“Jay.” If she could stab me with a look, I’d need at least ten stiches by now. “She hit me up by text. Shooting the shit, like always. No biggie. Find me later if you want to talk about the lit mag.” She stops her avid search through her purse and begins to walk down the hall.
“Wait . . . Sterling.” I follow her. Can’t let her out of my sight. Without her, Nic might disappear for good. “Nic’s missing!”
Sterling pauses and looks back at me. “What?”
“I haven’t heard from her since Thursday. If you haven’t either, then something’s off.” My knees buckle. Saying the words aloud almost sends me to the floor. “You know this is weird. Even for Nic.”
Sterling chews on her bottom lip, forgetting about the gloss she just slathered across it. “Look, I wish I could help, but I don’t—” Meek Foreman’s arm interrupts our regularly scheduled programming as he wraps it around Sterling’s shoulder. Somehow, she doesn’t lose her balance from the extra weight. Her shoulders must be used to all that heft after two years of on-ing and off-ing with him.
“Is there a problem here?” Meek asks, glaring at me. By the way his hand clings onto Sterling’s upper arm, this must be an on period for their love saga.
“Jay and I were talking about the lit mag,” Sterling answers for me. “And now we’re rushing to class. Right, Jay?” She raises her eyebrows at me.
Meek flexes his bicep as he continues to hook it around Sterling’s neck.
“Right,” I say.
“Let me walk you then,” Meek says to Sterling. “And Jay, don’t forget about that paper you promised to help me with. Mrs. Nelson gave me an extension.” Before turning around, he points to his eyes, then points right at me. A weekend hasn’t iced him out—he’s still seeing red over his decapitated paper. Just like his deadline was extended, so was my pending ass whooping if I didn’t come through for him. Like I didn’t have enough to worry about.
“Let me know if you hear anything else,” Sterling says to me over her shoulder. “About the lit mag.” She and I both know the lit mag was code for something else.
I scrub at my hair as I watch Sterling and Meek disappear into the crowd. My window to Nic is completely closed now. Sterling is a dead end, so the only way to reopen that window is to listen to Riley and do the unthinkable. Roll with the cops.
There’s a dance going on at the precinct on Warwick. Phones ringing off the hook, badges scurrying back and forth, rustling through paperwork. Two drunken idiots sit handcuffed, shouting insults to each other across the room, as another badge types up a report. The chaos makes me wobbly, but my purpose keeps me anchored. Never thought I’d have to turn to the cops for help. I could’ve hopped on the 107—the bus route would have taken me straight from the Ducts to the station in no time. But I took the long route. Hitched a ride on the 108 toward Patrick Henry Mall, then ordered an Uber near the food court exit just to cover my bases. If Javon and his crew spotted me here, I’d be doing more than just eating pavement. They’d rough me up real good, prop me on the hood of one of their cars and parade me around like an ornament just to make an example out of me. Everyone in the Ducts knows that the only thing worse than a cop is the snitch who squealed to them. But with Sterling being just as clueless as me about Nic, what other choices do I have?
“Can I help you?” one of the white badges in the center of the storm asks me. She has wide shoulders like a linebacker and a general don’t-give-a-fick disposition. Her eyes do not leave her computer screen, even as I approach her desk.
I place both hands on top of her desk, keep them visible. “Always let them see your hands,” Dad would warn me about the police. He never lived long enough to teach me how to drive, but we practiced drills on what I should do if he ever got pulled over.
I take a deep breath. Look at the exit over my shoulder. I could leave. Pretend I never came here and no one would be the wiser. Including me. I’d still have no answers about Nic’s whereabouts. “I need help,” I finally manage.
“Came to the right place, kid.” She coughs in the crook of her arm, gets back to her computer.
“I’d like to file a missing person report,” I try again.
That gets her attention. She raises an eyebrow at me. Leans back in her seat like she’s sizing me up. “Where’s your mom?”
“In prison.” The words come out angrier than I expect. You’d think after all this time of her being locked away, I’d be numb to it all. Telling someone new, though, always hits a nerve I forget is there. Besides, what does my mom have to do with anything? Of course, I keep that to myself. Need to keep my cool for Nic’s sake.
“Well, who’s supposed to be watching you? Do they know you’re here?”
I frown. “I need a guardian to report someone missing?”
“Look, kid.” She leans forward now. The nicotine from her pores tickles my nose. “We get a lot of kids like you coming in here clowning around. Filing false reports is illegal, you catch me?”
“You think I’d be here if I didn’t have to be?” My patience is razor thin now. Every second I spend farting around with her is another second for Nicole to fade. “If you can’t help me, can you find another cop that will?”
The Lady Badge’s upper lip twitches as she points a finger at me, ready to give me the reading of a lifetime.
“I’ll take it from here, Colleen,” a voice says from behind me. I glance over my shoulder and a black cop peers down at me, with a beard and a frame that could rival Rick Ross’s.
“You sure? He’s a feisty one,” Colleen says, as if she hadn’t picked a fight as soon as she spotted me.
Rick Ross chuckles. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Then to me: “What’s up?”
I look over at Colleen, whose wrinkles above her brows form an angry V. Then I look at the two drunken dudes in custody, eyeballing me. “Is there somewhere else we can talk?”
He hitches his head and I follow him to a tiny room near the back with card tables and vending machines. He sneaks glances at me as he helps himself to a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Take a seat,” he orders, pointing to one of the machines. “Hungry? Chips are usually stale, but the muffins are on point.”
“I’m good.” I sit at one of the card tables. My knee bounces up and down, bumps into the table.
“Your grandmother’s Ms. Marie Murphy, right?” Rick Ross asks me as he sits across from me.
My leg freezes. How in the hell does he know MiMi? “Yes, sir.”
He nods, and his fingers disappear into his beard as he scratches it. “We go to Providence Baptist together. Your grandma’s good people. Helps with the bookkeeping there, right?”
“Yes, sir,” I repeat. Try to picture his face in one of the pews, but the clock on my phone usually keeps me busy during service.
“Let me formally introduce myself.” He extends his hand. “Miles.”
I scope out his badge. Hunter. Miles Hunter. Name like that, he had no choice but to be a cop. “Jay.” I shake his hand.
“All right, Jay.” He takes a long sip of his coffee. “How can I help you?”