Free The Dollhouse Society: Margo by Eden Myles Page A

again. The police had caught the pickpocket.
    Malcolm went downtown to retrieve his lost property. The Chief of Police was there, and he treated Malcolm like royalty. For Malcolm, who had spent over ten years as a middleman, editing and marketing his way up the ranks, the reaction was strangely intoxicating.
    “If you want to press charges, we’ll send the bugger up the river. He already has a rap sheet a mile long,” the Chief informed him. His mouth was virtually watering at the prospects of sticking it to the kid.
    Malcolm gave it exactly three seconds of thought. He had always been a decisive man, the main reason he had climbed to the top of the dog pile in this town. He knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t afraid to go after it. “No,” he said, though he had no idea what exactly was prompting him to be so compassionate tonight.
    Maybe it was the promotion, the buoyant feeling of power he was experiencing, and the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind that with great power comes great responsibility, as clichéd as that sounded. Maybe it was just his upbringing—he had been raised by a single mother who had worked as a hotel maid for forty years to give him an education and a chance at a better life than she’d had. He felt he still owed his mother by doing something good for others.
    Whatever the reason, something about the situation bothered him. “No. I’d like to see the kid.”
    The Chief raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. “As you will,” he said and led Malcolm out into the holding cells.
    They had put the pickpocket in the drunk tank instead of the pen. Malcolm soon realized why.
    He was young, and rail thin, and poor, and ragged. A strong wind could have knocked him over, and he wouldn’t have lasted a minute at the hands of an angry New York rough. He looked cold in an Army surplus jacket that didn’t really fit his rangy limbs. His nails were black with grime and his knuckles broken and bleeding from the cold. His combat boots were full of newspaper. Malcolm immediately knew he had made the right decision.
    The kid gave Malcolm a wary look as the Chief let him inside the tank. Three other drunks lay snoring against the walls, but none of them stirred as Malcolm approached the boy sitting on the bottom bunk, scraping at the grime on his thumbnail.
    For Devon Grayson, Malcolm Sloan epitomized everything he hated in this world. The bloke looked bloody rich and arrogant, the typical New York Wallstreet type, forgettable in a crowd, of medium height and build, with brown hair professionally tousled and grey eyes. He was built solid, and doing the best he could with his negligible good looks, but he didn’t look especially dangerous. Still, Devon shrank back on the bunk as the man approached. He had learned through hard experience that looks could often be very deceiving. You couldn’t trust anyone, not even your old man.
    Malcolm offered the kid his hand and his name. “We weren’t properly introduced when you stole my wallet,” he said and Devon stared at the offered hand. Generally speaking, people avoided touching him unless they absolutely had to, or they were paying for it.
    “Whatever, gov,” Devon said dismissively.
    Malcolm blinked. The kid was giving him a bored, worldly expression, but his eyes told another story. He could tell the kid had been there. He was scared. And hungry. And bitter. Under all the grime and flippant bravado, the kid was frightened half to death that Malcolm would put him away, where he’d be roughly processed through the system and probably spend the next six months being violated by his cellmate. “You’re British,” Malcolm said in an attempt to calm the kid.
    “What difference does it make?” the kid asked. “You like dicking limeys?”
    Malcolm sat down beside the kid, who immediately inched away. “I’m just wondering why you’re so far from home. London, isn’t it?”
    “You some social worker?”
    “No.”
    “Then why the fuck to you