Page 62 of Close Call

The numb, high feeling starts in my torso and spreads outward.

Unfortunately, it does nothing for the twisted, horrible feeling in my gut.

I like being at Mason’s with my entire family and occasionally asecondentire family with an absolutely enormous dog, and I hate it.

I hate it because I keep falling asleep when I don’t mean to and waking up several hours later, disoriented as all fuck. The main upside to the painkillers is that I’m not dreaming. At least, I’m not dreaming in a way that I remember, and nobody’s mentioned anything about any screaming in the middle of the night.

It’s still happening on some level, because I wake up with the same sick panic every time.

I hate it because I can’t go to my cabin, where nobody’s looking.

I hate it because I can’t goanywhere,because one, I’m high on painkillers for at least the next few days, and two, people are getting disappeared by the judge.

“How do we know it’s him?” I ask, not opening my eyes.

“How do we know it’s the judge?” Gabriel’s voice comes from the same spot. He hasn’t moved.

“There’s no way to know for sure without a paper trail.” Mason sounds like he’s pacing again. “But I know that particular prosecutor, and I think something happened.”

“Like what?”

“Like a bribe. Like threats. Somebody put pressure on him.”

“You think that because he went to one theme-park jail and didn’t get much done?”

“I think that because usually he comes to me first.”

I open my eyes. Mason’s around by the foot of the couch, one hand on Robin’s back, the other hand on the back of his tiny head. My brother frowns at me, but he’s not really looking at me. He’s looking into the distance. It’s his problem-solving face.

“The prosecutor comes to you first for what?”

Mason looks at me.

I look back at him.

I can’t decide if it’s an upside or a downside that the painkillers slow my brain down. Usually, it’s a fucked-up information superhighway in there. Thoughts just babbling away. When the painkillers start working, I get one thought at a time, like a leaky sink.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“Oh, right. For me.” I shake my head, want to throw up, and stop shaking my head. “The prosecutor comes toyou?”

Mason doesn’t look even a little bit ashamed of himself. “Yes. If I’m not first, I’m second after the legal team.”

Bythe legal team,he means the legal team he keeps on staff just to deal with my bullshit. Most of the time, we both pretend he doesn’t do that. The Farmhouse Debacle has broken the seal.

“I can’t believe you’ve been bribing a prosecutor for me.”

Mason makes a disgusted sound. “I don’t bribe the prosecutor. We have frank and productive discussions about whether the charges are worth pursuing.”

“He wouldn’t have those conversations with you if you didn’t have like thirty billion fucking dollars.”

“No, probably not.”

“Then you’re manipulating the legal system.”

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