Page 90 of The Billionaire's Son

So the thing—whatever it had been—between her and the billionaire was over. Really and truly over.

They came from different worlds, worlds that had nothing to do with each other. He was one of the beautiful people, while she’d had a big fat L for loser tattooed on her forehead most of her life.

But not anymore.

Get over yourself, rookie. Get your ass off the floor.

Kelly pulled herself to her feet. She might be suspended, but she was still a cop.

And she had an idea.

Ballard had already sent agents to the rehab facility where Adam and Maria had met in their support group. Of course the feds got nothing useful. Federal agents always wore suits, and in certain situations, that tended to put people on edge. She, however, was her mother’s daughter. She could rock a pair of ragged jeans and a faded T-shirt. She could walk the walk, and talk the talk.

And nothing slammed the difference between her and Trey into her face more clearly.

* * *

KELLY PARKED TREY’S SUV across the street from a rambling concrete block structure. Signage featuring a huge yellow sunburst read: Sunshine Center.

She checked her surroundings. Adam was still out there somewhere. She wouldn’t drop her guard until he was in custody.

Trice had been right about the paparazzi losing interest in her. No one had followed her when she drove away from her apartment. She was now last week’s news.

Telling herself she was relieved by this development, Kelly released a breath and exited the SUV. But she still couldn’t return to patrol. Not until IA was done with her. God, was it really possible she could lose the only career she’d ever wanted?

She heard shouts indicating a soccer game in progress and headed toward an athletic field on one side of the two-story building. No bleachers or scoreboard, but maybe fifty people of all ages stood on the sidelines encouraging the young teenagers on the field, both boys and girls.

Not exactly the depressing scene of downtrodden addicts she’d expected to encounter, but the relaxed atmosphere of an amateur athletic competition might be a great place to pump onlookers for information.

Or not. When she arrived, spectators were so intent on the game that no one took notice of her. She waited for a time-out and turned to the dark-haired woman beside her who had been a vocal critic of the goalie.

“Who’s winning?” Kelly asked casually, keeping her gaze on the field.

Still focused on the field, the woman cursed and in a Hispanic accent said, “Sunshine can’t do squat today.”

Kelly nodded. These players looked too young and healthy to be recovering addicts.

“I thought this was a rehab center,” Kelly said. “What’s with all these kids?”

“And halfway house,” the woman said. “And shelter for abused women. Father Hernandez does what he can for those in need.”

Something in the woman’s voice made Kelly glance her way.

“Are you in need of aid?” the woman asked softly.

“Maybe,” Kelly said. That was the impression she’d wanted to create, that she was a druggie in search of a safe spot to crash.

“A friend of mine says he got clean here,” Kelly said. “Did I get that wrong?”

“Who is your friend?”

“Adam Chandler.”

“I don’t know him, but go inside and talk to Sister Aleta,” the woman said.

“Yeah, maybe,” Kelly muttered, not wanting to seem too eager. Sister Aleta? Father Hernandez. Was this facility run by a church?

“Tell her that Nancy sent you.”

“Thanks.”

Kelly moved off, scanning the crowd one more time for any sign of Adam. She didn’t see him anywhere, or even anyone that looked like him, so retraced her earlier path and entered the doorway beneath the large sunburst design, which made her think of a benevolent all-seeing eye.

A plump fortyish woman wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the same logo of the sun greeted her with a smile. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for Sister Aleta,” Kelly said, deciding to go with Nancy’s advice.

“She’s in the gym.” The woman pointed. “Down that hallway, two doors on your right. Just follow the noise. You can’t miss it.”

Kelly moved in the direction indicated. Was this place a rehab facility or the YMCA? Maria and Adam had met in group therapy, but no one here looked like they were in recovery.

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