by Radclyffe
“How did you know I was here?”
“Uncle Robert called and asked me to come. I would have been here sooner, if I’d known.”
Desperate to get outside, Kip pushed through the revolving glass doors into a muggy Manhattan morning. The sights and smells of New York came rushing back, and she’d never found them so welcome. “I’m glad you didn’t come sooner. There wasn’t anything you could have done. Did Dad hear anything from my attorney?”
“Yes, you need to be at the courthouse at eleven. I’ve got the address—Uncle Robert is sending a car.”
“What time is it?”
“A little after eight. I’m taking you to my place to get cleaned up and changed.”
With her long blond hair loose and down to her shoulders, Savannah didn’t look much different than when they’d started college. Kip imagined she must look like she’d aged a decade overnight. She felt as if she had. “You shouldn’t be running around doing all this. I’ll get an Uber.”
Savannah clapped her hands on her hips, her baby bump barely perceptible beneath her white button-down shirt and black stretch pants. “You most certainly will not. I’m staying with you until this mess is cleaned up.”
Kip shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’re not getting dragged around the city and sitting in the courthouse all day. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going through this alone. And how the hell did this happen anyhow?” Savannah set her jaw in that way that reminded Kip of a tiny bulldog, stubborn and immovable and unexpectedly powerful.
Kip glanced around. With the usual obliviousness of New Yorkers, passersby skirted around them as if they weren’t both standing in the middle of the sidewalk. She still didn’t want to be overheard and barely registered the newfound paranoia. “I’ll tell you when we get to your place. Let’s get a cab.”
She flagged one down and closed her eyes while the cabbie took them on the brief ride to Savannah’s apartment on the West Side.
“I’ve got clothes that will fit you,” Savannah said as she let them into her apartment.
The place was small but had a multi-million-dollar view of the park, which at any other time Kip would have paused to enjoy. “I really need a shower.”
“Go ahead and I’ll— Have you eaten? What do you want?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care. You’re eating something, so either choose or eat what I make.”
Kip grinned, a little bit of normalcy filtering back into her world. Savannah had always been so bossy. Younger than her by only a few weeks, they were more sisters than cousins. They’d gone to the same schools since they were five, shared stories of boyfriends and girlfriends throughout high school, and applied to the same colleges so they could room together. That was where their lives had started to part ways a little. Savannah had managed to escape the tentacles of the Kensington family businesses that employed most of their parents’ and their own generation, pursuing her career in art instead. But still, she was the sibling Randy might have been if things had been different. Randy. She’d failed him, and she still didn’t know why. “Bagels?”
Savannah rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
“That would be good.”
Savannah made a shooing motion. “Get cleaned up and changed. Then you can tell me everything.”
Kip stood for a long time in the shower, her head tilted back, hot needles stinging her face and chest. Even after her skin began to scald and hunger finally drove her from the shower, she couldn’t shake the sense of being not quite clean. Tainted somehow, as if the air in the cell had permeated her pores.
She toweled off her hair, finger combed it, and dressed in the trousers and shirt Savannah had left for her. They were close enough in size that the fit was good, although the waist was a little tight for her. She avoided the mirror, afraid of what changes she might see there.
Settling at the small table tucked into the eating nook facing the park, she opened the window and breathed deeply. The air smelled faintly of blossoms and the ever-present undercurrent of New York—fumes, food, and the sweet musky scents of humanity, of life. “Thanks for everything.”
Savannah slid a buttered bagel and a hot cup of coffee in front of her. “What can you tell me?”
Kip shook her head. “It’s probably better if we let it go.”
“Better for who?” Savannah snapped.
“The fact is I was driving a stolen car.”
Savannah hissed. “Like you would steal a car.”
Kip shrugged. “I made a stupid assumption, and I should have known better.”
“Let me guess—Randy is part of all this.”
