Page 47 of Riding the Sugar High

“Afraid you can’t schedule them,” I say, and when he gives me a flat “Ha-ha,” I continue. “You could seek help, though. A therapist would explore with you the reasons behind your panic attacks and teach you how to deal with them.”

Quickly, he shakes his head. “It was just once. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

And I’m sure it’s a cop-out, but I know better than to try to force therapy onto someone. When it’s time, he’ll get there himself.

“You could also tell me more about whatever is bothering you,” I try after he resumes eating. “Your feelings and emotions. That could help too.”

“I have a better idea,” he says as he stands and opens one of his kitchen drawers. “Now, I’m going to give this to you, but it’s not a gift. Got it? I want it backpromptly.”

I watch him walk back, then hold his hand out.

And boy oh boy, I can’t help a massive grin from taking over my lips.

A box of crayons.

cuddle me

Primrose

As I stepthrough the heavy glass doors of the police station, my heart pounds with a mixture of nerves and apprehension. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a harsh glow over the sterile surroundings, illuminating rows of uniformed officers bustling about their duties. It’s like all the light and warmth of the afternoon can’t permeate the thick walls.

Beside me, Logan walks with a determined stride, his jaw set in a firm line as he follows the lawyers. His presence is reassuring, and when he turns to me and discreetly winks, I inhale. We're in this together. We can do this.

As we approach the front desk, a uniformed officer looks up from her paperwork and gives us a curt nod. “Can I help you?”

“We're here to speak with Officer Lawson,” Logan replies, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.

The officer nods, scribbling something on a notepad before talking into her radio. “Lawson. Coleman's party is here for you.”

Oh my god, I feel lightheaded.

How did I end up here? The more I ask myself this question, the more I can’t wrap my head around it. I’ve never shoplifted. Never so much as got a traffic ticket. And now, I’m about to be questioned about my involvement in a felony. Which I’mactuallyguilty of.

“Look who decided to finally pay us a visit,” a cop says as he walks through the corridor. Once he comes to stand in front of Logan, chewing a piece of gum with his mouth open, I recognize him as Connor, the officer who was with Josie the night of the arson. “I figured I’d have to come get you on your farm.”

Logan barely spares the stocky man a glance. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

“Hey,” Josie says as she emerges from a back door. How’s it going?”

Logan waves in her direction, and with a courteous nod, I keep my mouth shut.

Peter, my lawyer, said that I should talk only when strictly necessary and, even then, say as little as possible without arousing suspicion.

I plan to take his advice to the letter.

Connor walks to me, a hand scratching the fading hairline on his forehead. “You’re with me. Follow?—”

“No,” Logan growls, stepping between us as his hand grasps my arm. I’m pulled behind him as Connor throws an amused look at the cop watching the scene unfold from behind the reception desk. “Not you.”

“Can you believe this guy?”

“Don’t you want to questionme?” Logan insists, ignoring the lawyer’s request to relax. “Let Josie handle Primrose.”

“Either come with me voluntarily,” Connor says as he tilts his head to look past Logan and straight at me. “Or wait for the arrest.”

Heart in my throat, I try to swallow, but my saliva feels as sticky as glue.

Josie, who’s been silently observing, walks closer when Logan sends her a silent plea. Her red hair is pulled up in a sober ponytail, and though her skin is bare, she’s still painfully beautiful, even in her uniform. “Connor, come on. Take Logan and let us girls talk.”