“Right now, placement,” she said, but something about the way she said it felt rehearsed. “But I’m trying to get them to start a program to help kids transition out of the system.”
It was a notoriously tricky time. Kids who spent their lives in foster care hit eighteen and that was it. They were on their own, and they had to learn to sink or swim without any help pretty fast.
Some—like Marcos’s oldest brother Cole—did whatever it took. Cole had taken on two jobs, built up his bank account until he could afford an apartment big enough for three. Then when Marcos and his other older brother Andre had been kicked out of the system, they’d actually had a home waiting for them.
But Marcos was lucky. And he knew it. Most foster kids didn’t have that. Most kids found themselves suddenly searching for shelter and a job. Tons ended up instantly homeless, and plenty took whatever work they could get, including something criminal.
Had that been what had really happened to Brenna? When she’d shown up on their foster home doorstep that day eighteen years ago, her chin up, blinking back tears, his heart had broken for her. A few months later, she’d been gone. He’d always wondered where she’d ended up, but he’d been too afraid to search for her.
Some kids got lucky, ended up in foster homes with fantastic parents who ultimately adopted them. Others, like him, bounced around from one foster home to the next, from birth until eighteen. He supposed he’d never searched for her because he’d always wanted to believe she’d been one of the lucky ones.
“What about you?” Brenna asked, and he was surprised to hear the wary disappointment in her tone.
She was in Carlton’s house because she could offer him something. If it wasn’t sex, like Carlton had been implying over dinner, then it was some kind of criminal connection. So, who was she to judge his motives?
Still, he felt a little embarrassed as he gave his cover story, the way a real dealer would. “Carlton and I share similar business interests. We’re talking about a transaction, but I need to pass his test first.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “How do you think I’m doing so far?”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I think you and I are in similar positions.”
Interesting. So her association with Carlton was relatively new. He wondered if he could get her out of here when he left, convince her to move her life onto a different track. Maybe all she needed was a little help.
It was a thought Marcos knew could get him killed. Doing anything to disrupt Carlton’s life before he committed to the deal and Marcos could slap cuffs on him threatened the whole operation. But the idea hung on, refusing to let go.
For years, he’d had an image of Brenna Hartwell in his mind: a perfect, grown-up version of the little girl who’d made his heart beat faster. And even though she probably couldn’t have lived up to that fantasy even if she weren’t a criminal, he was still drawn to her in a way he couldn’t really explain.
“I should go to bed,” Brenna said, interrupting his thoughts. She stared a minute longer, like she wanted to say something, but finally turned and headed off to her room.
All the while, he longed to call after her, longed to ask her why she’d set that fire eighteen years ago. Instead, he watched her go until the door near the end of the hallway clicked quietly shut behind her.
Then Marcos headed to his own room, down a different hallway. He’d just turned the corner when Carlton pushed away from the wall, out of the shadows, nearly making Marcos jump.
The drug kingpin’s eyes were narrowed, his lips tightened into a thin line. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear at dinner,” Carlton said, his voice low and menacing, almost a snarl. “So, let me be plain. Stay away from Brenna. Or our business here is finished before we get started.”
* * *
“SHE’S A ROOKIE!”
“Sir, she’s determined. She dug all this up on Carlton Wayne White herself. She’s found an angle we never even considered and I think it’s going to work. She—”
“She’s got no undercover experience.”
“No, but we can give her a crash course. She’s smart. We’ve never gotten this close to him before.”
“I don’t like it. And the DEA wants this guy for themselves. They won’t be happy if we jump into their territory.”
“So don’t tell them. It doesn’t have anything to do with drugs anyway. Not really.”
“Hartwell could get herself killed.”
Brenna had overheard the conversation last month, between the chief at her small police station and her immediate boss, the guy who’d convinced her to join the police force in the first place. Victor Raine was the closest thing she had to a friend on the force. She’d met him years ago, when she’d first gotten out of foster care and gone to a presentation on job opportunities. He’d been there, talking about police work, and she’d gone up and asked him a bunch of questions.
Ultimately, when she’d gotten a surprise college scholarship offer that covered not just her tuition, but also part of her lodging, she’d chosen that instead. But years later, after she’d graduated and bounced from job to job without feeling fulfilled, she’d looked Victor up. She’d visited him at the station, and somehow found herself applying to the police academy.
Before she knew it, she had graduated and was a real, sworn-in police officer. It was scarier—and better—than she’d ever expected. But typical rookie patrol assignments had lost their luster quickly, and she’d started digging for more.
Her plan to infiltrate Carlton’s network had come to her by accident. She’d been on foot patrol with her partner, a newbie right out of the academy, barely out of his teens. Next to him, her six months of experience had seemed like a lifetime. They’d gotten a call about a disturbance, and when they’d arrived, they’d found a kid stabbed and left for dead on the street.
She’d cradled his head in her lap while she’d called for help, and tried to put pressure on his wounds. He’d stared up into her eyes, his baby blues filled with tears, silently begging her to help him. But he’d been too far gone. He’d died before the ambulance had gotten there, and she’d been left, bathed in his blood, to answer the detectives’ questions.
She’d had nothing to tell them. He hadn’t said a word, just looked at her, his gaze forever burned into her memory. So, as they’d dug into his murder, she’d followed the case’s progress.
She’d learned the kid’s name: Simon Mellor. And she’d discovered he was just eighteen years old, a few months out of the foster care system, probably killed running drugs for someone because he couldn’t find any better options for himself.
The fury that had filled her then still heated her up whenever she thought about him. The investigation had stalled out and it looked destined to become a cold case, so Brenna had made it her mission to figure out who’d killed the kid. What she’d discovered had led her back to Victor, to the biggest favor she’d ever asked her mentor.
And he’d agreed, gone to their chief and begged for her chance to go undercover in Carlton’s operation. Brenna had stood outside the door, just out of sight, but she’d heard her chief’s “no way” coming long before he’d said it.
So when he’d announced, “Hartwell could get herself killed,” Brenna had pushed open that door, slapped her hands on her hips and told him, “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
This morning, as she slipped into another slinky dress Carlton had bought her, she realized that was a strong possibility. She was way out of her league here. The quick training she’d received on undercover work—how to remember a cover story, how to befriend a criminal and keep the disgust she really felt hidden—could only