Page 40 of The Love Losers

“Were you?” the woman asks pointedly.

“No, we were just dancing to ‘Time After Time’ in the dark. It was on my bucket list.”

“Not that again,” the male officer says with a groan. “After that movie came out, everyone has a damn bucket list. Half the crime in this city is bucket-list related. If I had my way, I’d outlaw that movie.”

“Movie? What movie?” Anthony asks.

I shrug. I haven’t heard of any bucket list movie either, but then again, I’m not much of a movie-goer. It can be physically painful for me to sit still for an hour and a half to two hours.

Whatever it was, it clearly left an impression on this officer. Maybe he would have preferred it if we’d been doing blow.

“Can I take out my wallet now?” Anthony asks, probably very ready to be done with this situation. Maybe he’s regretting what he said earlier. Maybe he’s already decided I’m too much trouble.

The thought sends nervous pinpricks dancing across my heart.

“Yes,” the woman says, just as the man says, “No.”

“Yes,” she repeats more adamantly, and her partner sighs and waves for Anthony to proceed.

He pats his pockets down, his mouth pursing to the side. I already know what he’s going to say from the look that passesthrough his eyes, which is anoh, shitexpression if I’ve ever seen one.

“Well?” the male officer says, hitching up his belt.

“I must have left it at my office,” Anthony says. “But I have the key. I can show you.”

“Now, son, I wasn’t born yesterday,” the man says, rocking on his heels. “Any fool can steal a key and go down to the Home Depot to have a copy made. It means all of bupkis if you’ve got a key that works.”

“You just accused us of picking the lock,” I point out.

“Even if you didn’t break in, you still entered, ma’am.”

My punch-drunk brain supplies athat’s what she said.

“Google me,” Anthony says through his teeth. He sounds both high and mighty and tough, like Mr. Darcy had a love child with the cop fromDie Hard. “You’ll have no difficulty finding my picture. I’m Anthony Rosings Smith. I run Smith Investments, and I personally own this building. You have no more right to arrest me and my friend than you would someone who’s sitting in their own living room.”

The woman pulls out her phone and then flashes the screen at her partner. “Looks like him.”

He shakes his head. “What could you be thinking, Jolene? That man don’t look a thing like him.”

“It’s the beard,” I say, my heart racing again, because if they take us into the station, the first thing they’ll do is run our fingerprints. And that would be bad. No, it would be a disaster of epic proportions.

“He grew a beard,” I repeat. “And he’s one of those guys who had it come in thick.”

The male officer lifts a hand to his face, covered in patchy scruff. Oops. “What I mean is it hides his face,” I continue. “I’ll bet he can show you some photos on his phone.”

“We’re not here for a slideshow, ma’am,” the man says, letting his hand fall. “We were called in about a disturbance, and sure as shit on a shingle, the two of you were here in a dark building. Now, maybe breaking into a building was on your bucket list, but that don’t make it right. You’ll have to face the long arm of the law just like the rest of us.”

“We’ll get this sorted out at the station,” the woman tells us, giving her partner a sidelong look as if to silently communicateit’s the only way this jackass will be satisfied. “I’m Officer Richards, and I’ll personally see to it.”

Anthony nods tightly but says, “I’ll want to call my lawyer as soon as we arrive.”

Panic beats into me. It weaves its hands through my hair and digs its fingers into my skull. We’re going with them. And when we get there, they’ll take our prints.

They’ll take our prints.

Mine will reveal the truth: that I’m Rosie O’Malley, not Rosie James. Declan, Seamus, and I are technically missing persons. And if that alert is triggered, we’ll be found…

And if we’re found…

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