Page 20 of Bleeding Outside the Lines

“Collins, shut the fuck up and let me do my job.” The older detective pulls a badge out of his coat pocket, and the rookie follows suit. “I’m Detective Larson and this is my idiot partner, Detective Collins. Mr. Cross, could you come with us down to the station? There’s a matter we would like to discuss.”

“There’s a matter you’d like to discuss. At midnight?” I scoff, my eyes narrowed.

“Mr. Cross, we really would prefer to not make a scene, so if you could just come with us,” Larson pleads, his voice weary with years of long hours. Collins shifts his weight side to side, his anticipation palpable.

“What’s this regarding?” Garrett asks, and both men look at him as though they only now notice he’s there.

Larson sighs. “It's a private matter.”

I slide my body out of the booth, if only to see Collins shit himself. I stand, my tall frame towering over both detectives.

“C-Cassius Cross,” Larson stammers. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back. You are under arrest for the kidnapping of Isabella Diaz.”

“I will not,” I say. “You said you didn’t want to cause a scene. Don’t cause one. I’ll come with you, no cuffs.”

Larson grazes his eyes up and down, sizing me up. “I don’t think so, Mr. Cross. Just turn around and let’s be done with this.”

Collins fidgets beside Larson, his hand ready on his gun. If he pulls that out, it’s going to be chaos. Innocent people will die from mass hysteria, so I concede. When I turn around, Garrett has already pulled his laptop out of his bag and his fingers are tapping at the keys, working his magic. He doesn’t look up once, not even when Larson slaps the cuffs on my wrists.

“You have the right to remain silent…”

Fucking Ruby.

fourteen

The young girl throwsa bag out of a first-floor window. The homeowners remain undisturbed, the house dark. She climbs out after the bag, her feet landing softly on the ground.

She closes the window silently and disappears into the night. I stay close, like I have all evening, moving as her shadow. She can’t be more than ten, yet she controls her slender limbs with the grace of a dancer. She’s not clumsy or awkward like most prepubescent girls.

She moves with confidence, sticking to the darkness beyond the streetlights.

After hitting the eighth house, she takes to the woods with only the moon to guide her way. I slow my steps, increasing the distance between us. The woods make it harder to be silent. She climbs over downed trees and ducks under branches with such ease that my heart flips in my chest. Her abilities rival my own, and she is only a girl. We only need to hone her skills and teach her the language of the blade until she’s fluent.

The girl reaches the train tracks and turns to follow them north into the city. She walks on the rail like a tightrope. A voice carries over the night air, and the girl stills. As do I. We have a visitor. A second voice echoes with the first. A bottle sails out of the woods and makes contact with the tracks in front of the girl, shattering at her feet. She takes a step back, then another, her foot slipping. She steadies herself. It’s the first time she’s faltered. I remain at the edge of the woods. Observing. The decisions she makes in the next moments will determine her fate.

She crouches, placing the bag behind the railroad tie, hiding it from view. Whatever’s in that bag, she doesn’t want our visitors to find it. She tucks her blond braid up into her beanie and pulls up her hood. She has nowhere to hide, so she can only hide the fact that she’s a girl and hope they leave her alone. Smart, but will it be enough? The boisterous duo rambles forward, emerging from the woods.

The moment they see her, time seems to stop. They take the child in, and then look at each other before turning to her once more. Their carefree demeanor shifts to that of a predator. They move purposefully, as if they’ve done this before. One of them clears their throat and spits, walking around the girl, removing her escape route.

“It’s a little late for you to be wanderin’ these woods alone, ain’t it, kid?” the spitter asks, his voice that of a career smoker. It grinds in my ears.

The other man wipes his nose with the back of his hand and chuckles, clearly the lackey. The girl must sense this, because she turns, coming face to face with the true threat.

Spitter leers at her, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. The realization that he doesn’t care whether the child is a boy or a girl hits me the same time it hits her. She takes a step back, but Chuckles is there to push her forward into Spitter who backs up.She stumbles forward and her hood falls. Her blond hair peeks out beneath her hat.

She stands tall, as tall as a ten-year-old girl can. The grown ass men stare down at her like she’s dessert, but no tears fall. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t yell out. She lunges.

“Motherfucking brat,” Spitter yells, outrage pouring into each syllable. “She fucking stabbed me.”

Chuckles grabs her from behind, lifting her off the ground. A shard of bloodied glass is visible in the moonlight as she brings it down into Chuckles' upper thigh. He releases her, but Spitter is ready for her.

I don’t wait a moment longer. I emerge from the shadows and jump on Spitter’s back; my blade slicing clean through his carotid. Warm blood coats my hand, splattering in front of us. The girl uses her free hand to wipe blood out of her eyes, stunned either at the amount of blood or the sight of me, I’m not sure which. Chuckles moves for me, but I land a kick to his chest, knocking him to the ground. I straddle him, and in seconds, I am showered with his blood.

“Do you have a family?” I ask the girl.

She removes her beanie and uses it to wipe the blood from the rest of her face. Her small shoulders lift in a shrug.

I repeat myself, “Do you have a family?”

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