She gives me a one-shoulder shrug. “They want me to try out for cheer.”
Now it’s making sense. The guys are yell leaders for the cheer squad. “Not for you, huh?”
“Hard pass.”
We punch through the gym’s doors. I glance back, but the three boys are huddled in the corner with a couple of the gymnasts.
Outside, the hot sun and fresh air knock back the tension in my neck and shoulders. “Are they pressuring you?”
She shoots me a warning glance.
“What?” I slip on my sunglasses.
“You’ve got that caveman look.”
“I do not.” I poke her in the ribs, and to my delight, I get a flicker of a smile.
“It’s fine. Promise.”
While this may be true, I’ll be monitoring this situation until further notice. “How was practice?”
“Good. I almost have my back full combo.”
“Looked like you had it wired today.”
“I need to keep my feet together.”
This is another one of those lines I don’t know if I have a right to cross. Is she pushing herself for perfection because she wants to, or is fear the driver? She’s the newest kid in the program and it’s been tough to make friends. I get the struggle to fit in, but not if it’s going to derail her mental health.
“You’ll get it.” I open the truck door for her and she tosses her bag behind the seat.
Then I hand her the keys.
“You sure you’re up for this?” she asks, a sly grin on her face. In this light, her beautiful hazel eyes are a kaleidoscope of green, gold, and soft brown.
Teaching her to drive a manual transmission isn’t the problem, it’s the implication. Greta’s going to be on her own soon, and I’m having all kinds of feelings about it. “Hell yes.”
Greta arches an eyebrow. “No shouting this time, ‘kay?”
“I never shout.”
She snorts.
When I get to the police station, my nerves fried after Greta’s driving lesson, the waiting area is empty. The stoic kid manning reception shoves the sign-in book toward me. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts before I sign. Meg’s name fills the line above mine. I stare at it for a second, fighting the sudden tightness in my ribs.
Is she still here?
“Hey, Linden,” Zach says, startling me. He’s dressed in the summer version of their dark green uniform that reveals the serpent tattoo at his left elbow. No vest since he’s not on patrol, but the duty belt is proof enough that he’s ready for action.
It’s normal to be anxious when walking into a police station. The walls are not closing in on me.
I follow Zach past the bullpen clustered with cubicles, down a short hall lined with doors. One opens, and a man steps out, dressed in a crisp white shirt and gray slacks, his thick brown hair streaked with a hint of gray. Sitting at a small round table in the room behind him is Meg. She’s wearing a simple t-shirt dress the exact color of her cornflower-blue eyes, her sunglasses pushed to the top of her head.
Her gaze lifts to mine for an instant. Her cheeks are red, like when she gets angry, but her eyes carry a look of defeat. I’m tempted to say something—anything to break the tension—but the door closes.
Zach leads me to the next room and ushers me inside. The other man joins us. “Thanks for coming in, Linden,” he says with an easy smile. “I’m the assistant D.A., Rex Rolland.”
I give him a polite nod. Though he wasn’t here when I was a kid, I have vivid memories of the man who was.
