In hindsight, I didn’t think I was this stupid—but here I am, at the back wall of the police precinct, spray-painting a pig wearing a cop’s hat that’s humping a stack of cash. Hours pass, half a bottle of peppermint schnapps disappears, and somehow I manage to finish the monstrosity. I step back and take it in, feeling like the world is tipping—or maybe that’s just me. In short, it’s a masterpiece. Or maybe that’s the minty booze talking.

  “Piggies will have a blast cleaning this up in the morning,” I mutter to no one in particular.

  I flop down on a cinder block, bottle in hand, and lift it toward the sky. “To you, brother. You always loved pranks… this is our best one yet. Wherever you are, I hope you’re happier. I wish you’d taken me with you. I wish you were here.” My sobs echo off the police precinct building. “It’s been four years since you ran away from me. I just want you home.”

  I drink until I pass out on the concrete—right beside my crime of passion—like a fucking moron.

  A couple of hours pass, long enough for the sun to rise and warm my back. Voices pull me out of the dark, and police-issued boots appear inches from my face. I pry my crusty eyes open and try to sit up, only to be met with a sharp, cold bite around my wrists. I’m cuffed. Utterly screwed. Ice runs through my veins as the gravity of what I’ve done finally hits me.

  An officer notices me taking in my surroundings and speaks into his walkie. “Cancel the medic. She’s awake. Don’t need the paperwork,” he says disapprovingly. “Alright, bud. Let’s get you processed. Come on—on your feet.” He starts muttering some weird cop chant about someone named Miranda wrights. I have no idea who she is, or what she has to do with my current predicament. Why did I have to drink so much? Everything is spinning.

  The officer grabs my arm roughly and hauls me upright. “If it were up to me, troublemakers like you would just be sent straight to prison. Now we gotta call in a favor from the fire department. Un-fucking-believable.”

  He guides me toward the front of the building, none too gently. My head spins harder, and that’s when I feel it—the spicy bile clawing its way up my throat. I have two choices: I can warn the cop—hey man, I’m about to up-chuck, can I get a trash can?—or I can throw up all over his neatly pressed, boot-licking uniform.

  Like any hungover dumbass, I go with option two.

  I barely manage to turn my head before it erupts. Hot, sour peppermint and regret come blasting out of me in violent heaves. It splatters across his boots, streaks up his pant leg, and dots the sidewalk like some kind of abstract art installation. My stomach keeps convulsing, emptying itself in humiliating waves until there’s nothing left but dry retches and bile that burns my throat raw.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he snaps, jumping back too late.

  I sag in the cuffs, gasping, strings of spit hanging from my mouth, eyes watering like I’ve just lived through a chemical attack. The world wobbles, my ears ring, and I manage a weak, unapologetic, “Should’ve gone with the trash can.”

  The cop swears under his breath, wiping at his uniform like it personally betrayed him. Somewhere behind us, another officer laughs—quick and sharp—before catching himself.

  I swallow hard, tasting acid and mint, and let my head fall forward. Guess vandalism wasn’t my worst crime of the night after all. I am so very screwed. And Mom’s gonna kill me.

  The laughing cop walks over and takes me by the arm. I’m gonna call him Chuckles. “Go get yourself cleaned up, Wachowski. I’ll take it from here.”

  He leads me inside and plops me into a plastic chair beside his desk. Chuckles uncuffs one of my hands and secures it to a chair leg, then logs into his computer and slides a box of tissues toward me so I can wipe my face.

  “Okay, first things first. What’s your name?” he asks, gently.

  “Anita…”

  “Got it. Anita. What’s your last name?”

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  “Weiner.”

  He snorts. “Har har. Anita Weiner. Very mature.” He leans back in his chair. “Look, kid, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. The hard way means I stick you in a holding cell with the other degenerates while you sober up—and it’s Friday, so you’ll be there all weekend. I’m guessing you’ve got a family out there missing you. Right? Let's try this again, name and age?”

  I nod guiltily and turn my face away, my eyes tracing the mismatched tiles on the floor. “It’s Pyrenna Turner,” I mumble. “I’m seventeen.”

  Chuckles sits at his computer like a judge passing a sentence. His fingers hover over the keys, hesitate, then tap slowly, like he’s savoring my defeat. His eyes flick to mine—almost sympathetic. Almost.

