Page 7 of Whistle

I stared at them but made no move to take the offering.

“You need a doctor?”

“No.”

“You gonna take those meds?”

I shoved them in my mouth and chased them with some water. I was grateful the water was room temperature because I didn’t trust my system enough to handle the shock of something cold. I didn’t say thank you. It’s not like he gave me this shit because he cared. It was probably in the cop handbook somewhere to try and be nice before they questioned the perp.

Joke’s on him, though, because I had no answers, only questions.

“How long have I been here?” I asked.

“Thirty-six hours.”

“What are the charges?”

“Trespassing, assault, harassment, and second-degree arson.”

Well, if there was any lingering inebriation inside me, that cleared it out real quick. Stupefied, I glanced up. “I’m sorry, what?”

He turned smug. “You’re looking at a minimum five years in prison.”

The water I swallowed threatened to come back up.

“Now, are you gonna answer the questions I have?—”

“I want my lawyer,” I said, the words practically automatic now.

He sighed. “Yeah. Figured you’d say that.”

He slid a cordless landline over the top of the table and stared at me expectantly.

Shifting, I chipped away at what was left of the polish on my nails. “I don’t know the number.”

The man flipped open the folder, grabbed a business card, and slid it next to the phone. “Same guy as last time?”

Embarrassment heated my cheeks, and I avoided eye contact as I grabbed the phone and dialed. He answered on the third ring.

“Mr. Gold?” I said. “This is Bodhi Lawson.”

“Mr. Lawson.”

“I, ah, I need a lawyer. I’m in jail.”

There was a lengthy, charged silence on the line.

“H-hello?” I stuttered.

“I can’t help you,” he deadpanned.

“What?”

“I am no longer on retainer for services you might require.”

My stomach twisted. “Since when?”

He sighed. “Since I had to go to Mexico to get you out of that hellhole. Don’t you remember, Bodhi? Your father said it was the last time he would bail you out.”

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