horror at the three white letters printed across their black flak jackets. DEA—Drug Enforcement Administration.
Her boyfriend, Nick, was a DEA agent.
One of the men grabbed Heather and pulled her away from the stall. Another one grabbed Lily and pulled her out into the middle of the room. Lily keened a high-pitched sound and fought to get away.
“Hey, be careful,” Heather yelled. “You’re scaring her.” She tried to yank her arm away from the man holding her so she could help her sister.
“Let her go.”
Heather froze at the sound of the familiar deep voice behind her. The man holding her dropped his hands and stepped back. Heather turned around. The tall man filling the bathroom doorway, his short blond hair glinting in the dim light, was wearing the same dark clothes as the others and the same black flak jacket with the letters DEA across the middle.
Nick. Thank God. He’d know what to do, how to help Lily.
The look of shock on his face was quickly replaced with anger. His brows were drawn down and his jaw was so tight his lips went white. He looked mad enough to strangle her, but at least he wasn’t pointing his gun at her, like the others. He held his gun down by his side, aimed at the floor.
He was probably furious that she was in the middle of this, and she couldn’t blame him for that. She should have taken his advice. She should have tried to convince Lily to go into an alcohol treatment program. Then maybe Lily wouldn’t have gotten mixed up with whatever she’d gotten herself into now. Heather had naively insisted she could help her sister on her own, without taking such a seemingly drastic step. But obviously Nick had been right.
Nick holstered his gun and strode toward her.
Heather was so relieved she almost slumped to the dirty floor. “Nick, I’m so glad you’re here. Lily is scared. She’s not—”
Nick roughly grabbed her arms and spun her around, shocking Heather into silence. He pulled her hands behind her back. She gasped at the feel of cold steel clamping around her wrists. A ratcheting sound echoed in the room, and he pushed her toward the door.
“What are you doing?” she cried out.
“Heather Bannon, you’re under arrest.” His voice was clipped, cold.
“What? Wait, what are you talking about?”
He paused beside the last sink and leaned down, pressing his lips next to her ear. “You’ve got cocaine in your hair, darlin’,” he growled.
Heather’s gaze shot to the mirror. A wild-eyed woman stared back at her, a cloud of white dusting her normally dark brown hair, making it look prematurely gray.
Her horrified gaze met Nick’s in the mirror. “I can explain.”
“Tell it to the judge.” He grabbed her arms and marched her out the door.
* * *
IN HER HIGH SCHOOL years, Heather had thought rock bottom was getting an A-minus on her trigonometry final exam, knocking her out of becoming the valedictorian.
In college, she’d thought rock bottom was flunking the GMAT and failing to get accepted into the master’s degree program at Jacksonville University.
Later, when she’d been denied the small-business loan she’d wanted to start a private investigation firm, she’d thought that must surely be rock bottom.
But none of those were rock bottom.
Rock bottom was being arrested by her former boyfriend—there could be no doubt about that—and being thrown in a concrete-block holding cell that reeked of vomit and urine. A holding cell that currently housed five other women who looked like they could kill someone every morning before breakfast and never bat a false eyelash.
Heather didn’t know where her sister was. The police had refused to answer any of Heather’s questions about Lily. And no one had come back to update Heather or even give her the infamous phone call prisoners on TV shows always got. Not that she had anyone to call. Lily was her only family. Her friends had given up on her long ago when she’d started working seven days a week to try to build a P.I. business. And Nick... She shied away from that thought.
She was so tired. She wanted to rest her head against the wall behind her, but she was too afraid of lice, or something worse, that might be clinging to the surface. Instead, she stood a few feet away, trying not to touch anything, trying to pretend the speculative looks from the other women didn’t send shivers up her spine. She was also trying her best not to give in to the urge to cry.
She was appalled that tears kept threatening to course down her cheeks. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried, or the last time she’d even wanted to cry. She had Nick to thank for her jangled nerves. He’d judged her without giving her a chance to explain. He’d assumed the worst. Fine. Let him think what he wanted, but if there was any chance he was going to be the one to interrogate her—if anyone ever did bother to interrogate her—she wasn’t going to let him see her with red eyes and tearstained cheeks.
She didn’t want him to know how much his betrayal had hurt her.
A buzzing noise sounded and the door opened. A policewoman stood in the doorway and motioned for Heather to step out. “Miss Bannon, your lawyer is here.”
“My lawyer? But I haven’t even had a phone call.”
The policewoman shrugged, her lack of interest stamped in her jaded, world-weary eyes. “Do you want to see your lawyer or not?”
Heather figured the police had made a mistake, that the lawyer was there for some other prisoner. But if playing along meant she’d get out of the foul-smelling cell for a few minutes, she wasn’t going to argue. She stepped into the hallway.
The door buzzed closed behind her, and the policewoman led her down the hall to a door stamped with the words Interview Room. As she went inside, she braced herself, expecting to see Nick or a police officer waiting to grill her with questions. Instead, a stranger in a suit that looked like it must have cost at least a thousand dollars was sitting at a small table. He gave her a friendly smile and stood to shake her hand.
“Miss Bannon, I’m Anthony Greary, your attorney. A mutual friend hired me to help you out of this unfortunate situation.”
The door closed behind Heather. She shook the attorney’s hand and sat. “Mr. Greary, who is this ‘mutual friend’?”
“Someone who prefers to remain anonymous.”
The fine hairs on the back of Heather’s neck stood at attention. “I don’t suppose this friend is the man who gave my sister those bricks of cocaine?”
Greary glanced at the door and cleared his throat. “As I said, I’m here to help.”
She had her answer. And it really sucked, because she’d so looked forward to a good half hour or more out of her cell. She pushed back her chair and stood. “I think you have me confused with my sister. My name is Heather Bannon. My sister is Lily. We’re identical twins, but I assure you, we’re nothing alike in any way that matters. And I guarantee we don’t have any mutual friends.”
“There’s