“Look, I know you’re not fond of Randy, and—”
“That’s not true. I love him, but he’s…” Savannah sighed. “That’s not the point right now. Is he all right?”
“He’s on his way to rehab. Maybe this time…”
“Maybe. I hope so.” Savannah gripped her hand. “And maybe it’s time you let him stand on his own.”
Kip sighed. “I know, and you’re right. But there’s a difference between tough love and throwing him to the wolves.”
“And what about you? What if—” Savannah swiped at the moisture in her eyes. “God, Kip. What if something bad happens, and you—this is ridiculous. You can’t go to jail!”
“My father wouldn’t have sent Carver if he wasn’t a good attorney, so it’s not going to come to that.” Kip willed herself to believe her own words, but somewhere in the hours between the first click of the cuffs on her wrists and the clank of the cell gate opening, she’d lost the ability to trust, or hope.
Chapter Four
At ten thirty, Kip stepped out of the car in front of Manhattan Central Booking. At street level the five-story gray stone building looked like hundreds of others in the city. She’d probably passed it dozens of times and never noticed it. This morning, however, every arched window exuded a threatening aura, as if warning that once inside, there was no escape. She squared her shoulders.
“I wish you’d stayed home,” Kip murmured to Savannah.
“And I wish you’d be quiet.” Savannah clutched her hand.
Kip squeezed back. “I’m glad you’re so stubborn. It helps.”
“I know.”
Kip let out a long sigh. She really did have to trust Carver. “Okay, let’s get this done.”
She and Savannah shuffled along in a line two and three people wide until they reached the metal detector. Kip hated removing her watch and wallet, instantly transported back to those moments when everything had been stripped away—her identity, her dignity, her power. Stepping through the barrier, she quickly retrieved her belongings, and they followed the sign to the courtrooms down a long marble-floored corridor. The carved wooden doors set back in alcoves were all closed. Their footsteps mingled with those of dozens of others, disappearing into the shadowy recesses of the cavernous ceilings. When they found Courtroom C with Judge Neville Aronson’s name on a bronze plaque next to it, they squeezed onto a long bench with half a dozen other nervous-looking individuals ranging from teens in baggy jeans and unlaced sneakers with T-shirts sporting baseball and football insignias hanging over their belts, to elderly women with threadbare cardigans and shoes too small for their swollen feet.
Kip’s stomach soured and a headache set up a steady pounding at the base of her skull. Yesterday at this time she’d been discussing engine performance with a design tech at the factory in Hoboken, her biggest concerns how well the bearings would wear at the projected speeds and where to take Julie for dinner. Julie, the theater, sex—hell, simple human pleasures—all seemed foreign to her now. Remote and inconsequential.
At a few minutes before eleven, Carver came striding down the hall, briefcase swinging, his step quick and confident. He’d changed his suit to a navy one with a monochrome shirt and thin pale green tie. Hip but not too hip, and not a single crease in his face to suggest he’d missed a night�
��s sleep.
“Walk with me,” he said, leading Kip to the far end of the hall.
“How are we doing?” Kip said when they were alone.
“I just finished talking to the ADA. They’re willing to reduce the charges if you plead guilty. The judge has the final say, but there’s a very good possibility you’ll get some kind of probation.”
Kip let out a long breath. “What’s the charge, then?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Joyriding.”
“Joyriding.” Kip stared. He had to be joking. Carver quirked a brow. Okay, he wasn’t. “All right, fine. What does that mean in terms of charges, exactly?”
“It’s a misdemeanor rather than a felony, since the charge indicates you had no intention of depriving the rightful owner of his property and planned only temporary use of his vehicle.”
“Well, that’s actually fairly accurate, although not conscious on my part.”
“Yes, well, we’re not going to get into the specifics of how you came to be driving.”
Meaning they weren’t going to mention Randy having the keys. “I understand. And that’s irrelevant now. So how does this work?”
“We still have to get through the arraignment, enter your plea, and hope that Judge Aronson is in a benevolent mood this afternoon.”
