CHAPTER 66
I slam him facedown onto the table hard enough to rattle the legs.
One hand in his greasy hair. The other wrenching his arm behind his back. I don’t care if I snap the bone.
The attorney stumbles over his chair, slams into the wall, then the floor.
“Wrong fucking move,” I growl behind the clerk’s ear, pulling harder.
The wet wheeze of his breath fogs the table as he struggles.
Paty—
Doesn’t. Even. Flinch.
She sits there, calm as a fucking storm, eyes bright and dangerous, watching it all unfold like she orchestrated it.
“Sit the fuck down, asshole.” I shove the clerk back into his seat, keeping one hand heavy on his shoulder as he trembles, sweat pouring down his face.
Paty leans forward, still smiling, voice dropping to a near whisper.
“You’re going to tell us everything, Mr. Peters,” she says, like she’s telling him about a weather report. “Names. Dates. Accounts. Because if you don’t, I’m going to personally make sure you're charged right alongside the people who did the worst of it.”
He whimpers.
Actual, grown-man whimpering.
“And in County, there’s this guy named Big Mike and he doesn’t take too kindly to inmates that commit kiddie crimes.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Big Mike needs a new cellmate, I hear.”
“I didn’t know!” He yell-sobs now. “At first—I didn’t know what they were doing at first. But then I couldn’t get out. They—they blackmailed me. I have gambling debts.”
The attorney has picked himself off the floor and joins the conversation, flapping uselessly. “We want a deal.”
Paty doesn't budge. “Depends how good the intel is,” she says, crossing her legs primly like she’s not threatening to light this man’s life on fire. “Make it worth my while.”
Fucking hell.
She’s fire wrapped in pink silk, and I’m burning alive over here.
The clerk breaks, and it’s fucking ugly.
Tears. Sweat. Snot.
But he talks. Doesn’t shut up, as a matter of fact.
“There’s an auction,” he gasps. “Underground. They—Jesus—they bring girls in. Sedate them. Brand them. Sell them to the highest bidder.”
My blood runs cold. I’ve seen the pictures of the girls. Brands seared into the arm to mark them like merchandise.
“When’s the next one?” I ask, voice cutting through the panic like a blade.
He hesitado.
I tighten my grip on his shoulder.
“Soon,” he whines. “This weekend. They move it around but—but I might know where they’re setting up next.”
I glance at Paty, and she nods. Interview is over. He can give the rest to his attorney because the storm’s coming.
And we’re going to be right at the center of it.
I’m setting my files down on the nearest desk, still buzzing from the interrogation, when Graham slinks up like a bad idea with expensive teeth.
Roger is handing our clerk off to a uniformed officer, but the second he spots Graham, he rolls his eyes so hard I’m amazed they stay in his head.
“You’re a piece of work, Pop,” Graham says, like it’s charming.
Roger joins me, sitting on the edge of the desk—close enough that his arm brushes mine. I don’t move away.
“Paty,” he says, voice low enough to frost glass.
The air tilts and Graham blinks.
“Excuse me?”
I blink too.
Roger repeats it, slower this time. Patient. Dangerous.
“Her name–is Paty.”
I sip my iced coffee, pink straw and all, enjoying the live testosterone drama like it’s theater and I’ve got front-row seats. I could step in. But why ruin the show?
Roger’s long legs stretch out, one boot crossed over the other. His dark gray T-shirt clings to shoulders and arms that absolutely don’t skip gym day. His badge flashes against the dark denim of his jeans, and the shadow from his baseball cap casts his face in something sharper.
Something dangerous.
And, frankly, devastatingly edible.
I’m still looking when he cuts his eyes at me. A smirk ghosts across his full mouth before he pretends to check his phone.
Graham tries to recover, grinning like his orthodontist charged by the compliment. “How about we talk about that deal over dim sum?”
I open my mouth to shut it down—but Roger beats me to it, voice like sandpaper.
“We had that yesterday.”
I choke on a snort, barely recovering.
Graham scoffs. “You always have your watchdog talk for you, Hartwell?” He’s looking at Roger but angling it at me.
Roger lifts his gaze—slow, surgical.
“Do you always piss in the corner when your clients throw tantrums?”
Oof. Right in the fragile masculinity.
Graham mutters something and stalks off with the dignity of a dropped sandwich.
“We’ll talk soon!” I call sweetly.
Roger tucks his phone away and turns to leave, smug as sin.
“Hey! You don’t get to just—” My reprimand dies mid-sentence. Because, God. Those jeans. That booty. Somebody sedate me.
“Good job in there, Lollipop,” he calls without looking back.
I’m too busy admiring the certified double scoop situation going on in those jeans to remember I owe him a response.
“I thought my name was Paty!”
He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute, smirking as he disappears around the corner.
And son of a butternut squash, I’m smiling too.
Roger disappears just in time for my ADA to appear in his place, all business and biting impatience.
“Get your ass in 3B, Hartwell. You’re second chair for Lewis on bond hearings.”
I blink. “I thought I was under investigation.”
“You are. That’s why you’re second,” Benjamin replies, slapping a case folder against my chest and continuing down the hall. “Let’s not pretend this is a reward. It’s fucking bonds for Christ’s sake.”
I mutter something about occupational whiplash but follow. Refusing an assignment won’t do me any favors, especially while my license is still hanging by a thread.
There hasn’t even been time to process what came out of that interview room—an underground auction, a countdown on lives. And now here I am, being shuffled off to babysit bond hearings like the world isn’t about to burn down.
Courtroom 3B smells like too much perfume and not enough hope. Lewis is already at the table, whispering to herself and flipping through files like they might sprout wings and fly away. I slide into the seat beside her, smoothing my skirt and trying to pretend this is just another ordinary hearing.
I start scanning the docket. Disorderly conduct. Petty theft. The usual parade of bad choices.
Oh, perfect. Judge Maxwell is on the bench today. Every perp may walk today on principle she can’t stand me.
Then I see another name I recognize.
Nathaniel Mercer.
And the room feels colder.