The cop twists down on my wrist, rough enough that pain shoots up my arm. I don’t fight him as he slaps on the handcuffs. Metal pinches and digs into my skin. This is nothing. I’ve heard about the courthouses. Once I’m there, they’ll put me in shackles.
“Don’t let her see me like this,” I yell out again, and Isaiah nods once in silent agreement. “Take care of her.”
“With my life.” The promise isn’t just words to Isaiah. It’s sworn in blood.
Grabbing my biceps, the cop thrusts me forward, and we’re heading for the backseat of the police cruiser. Across the field, there’s more people with their hands bound. The shit I wandered into just got worse. This is a sting, a bust.
Fuck me.
A cop wanders over to Isaiah, and Isaiah holds out his arms. “I’m clean, man. Check all you want.”
Hope Beth is, too. I mentally push at the cop to hurry. I want Isaiah out of here and back with Echo before she searches for him. Before she finds me.
“Noah?” Echo’s uncertain voice calls from a distance.
Pain rocks through me like an aftershock of an earthquake, and I fling my body around. With Beth by her side, Echo stands at the top of the steep hill and stares down at me like she’s living a bad dream. The disappointment, the pure agony slashing across her face—damn, it’s annihilating.
“Let’s go.” The cop’s rougher, sinking his fingers into my skin, as he shoves me.
“Noah!” Echo sprints down the hill, and Beth chases her—calling her name, telling her to stop. Beth finally snatches Echo’s hand and whiplashes her to a stop.
“Noah!” The cracked rawness in Echo’s voice almost sends me to my knees.
“Get her out!” I shout. Using his hand as pressure on my head, the cop forces me into the back of the cruiser.
Keeping her grip on Echo, Beth attempts to step in front of her, but Echo fights to break free. The misery of watching Echo come face-to-face with this reality kills me.
The cop closes the door, and I slam the back of my head on the seat. Fuck me. Fuck me for doing this to me. For doing this to Echo. I blink rapidly, trying to stall the wetness.
With damn tears cascading down Echo’s face, Isaiah blocks her path. Both Isaiah and Echo gesture wildly, and the silence inside the car is deafening. Her lips frantically move, pleading with Isaiah as she points at me.
Finally ending the Shakespearean tragedy, Isaiah seizes Echo’s waist and half presses, half carries her over the hill. I force my eyes away as Echo challenges him—kicking to bend him to her will, but he’s doing what I asked. He’s saving her from me.
A cop eases into the driver’s seat and shakes my wallet in his hand. “Long way from home?”
Home.
Four years ago, I had two parents who loved me and two brothers who worshipped me.
Home.
For the past year, I’ve lived in a cement block basement with my two best friends.
Home.
I came to Vail searching for a connection, a place to belong.
Home.
Two nights ago, the girl I love gave me everything she had to offer. Not just her body, but her heart.
Home.
From the back of a police car, watching Isaiah drag Echo away—I’ve never been farther from home in my life.
Echo
Possession. Noah’s been arrested for possession, and there was a mention of dealing, but the receptionist has remained vague.
The waiting area of the police station has a layer of dust and dirt and filth and is the size of a walk-in closet. Beth sits in a chair with her knees pulled up, and Isaiah watches me pace as he leans against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest.
“He wouldn’t sell,” I say. I barely meet Isaiah’s intense gaze as I pivot on my toes to walk in the opposite direction of him again.
“You’re right,” he answers.
But the doubt devouring my internal organs causes me to complete my loop in front of the row of chairs faster. “I mean, he wouldn’t, right?”
“If Noah was selling,” says Beth, “then he sure as hell wouldn’t be worried about money all the time, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be flipping burgers.”
Of course. Of course. I yank on a curl, causing pain at the root, ticked off that I lost faith.
“Narcotics aren’t his thing, Echo.” The finality in Isaiah’s voice halts me midloop, and I turn to face him.
“He smoked pot.” I don’t know why I said it, but it’s true, and the words taste bitter.
“Not tonight,” Isaiah answers.
It’s three in the morning. My mind wavers in this exhausted state. My vision blurs on the edges, and my muscles move like I’m wading through mud. But one clear thought causes my entire body to spasm: I’m dating a guy that could be arrested for owning drugs.
But Noah doesn’t do drugs. He stopped last winter, and he hasn’t used since, but I’ve never asked him if he quit because I assumed he quit. It all becomes confusing and overwhelming and...
“Those weren’t his drugs.” Isaiah breaks into my internal meltdown. “He’s had a few beers, but I haven’t seen Noah touch drugs in months. He’s clean. You know it. I know it.”
“I know,” I whisper, but this dread weighs me down, and I visit that playground of insecurity I’ve been attempting to avoid. “Why was he with her?”