Page 73 of Raise Hell

I step close enough to the counter for him to hear me, but keep my face angled away. “I need to request a copy of a police report.”

“Have you filled out a request form?”

“I have it right here.”

I’d been expecting the same pushback I got at the hospital, without the same likelihood of being able to bribe my way out of it. So I stopped at a copy center, printed out a request form from the police department’s website, and filled it out before I came.

“And the processing fee?”

I broke up my last twenty-dollar bill to get exact change. “Here you go.”

Officer McCarthy takes the paperwork and heaves himself out of his chair. “I’ll get this processed for you. Should be ready in a jiffy.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief as he disappears through a set of double doors behind the desk. That went more smoothly than I thought I would.

Then I wait.

And wait.

Five minutes go by and I don’t think anything of it. But five minutes turns into ten and then twenty. I don’t start to get worried until the thirty-minute mark when he still hasn’t returned.

When Officer McCarthy eventually emerges from the back, his demeanor has completely changed.

He slides the form I filled out back across the desk with a jerking movement as he sits down. “The report you requested is part of an active investigation. It isn’t available to the public.”

I just stand there for a second, not processing his meaning. “You can’t give me anything?”

“No.” The friendly smile is gone, replaced with an expression that seems suspicious. “I don’t remember you saying why you want it. You with the press?”

“Uh no, not at all. Just a concerned citizen.”

“Unless you have some knowledge of the case and want to speak to the lead detective, I can’t help you.”

I definitely don’t want to talk to a detective, not when I have the same face as the victim and currently attend her school while pretending to be her.

Nothing good can come of that.

Especially when the cops don’t seem all that interested in conducting an investigation in the first place.

“Thanks for your time,” I say quickly.

His gaze moves over my face. “Why don’t I get your name and have a detective reach out to you.”

“It’s fine.” I snatch the request form back, hoping he didn’t already make a note of the fake name I put on it.

Then I practically run out of the police station.

Outside, the sun has completely set. Chill wind blows over my skin, making me shiver. I’ve always had a sort of sixth sense for danger, cultivated after years of being the only one watching my back.

Suddenly, I’m very aware of just how exposed I am standing on a public sidewalk like this.

No one should know I’m here, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched.

The stolen Ducati is parked a few dozen feet away. Hopefully, Drake hasn’t already reported the damn thing stolen.

I need to get out of here.

Pavement rumbles smoothly under the tires as I roll down the road. It feels nice to be riding a motorcycle again, like I’ve managed to get some small piece of myself back after a long absence. I have a Kawasaki Ninja back in Detroit that I left behind. Riding is one of the things about my former life that I miss the most.

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