“If he isn’t?”
“Judges tend to go easy with the sentencing in this kind of crime, and considering your family profile, I expect he’ll be lenient.” Carver lifted a shoulder. “If for some reason he wants to make a statement of some kind, you could spend a little while in prison.”
“How much time?”
“Usually a year—the max is three.”
Kip’s vision dimmed, and a swell of nausea filled her throat. The breath in her chest burned. She’d never been given to panic, but claustrophobia rode her hard. She couldn’t go back into that cell. She’d almost drowned once, and last night had felt exactly the same. Airless and suffocating.
“Look, that’s not likely to happen.”
Carver’s smooth voice edged into Kip’s consciousness, and she forced herself to focus. No matter what came next, she’d find a way to handle it. She always had.
*
Jordan coaxed the sputtering truck down the weed-choked alley between the stockade fence enclosing the acre of land that made up the Ninth Avenue Community Garden and the adjacent, abandoned three-story building. Even at midday the building blocked the sun from ever reaching the ground, and now, at a little after six, the passageway was nearly dark. By the time she approached the parking spot she’d cleared of broken bricks and glass shards, the engine had quit and she was coasting. The gas gauge indicated she had a quarter of a tank still, and she’d checked the oil just the day before. She was no mechanic and didn’t have a clue what was wrong, but one thing she did know was she couldn’t afford to lose this truck. Or fix it, for that matter.
After a long day spent preparing planting beds, making phone calls hunting up customers, and making a late pickup at the hardware store, she was too damn tired to sort out one more problem. She wanted to secure the flock and head home. She climbed out, locked the truck, and sorted her keys while heading for the gate. Heart stuttering, she stopped abruptly.
The padlock and part of the hasp lay on the ground, half hidden in the weeds. The gate stood open a few inches. She fumbled for her cell phone in her back pocket and with her thumb hovering over emergency, pictured the rows of greens waiting to be cut and packaged, the seedlings barely out of the ground, the helpless flock. Every important document and contact she had was in her office.
Damn it, she couldn’t just stand out here and wait. She eased the gate open, thankful again she’d thought to oil the hinges, and grabbed a hoe from a large plastic barrel filled with spades and rakes and other garden implements just inside the gate. Brandishing it in two hands like a club, she started down the center aisle, blinking in the early evening gloom. She saw the intruder right away, peering into the chicken coop, one hand on the latch.
She hefted the hoe. Speed was probably more important than stealth. Racing forward with a loud cry, she aimed to strike at an arm holding a weapon or any other body part she could get to.
A woman swung around and jumped back from the coop with both hands out in front of her, eyes wide. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! Friend. Friend!”
Jordan jerked to a stop, the hoe still angled over her right shoulder for a strike. “Who the hell are you?”
“Ah…” Kip couldn’t come up with anything intelligible while her stomach occupied her throat. The woman brandishing the hoe looked like an avenging angel, her long, dusty-blond hair swirling around a narrow, sculpted face, her wide green eyes piercing, her pose fierce and fearless. If she hadn’t been about to brain her, Kip would’ve found her incredibly beautiful. Another time, another lifetime, sexy even. But not any longer. “I work here.”
“You most certainly do not. What were you trying to steal? Fertilizer for meth or something?”
Kip couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Right. Do I look like a meth head to you?”
Jordan narrowed her eyes, starting to feel just a little bit foolish. The stranger was just about her height, with clear blue eyes, collar-length dark hair that was a little shaggy but professionally styled in the recent past, a slightly wrinkled white shirt tucked into black trousers, and loafers that were definitely not meant for hard labor. No jewelry, but the end of an iPhone peeked out of her pants pocket. No vagrant, and likely no thief. Jordan lowered the hoe but kept it in both hands, just in case. “Why did you break in here?”
“I didn’t,” Kip said. “The gate was open and I thought I heard someone, something, screaming. I came in to take a look around.”
