Page 41 of Omega's Fever

“I know.” I lean back on the bench, suddenly exhausted. “Just... sit with me for a minute? Before I have to go back and face reality?”

“Always,” he says simply, and settles back beside me.

We sit in comfortable silence, watching the city move around us. For just this moment, I let myself pretend everything might be okay.

Even though I know it won’t.

13

Kellen

Milo’s been gone for about an hour. I spend the first half hour pacing back and forth, peeping out the drapes trying to catch a glimpse of him. I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly controlling person but it’s driving me mad not knowing where he is.

I opened the case file just to give myself something to distract myself with. It’s strange seeing myself through the eyes of the law.

My mugshot stares back at me from the arrest report. Dark eyes, broken nose, the scar through my left eyebrow from a bottle some drunk asshole threw when I was sixteen. I look like a thug.

The notes are weird too. It’s curious to see me through someone else’s perspective.

Suspect exhibited no resistance during arrest.

What was I supposed to do? Punch a cop. That would have been stupid.

Subject appeared unsurprised by charges.

I’d definitely been surprised, but I’ve spent years keeping my face blank. Never let anyone know they’ve caught you by surprise. They’ll only try to do it again.

I trace my finger over the witness statements. There are seven people left willing to swear I ran the whole operation. They started with fifteen. I should feel comforted that there are people who aren’t going to be lying about me, but I know for a fact that at least two of those missing eight witnesses are dead. I’d bet theothers have run. If they did, I hope they made it.

I know all of their names. Some are good people. Others are not. It doesn’t really matter. They’re all in trouble if they turn against me.

The vanilla scent clinging to these papers makes my chest tight. Milo’s been through every page, probably multiple times. He’s looking for truth in a haystack of bullshit.

My throat closes up. He deserves so much better than this.

There are police statements included. I wonder if I am supposed to be reading this. Probably not. Another reason for Milo to get into trouble because of me, but then this whole case is a mess.

The third witness statement makes me pause. It’s Penelope’s. Her testimony is different from the others. There’s almost nothing to it. She’s asked if she knows me and reportedly nods. Every other question gets a “no comment”. Something in me feels better at reading that. Wherever she is, I hope she’s okay.

Damon’s is similar. He’s marked as uncooperative in the police report. Damon was the one person I already knew when I started fighting at The Pit. For a time, we’d shared a foster home. He’d been a quiet kid who’d grown up big, just like me. He’d been a good fighter too. Looking back, I suppose it’s not a surprise that we ended up in the same place. It’s not like we were given a lot of options.

The apartment feels too quiet without him here. Just the hum of his fancy refrigerator and the tick of that minimalist clock on the wall.

I set the witness statements aside and pick up the financial records. This is what they’re really hanging their case on. Bank statements showing a $20,000 deposit from Mercer Enterprises two days before my arrest. The prosecution says it’s my cut of the trafficking profits. Truth is, I have no fucking idea where it came from. One day my account had nothing. Next day, twentygrand appears like magic. I didn’t even know it was there until the police told me about it.

Cobb always did like his little jokes.

The police report details my arrest: suspect was found in office of establishment. No attempt to flee. No weapons on person. They make it sound so clean, so simple. They don’t mention the chaos, the screaming, the way some of the girls tried to run and got tackled. They don’t mention how I stood there like an idiot, hands already up, because some part of me knew this was always how it would end.

I push up from the couch, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The case file slips off the couch as I move. I put the papers back as best I can. Milo will probably reorganize them later, put them back in whatever system makes sense to his legal brain. He clearly likes things neat and orderly. Unlike me, who just brings chaos wherever I go.

The window draws me like it always does. Three floors up isn’t high enough. Any decent shooter could pick us off from the park across the street. The building two blocks over has a perfect angle on this living room. I’ve already identified six different positions a sniper could use. Old habits die hard.

But I can’t stop myself from looking out.

There. On the bench.

Milo sits with his shoulders hunched forward, hands clasped between his knees. Even from up here, I can see the tension in his spine. Grocery bags are piled at his feet.