Page 27 of Punishing Penelope

My legs pump the asphalt, and I run like a Greyhound chasing a hare, my eyes pinned on the back of Rory’s dirty blue jean jacket with a club name clunkily written on its back in bold black letters.

I jump over debris, cut corners with no hesitation. All I know is I won’t lose this guy.

When he tries to climb a fence to a baseball field, he’s mine. I jump and grab his jeans, almost pulling them off him, tear him down, then slam him to the ground.

“Why did you run? Fuck!” I sit down hard on his back and push his face against the gravel. “Stop squirming! Why did you run, Rory? Huh?” Cuffs pulled out, I get one around his wrist when he twists and gets halfway up, a knee on the ground.

He swings at me, but I see his fist coming before his brain has even decided where to aim. I dodge, then push his arm up high on his back, making him squeal. He gasps for air but still keeps wrestling with me. I finally get the other cuff in place as three of my partners come down the street, along with two cruisers on screeching wheels.

I stand while the others complete the arrest and carry a squirming Rory into the back of one of the cruisers.

The guy really didn’t want to go back inside.

“You all right, Hale?” Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I look up and meet the black eyes of my partner, Perez.

I try not to check if I’m all right. Pretty sure I’m not, to be honest. There'll be hell to pay for that jump.

“Sure!”

“Good chase, man.” Riviera, an experienced officer I’ve worked with for years, slaps my back and grins.

I’m so high on adrenaline, I feel nothing but the rush. It runs like jet fuel in my veins, hot and addictive. The high makes me want to go for the next mission and the next. The crash will come later when I patch myself up, and my senses come back to me.

I grin. “Back to the desk. Write up the report.”

“I’ll tag along when they book him,” Riviera says, patting his tool belt and checking the gear is in place.

“Have fun with that.” I hail the cruiser not containing a riled-up Rory and limp toward it.

Yeah, fuck, I’ll feel this tonight.

At the station, I type out the report on the arrest, painstaking detail by painstaking detail. I’m called out again, but no more chases. New reports to type out as hours pass. The station changes as day turns to evening, but it never quiets down completely.

I like the late hours, the mood of the place, better than the daytime frenzy.

Penelope

Senior detective Benny ‘The Bull’ Fraser—a man in his sixties with a steely gray, penetrating gaze, salt and pepper hair, and without an ounce of extra fat on his trim body—moves like a predator. He must be scary as all hell if you have something to hide, and he’s onto you.

I have a ton of shit to hide and have to play this pit bull of a man well, or I’m fucked. I’m most likely about to commit a criminal offense, my first since I was in my teens.

My mouth is dry, and my palms are sweaty, a completely unnecessary bodily response to stress. Leave some fucking moisture in my mouth, please and thank you.

I introduce myself, and he invites me to sit in his office. He’s a tall man, but I swear the visitor’s chair is set lower than his, making me feel like a kid in front of the headmaster, a power play.

He interlaces his fingers and places his hands on the meticulously clean desk. Not a paper lies askew.

“What can I do for you, Miss Wilder?”

I cut right to the chase.

“Giordanna Miller. Young girl shot in the back outside retired lawyer Nicodemus Borden’s house at about two p.m. on Friday, April the nineteenth. The case never made it to court.”

Fraser doesn’t seem to acknowledge a word I just said, so

I push on.

“It’s been said Giordanna was trespassing, but several witnesses claim she wasn’t. I met her family. I need access to the files.”