“The padlock has been jimmied off the gate,” Jordan said. “You’re inside where you don’t belong. Ergo, you’re the most likely person to have broken in.”
“Logical, but incorrect.” Kip’s insides dropped. “Please, please tell me you didn’t call the police.”
“Why not?”
Kip swallowed. “Did you?”
Her fear was palpable and Jordan didn’t truly think she was dangerous. “No.”
“I wasn’t kidding,” Kip said quickly, relief making her light-headed. “I work here. Or I’m supposed to, starting tomorrow.”
“Since this is my place and I didn’t hire you, that’s a really bad lie.”
Kip frowned. “This is the Ninth Avenue Community Garden project, right? I got the address right.” She pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket and double-checked it. “I wasn’t sure I could find it and I…I felt like walking. When I heard the scream, I came in. I didn’t see anyone, and…well, here we are.”
“Let me see that.”
Wordlessly, Kip handed it over.
“What’s your name?”
“Kip.”
“I’m Jordan Rice.” Jordan took the paper and, dividing her attention between Kip and the printed form, scanned it quickly. From what she could gather in a cursory glance, one Catherine Kensington had been sentenced to four hundred hours of community service to be fulfilled at…the Ninth Avenue Community Garden. She looked up into expectant eyes, surprised to see amusement there. “I don’t think any of this is funny.” She waved the paper. “I don’t know anything about this, and I’ll need to make some phone calls. I wasn’t aware that we were being assigned…”
“Criminals?” Kip said flatly.
“Anyone,” Jordan finished a little self-consciously. Picturing this woman as a criminal was very difficult to do, but she’d obviously committed some kind of crime since this paper was a court order. Community service. Didn’t that usually mean drug offense or petty theft—shoplifting, forgery—God, she didn’t really know. “If you’re any kind of violent offender, you’re not working here.”
Kip paled and Jordan regretted her words, but she didn’t apologize. She had Tya and, soon, the two kids to think of. She hadn’t asked for this woman to be sent here, and no one ha
d discussed it with her.
“I assure you, I am not a violent criminal or a sexual predator. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
Jordan held her gaze. Denying she at least had to rule those things out would be pointless. “Look, let me get some more information and we can sort this out.”
Kip glanced at her watch. Seven p.m. “I don’t think anyone is going to be available to answer your questions until tomorrow. What are you doing here now anyhow?”
“My place, remember?” Jordan gritted her teeth. Why did she keep answering this woman’s questions? Why didn’t she just tell her to leave? “Ordinarily I’d be getting ready to close up, but my truck has decided to die in the alley. So now, in addition to dealing with you, I have to get a mechanic and a tow truck out here. So my night is not exactly going according to plan.”
“Well, it must be your lucky day,” Kip said. “Or night, rather.”
Jordan scoffed. “Believe me, I seriously doubt that.”
“I’m a mechanic. Do you have any tools?”
“How fortunate,” Jordan said, wondering if that was some kind of con.
“Believe me or don’t, but if you want your truck fixed, cheap and now, you’ll let me take a look at it.”
The idea of saving some money and time was worth the risk. “We’ve got some basics in the garden shed. I don’t know if they’ll be what you need.”
“Let me check and see.”
Jordan gestured with the hoe toward the metal shed in the corner. “Over there. I’ll get you the key in a second. I need to put the chickens up.”
“I think one of them is dying,” Kip said. “That’s what I heard screeching, I think.”
Jordan laughed. “She’s just upset because she likes to lay her eggs in the straw pile over in the corner and I was late getting here and haven’t let them in yet.”
“I didn’t think laying eggs was such a painful process. Aren’t they supposed to do that naturally?”
“Well, you’ve seen the size of them. How would you like to push—”
Kip shot up a hand. “Never mind. I don’t need that picture. I’ll just grab those tools and see to the truck.”