  “You’re Elliot’s sister, right? Address in your record matches. Yesterday must’ve been rough. Is that why you spray-painted the building? Trying to get back at us for… not finding your brother? Four years, kid. You’re gonna have to let it go eventually.”

  Fire explodes in my chest. My head snaps up, and I stare him down like he just dared me to.

  “What—like everyone else in this shitty-ass town has? You want me to move on? Forget him? Bury him and pretend he never existed? You know what happens to people who look like me. They disappear… and they never come back.”

  I spit the words, each one tasting like acid.

  Chuckles leans back, studying me, and I swear the room chills with him. People wonder why I hate cops. Fake niceties. Smiles meant to trap you. Step out of the script and—poof—stone-cold macho boot-licker. It reminds me of the day we reported Elliot missing. Zero sympathy. They said he ran away. Trail cold. Nothing they could do. Bullshit. They just didn’t give a damn. I feel the spiral start, my head pounding, the hangover gnawing at the edges of my control.

  Chuckles sighs, the sound like a verdict being read. “Look, kid, it’s 6:45 in the morning. I need a coffee. Do you want one? Or a breath mint? Change of clothes?”

  I keep my eyes on him, searching for the angle. “Look, I know I smell like shit, okay. But my breath is fine—that’s the whole point of minty booze. When it comes up, it smells the same. I want to call my mom.”

  He stands, chair scraping the floor as he towers over me. “You’ll get to call her soon. I’d be more concerned about talking to a lawyer, though. Third strike—more than likely juvie. You can’t talk your way out of this one.”

  “Judging by everything about me, what makes you think I can afford a lawyer?”

  “Well… you could afford the paint and the booze, so I didn’t want to assume—especially when it comes to the unemployed.”

  “You MOTHER FU—” I jerk up, but the cuffs bite hard. I slam back into the chair, breath hissing out of me.

  He leans in, inches from my face, cold and sharp as steel. “Dumbest thing you could’ve done. You’re surrounded by cops. Calm down before assaulting an officer ends up on your rap sheet. You have until I get back to chill out.”

  My breathing evens out, calm washing over me despite everything. Third strike… juvie… Mom… Yeah. Real comforting. Mom always says you make your bed, then you lie in it. Right now, it feels more like I wandered into a funhouse built by sadists—floors sticky, lights too bright, exits all blocked.

  I flop my head against the back of my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles. Perfectly square. Perfectly fake. Just like Chuckles’ sympathy. Just like the cops who told us Elliot ran away and then went home to their doughnuts—I mean, families—while we were left fumbling through the wreckage he left behind. Bullshit. Pure, refined bullshit.

  I let my eyes drift shut, listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights, letting the silence stretch. Nothing has changed yet. And somehow, that makes it worse.

  More time passes when I finally jerk awake by the sound of chairs scraping the floor.

  “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. I was just about to wake you. Your paperwork’s done. It’s time to call your mom so I can release you to her custody. You got lucky—the judge was in a good mood.” Chuckles, the clown-cop, laughs like that’s supposed to be comforting.

  “She’s gonna lose her mind,” I groan, watching him punch her number into the landline on his desk.

  “Play stupid games, win dumb-ass prizes, kid. Time to pay the piper.”

  The line rings three times before my mom picks up. Chuckles gives her the rundown. It’s a lot, so don’t expect me to relive it. I hear screaming and hollering through the receiver. Chuckles pulls the phone away from his ear and waits patiently for the sweet sound of silence. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, she’s down here at the station. Judge Brown was kind enough to sign off on letting her go home with parental consent. Mm-hmm. Got it. Sure, I’ll let her know. Thank you for your time, Ms. Turner. Have a good day.”

  He hangs up and turns to me, pity and annoyance flickering across his face.

  “So, your mother would like me to tell you—and I quote—‘rot in jail until your court date.’ Kinda harsh, but hey, if it sets you straight, right?”

  He uncuffs me and walks me toward the holding area. I’m processed. Fingerprinted. Stripped. Told to cough. Then I’m handed an orange jumpsuit.

  I’ve never been big on vanity, but it totally clashes with my olive-tan skin. Then again, the only thing that actually looks good in that color is General Tso’s chicken.