Free Take Another Look by Rosalind Noonan

locked up with the keypad. Back in the white shower from the headlights, he summoned her closer.
    â€œHold your hands in front of you like this,” he said.
    She followed his instructions, flinching when he snapped handcuffs onto her wrists. Wariness skittered up her spine. Was this a trick?
    â€œI can smell your fear,” he said.
    â€œI . . . I don’t understand. I thought I wasn’t under arrest?”
    â€œJust procedure. You’ll need to ride in the back, too. It’s tactical defense. A cop can’t trust anyone.”
    â€œOh. Okay.” She tried to sound agreeable, though she knew she had no choice in the matter.
    He opened the back door and pressed her head low so that she didn’t hit it on the way into the squad car. A dank, salty smell assaulted her nostrils as she adjusted herself on the seat. How many hardcore criminals had ridden back here? Burnson was a nice place to live, but some parts had more than their share of gang-related crime and murders.
    He leaned in, his eyes steely in the dome light of the car. “Let me buckle your seatbelt. Gotta stay safe.”
    She sat back, very still, as he veered close. He smelled of citrus and spice—much better than the car—and although he didn’t touch her, she found the intimate proximity enticing. But he was all business. Once she was buckled in, the door closed, and he went around to the driver’s seat.
    Even through the screen separating them, his eyes were beacons in the rearview mirror. “I’ll bet this wasn’t the way you thought your evening was going to end.”
    â€œNo,” she admitted. Disappointment was draining her dry. The one true princess of the world had just died. Jane’s transformational summer was fading. And she’d nearly tossed her future away with a poor decision. A tear slid down one cheek, and she lifted the onerous bindings to push it away with the back of one thumb.
    As they drove away, passing her lonely red Honda, the radio erupted. A female dispatcher reported something happening on the 1200 block of Ortega, the sketchy side of town. Jane sniffed, telling herself to get over it. She had been given a reprieve. She was safe now.
    â€œI live over on Figueroa,” she said. “The Hillcrest Apartments.”
    â€œI saw that on your license,” he said. “I know where it is.”
    The night streets of Burnson seemed sinister and gray from the back of the patrol car. Was that fear, casting shadows over the town she’d grown up in? Oh, to get home and step into a hot shower, scrub away the funk of her crime. She would wash away her sorrows, slip into clean pajamas, and fall to her knees beside her bed to thank God for saving her from doom.
    Officer Dixon pulled the patrol car into the visitor’s spot in front of the building. “Now let’s do this quietly. We don’t want to disturb your neighbors. Is there anyone else home in your place?” he asked. “A boyfriend? Roommate?”
    â€œMy roommate is over at her boyfriend’s place.”
    Again, he put a hand on her head to help her out. This time, she felt his gaze sweep over her, down the length of her bare, tanned legs to her high-heeled sandals. It was awkward, getting out of a car in handcuffs, but when she straightened, his eyes lingered at the swell of her breasts. He was checking her out—definitely—and she enjoyed the slight shift of power, sensing that he liked what he saw.
    Cocking one brow, she held up her cuffed wrists. “Will you take these off now?”
    â€œInside.” He looked toward the building. “You don’t want to make a spectacle out here.”
    She led the way, watching the windows, which were mostly dark. With any luck her neighbors were asleep and missing this fiasco. When she paused at the door, Dixon reached into the purse slipping down her shoulder and found the keychain with its little red ball. He unlocked the