Page 24 of Catch

My stomach dropped.

“Oh no.”

I patted my pockets. Checked the seat. The console. The floor.

Nothing.

“Where’s the key?”

Chapter Thirteen

MILES

There was,in fact, something worse than driving aimlessly around town searching for someone I already knew was at my house. Paperwork.

No, scratch that. Worse than paperwork was doing paperwork while manning the front desk at the station.

I’d rather have been anywhere else, like in a conversation with Grams about the effectiveness of condoms. That sounded like a blast compared to the front desk at the station. The one silver lining was that, once I was done, I could kick back, put my feet up, and indulge in some reading.

By reading, of course, I meant flipping through the gossip magazine Linc had tossed on the desk earlier as a joke before heading out on patrol. There was an article about Loxley in there, something about her demanding a "do-over." I doubted any of it was true. But the pictures were fun to look at.

Just as I was leaning back precariously in my chair—feet propped up on the desk, magazine dangling loosely from my fingers—the bell above the glass doors jingled.

That damn bell. Linc had stuck it up there yesterday, probably to irritate me, but I couldn’t deny it was effective.

With a sigh, I started to straighten up, ready to plaster on a smile for whoever the citizen was needing some assistance. But then I froze.

There, hovering near the door, was Loxley herself.

She waved shyly with three fingers, looking like a kid caught sneaking into a candy store. Her eyes darted around the room like she was expecting a SWAT team to pop out of the walls.

In my panic to get up, I forgot my boots were still propped on the desk. The sudden shift in balance sent me—and the chair—tipping backward in a spectacularly graceless fashion.

I hit the ground with a loud thud, disappearing from view behind the desk.

“Miles?” Lox whispered frantically, leaning over the counter. “Are you okay?”

I groaned, waving off the pain and the faint bruising to my dignity. Scrambling upright, I peeked over the desk to find her staring at me with wide, worried eyes.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed, my voice barely above a whisper, though my expression screamed disapproval. “Youcan’tbe here!”

“I know!” she said, wringing her hands. “But I did something bad, and I didn’t know where else to go!”

I glanced over my shoulder, heart pounding. Thankfully, the station was deserted. Grabbing her arm, I pulled her toward the wall, away from the line of sight of the door.

“Lox,” I said, taking a calming breath, “how did you even get here? And what exactly did you do?”

“I wanted to make you an apple pie!”

Damn it. I loved apple pie.

“Go on,” I said, motioning for her to keep talking.

“Well,” she began, her voice climbing with each word, “I needed fresh apples, and butter, and this lady in the store told me I should get cinnamon sticks for freshly grated?—”

“Lox!” I interrupted, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Focus. What. Happened?”

She froze, her hands flailing for emphasis. “I borrowed your Jeep and lost the keys.”