Page 23 of Refrain

She stirs, renewed interest washing some of the wariness away.

“Well, she went and found herself a new cage,” I continue. “Ineed your help to spring her. Do that, and I’ll give you double what Vlad gave me.”

“Her.” The woman’s quicker than I gave her credit for. Recognition swells in her eyes, and she sits upright. “Her. The girl—”

“Domi,” I interject. I couldn’t hide the annoyance in my tone even if I tried. So much for protecting my birdy’s identity.

“Is sheyourinformant?”

“She’s my friend,” I admit. “And, to be honest, she’s the one who told me to request that dance from you—”

“Oh.” She sighs, eyeing her hands. “And here I was, assuming you really were a pervert.”

“That explains the whiskey bottle,” I say. “You willing to help me or not?”

“I don’t see how.” She chews over the words, carefully spitting them out. “I told you—I’m not a cop.”

“You don’t have to be. Even an informant can get in the door. All you have to do is whisper into the right cop’s ear. Your handler would be a good start.”

Her face pales. “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is.”

“I guess so.” She sizes me up with those yellow eyes and turns away. “Do you have a bathroom?”

I point to the left, and she starts in that direction.

“Down the hall,” I tell her. “Last door. Though, if you plan on climbing out of the window, don’t.”

Her steps falter just beyond the door.

“You’ll just rip your stitches open. It’s nowhere near as dramatic, but the good old-fashioned front door is the place to leave from if you want to bail. You should at least change first so that my neighbors don’t think I make a habit out of having bloodied woman enter and leave my house. You can help yourself to anything in my closet.”

When the sound of her footsteps starts again, they head formy bedroom. Not long after, the bathroom door closes and then the water runs, drowning out whatever she’s doing inside it.

I eye the used-up butts of my last few cigs and wait. Ten minutes later, the door finally opens.

She took my good jeans, I see. One of my gray shirts hangs loosely on her, and she paired it with a black hoodie. She did what she could with her tangled hair and scrubbed the blood away, but she definitely doesn’t look like a cop.

“Let’s go.” I push back from the table, slamming my sketchbook shut. I make a pit stop near the fridge for a bottle of water, which I toss in her direction. While she drinks, I grab a clean hoodie from the hook by the door and then lead the way out onto the street.

The single mom’s rushing from the house across the way, scrambling to get into her car and drive over to the diner across town. Two scrawny kids peek out from behind the screen door, expressionless, as she warns them to get to school on time.

She’s already driven off as Yellow and I clear the next block. It takes twenty minutes to walk to the precinct. Usually, it’s fifteen, but she’s walking slowly. Not out of pain, either. She’s dragging her feet, looking more and more like a deer in headlights the closer we get to the station. Just as the building comes into view, she pulls ahead of me.

“Wait here,” she says, her face hidden by the fringe of my hood, which casts a shadow all the way down to her jaw.

“Don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I tell her, remaining right on her heels.

“Do you have a better idea?”

Fair enough. I fall back and watch her. From a distance, she almost blends into the riffraff of students and homeless crawling around this part of town. Almost.

But none of them look half as haunted as she does.

CHAPTER NINE

CHLOE

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