrong and she really needed help.

“No, he didn’t, um, you know.”

Right. “So, he came in, tried...” I glanced at the table and vase, “...knocked you around a bit, and you called me? Then he what? Left?”

“Yes. Please hold me.”

I’d rather hold a feral eagle with lice. “Sit down, I’m going to get you some water.”

“I need something stronger.”