Page 127 of Raise Hell

He barely looks at me as he tucks the cash away in a desk drawer and locks it. “Anytime.”

Crooked piece of shit.

I lean back in the chair with the folder in my hand. “I’ll need the room.”

He drops the rosary beads on the table as he rises from the chair. “I’ll assume you’ll want this back.”

I slip them into my pocket. “Thank you.”

I wait for the door to close behind him before I open the folder.

Whatever is in this report won’t leave the station. It’s too dangerous. I’ll watch the secretary shred it before I leave.

A picture of Olivia greets me first, but she looks nothing like herself. Dyed black hair hangs around her shoulders in messy waves. The silver bull ring piercing her nostrils hangs above lips painted a deep cherry red. Her bright blue eyes glare out from rings of black eyeliner.

The only thing I recognize is the scowl she wears.

Studying her face makes me miss the obvious for a few seconds. This isn’t just a picture.

It’s a mugshot from her last arrest.

And I say last, because there are more.

Several instances of Loitering.

Failure to identify and resisting arrest.

Breaking and entering.

Larceny.

One charge of assault at age twelve that was sealed by the court on the request of the victim. That one got her sent away for the longest — months in juvenile detention. Since then, she hasn’t spent more than a couple of days in jail at any given time.

A lot of juvenile records get “sealed” by the court, although that doesn’t mean anywhere near as much as people think. Just because something isn’t available to the public, doesn’t mean it goes away like it never existed.

I can’t help but notice that the court fees are always paid. Listed defense counsel are names I recognize, impressive law firms that charge thousands per billable hour to defend loaded mob bosses and millionaire Wall Street fraudsters. Misdemeanor charges aren’t usually something they would consider worth their time.

Someone has spent a lot of money to keep these records quiet.

It isn’t until I’ve flipped through dozens of pages that my attention shifts to the name at the top. I’ve already moved on before what I just read actually filters through to me.

These aren’t Olivia’s records.

Even though they were pulled based on her fingerprints.

At least, what I thought were her fingerprints.

Pain swells inside my chest. This must be what it feels like when your heart hurts.

Or breaks.

I think back to the conversation we had at the restaurant. How haunted her face had looked when she talked about her relationship with her sister.

The sister that she never mentioned happened to be an identical twin.

Who the fuck is Evangeline Pratt?

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