Free No Way Back (Mia's Way, #1) by Chloe Adams

ask.
    “Yes.”
    I take a deep breath and nod. The two older men leave, and Dom sits on the bench.
    “Full name,” the booking officer says, staring at the computer.
    “Mia Elizabeth Abbottt-Renou,” I reply.
    “That’s quite a mouthful,” the officer says. “Take you long to learn to spell it?”
    I don’t realize she’s telling a joke until she smiles.
    “Hey, hero!” someone calls cheerfully, walking into the booking area. “Need your autograph.” The lanky cop walks up to Dom, who grins. He signs some paperwork.
    “Relax,” the booking agent tells me, taking my hand.
    I look down to see my hands are shaking. I will them to be still, but they won’t obey. She grips them securely and inks then rolls my fingertips one by one across a small screen. I watch as they pop up on the computer screen over her shoulder.
    Dom and the other officer are joking back and forth, their easy rapport nothing I’ve seen before, outside of Ari and me. As long as I can see him, I don’t feel like panicking and running for the car, screaming. Because that thought is in the back of my mind, along with the one that’s waiting for Robert Connor to appear suddenly. I’ve been outside my house once since coming home for a check-up with the doctor.
    The booking officer takes my pictures with a digital camera then types into the computer. I watch her, reading my file over her shoulder. She has a lot of pictures of me, many from the hospital. I can’t look at them and step away, feeling overwhelmed again.
    I look at Dom, who’s watching from his seat on the bench. He pats the spot beside him. I sit down.
    “Watta?” he asks.
    “What?”
    “Water?”
    I laugh. “Your accent.”
    “Brooklyn taxi driver?” he asks and shakes his head. “I’m from Jersey.” He rubs the top of his buzz cut. His smile is slightly crooked, his olive skin and thick, dark eyebrows and hair indicating his Mediterranean background. He looks Italian or Greek with dimples in his cheeks that only appear when he smiles. He’s so low-key, unlike the high-strung interns about his age that dart around my father’s offices like they’re always late.
    I like talking to Dom. He even smells good, like earthly cologne and shower gel.
    “I don’t know the difference,” I say. “What’re you doing in DC?”
    “My mom moved here a couple of years ago to be near Johns Hopkins. We kids followed. One of my sisters works at a woman’s shelter in town and another is a nurse. My big brother is a cop like me and the youngest in high school,” he explains. “Serving the community runs in our family. Dad was a cop killed in the line of duty in New York City.”
    I’m not sure what to think. I’m accustomed to not trusting anyone, because Daddy always says people will use me to get to him. Or put me in the papers to humiliate him or the family. I don’t know what to say to Dom’s honest answers. I haven’t had a real conversation with a stranger – other than Dr. Thompkins – in years.
    “We’re finished, Dom,” the booking officer says.
    “Alright. Thanks, Kelly.” Dom stands. He offers me a hand and pulls me up. “You need anything to drink or eat?”
    “No,” I say. “I’m just nervous about … this.” I wave my hand around. “I’ve never been in trouble before.”
    “It’s been handled,” he assures me. “Your attorney did good.”
    I don’t doubt it. Daddy wouldn’t keep Chris around, if Chris wasn’t the best.
    “We’re going to an interview room,” Dom says. “The DA is gonna talk to you for a bit.”
    “Okay,” I say. I trail him down the hall, taking in his frame. He’s bigger than Robert Connor-the-quarterback. Dom is build like a linebacker. I can see him sacking Connor in a football game, and the image makes me happy.
    The DA is waiting for me in a room very unlike the one we were in. This one has all white walls, except for one with a mirror I assume is a two-way mirror after watching all those cop shows on TV.