Page 4 of Stolen for Keeps
“Maya… you didn’t.” Mom’s voice wavered, her eyes full of something worse than anger. Hurt.
Dad stepped forward, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Detective, this isn’t what it looks like. It’s her uncle—my brother. I’ll talk to him. This doesn’t have to happen. She’s only eighteen.”
“Well, eighteen and dangerous,” Ramirez muttered, cinching the cuffs tighter.
Dangerous? Since when?
Harlow straightened. “Maya Belrose, you are also under arrest for the assault of Annamaria Belrose.”
My stomach dropped. “Assault?”
Who were these guys?
They’d led with theft, then casually tacked on assault like it was some afterthought.
“I never touched her!” I shouted.
Harlow raised a photo without a word.
It was Annamaria, bruised, her face swollen around the nose and cheeks.
“I did not do that!” I insisted.
But they didn’t care. I didn’t even have time to grab my shoes. They dragged me out barefoot, my toes pressing into the lawn. Grass stuck to my feet as I stumbled. Neighbors peeked from behind curtains, a few stepping out onto their porches, murmuring.
“I didn’t assault anyone!” I cried, twisting in their grip. My feet scraped the concrete as they pulled me toward the street.
“Well, Miss Annamaria Belrose might beg to differ,” the officer sneered.
I yanked against their hold, my chest heaving. “Let me go! This is insane!”
Ramirez’s grip tightened. “Resisting isn’t going to help you, Miss Belrose.”
I didn’t care. My pulse pounded in my ears, my breathing sharp as I planted my feet. They weren’t going to drag me away like some criminal.
Behind me, something shifted. A staggered step, the scrape of a shoe against pavement, and a sharp gasp.
My father’s body swayed, and his hand clutched at his chest.
“Dad?” My voice cracked.
His knees buckled. The color drained from his face, and then he collapsed.
“Dad!” The word ripped from my throat as I lunged forward, but a hand yanked me back. “Dad!”
He lifted his face, barely, and forced a smile. It trembled at the corners, thin and full of effort. It was the same smile he always gave when he was hurting but didn’t want me to know. He always said he was fine. Because he was Dad. Because that’s what he did.
I thrashed against the grip holding me back, maybe even landed a kick. “Let me go, please! He needs help!” Tears poured down my cheeks.
But they didn’t listen.
They didn’t care.
Someone shoved me down. A knee dug into my spine, pressing my face against the pavement. The asphalt burned against my cheek, but I barely felt it over the panic clawing up my throat.
“Get off me!” I screamed, kicking wildly. “Please?—”
Mom sobbed, loud and gut-wrenching, but she didn’t reach for me. She hovered over Dad, her fingers trembling, her lips moving in silent prayers.
