His First Surrender (Stonewall Investigations Miami 3)

I’ll be home for dinner. Going to get Hazel out of jail.

I set it down and was about to recap the pen before I quickly jotted down another line: Love you guys so much.

After the note, I topped off the three food bowls and called over Batty, Fatty, and Patty. They purred like charged-up lawn mowers as they dug in, completely and blissfully unaware of the total chaos that currently surrounded me from every single side.

I hurried out of the apartment and went straight to my car. Morning dew made the green grass glitter, wetting my ankles as I crossed over it. There was a heavy layer of condensation all across my windshield. I wiped a large streak of it away as I got into my seat.

It didn’t take me long at all to get to the jail. The FDC building was a large, imposing, and utterly lifeless concrete tower, with tall, narrow windows across every floor, none of them able to be opened, all of them covered in a silver sheen that stopped anyone from seeing in. The entrance of the building had a circular golden seal, just above the doors, with an eagle in the center of it, reminding you of the freedom that was lost behind those concrete walls.

Inside, there were very little touches of gold. Beside a golden handrail that resembled more of a copper color, there wasn’t any color. The walls were white, the tiles were white and black, the doors were gray, the window frames were a crusty off-white.

This was where Hazel had spent the night. In this lifeless warehouse of criminals and thieves and thugs. I could already hear the distant shouting of the inmates, and I wondered which one of those shouts was directed at Hazel. She was just like me; she hated conflict. Hell, I couldn’t even get her to play games with me because she even hated fighting online.

What was going to happen if I couldn’t get her out? How could I leave her in a place like this?

After passing through the security checkpoint, I walked up to the check-in window. An overweight and pimply-faced man wearing a dark blue polo shirt sat behind the thick glass, offering me barely a smile before he asked for my ID.

“Who are you here to see?” he asked, his eyes raking over my license.

“Hazel Rose.” And then I remembered. “She’s in the system under Paul Velasquez.”

The man—his name tag said Steven—glanced up at me with brief surprise before returning to my license.

“How does that even happen? Why is she here?” I blurted out. “Why wasn’t she taken to the Women’s Detention Center?”

“If her papers say male, she’s put with the males. I can’t change that, unfortunately. It’s a system, and the system is one hell of a beast.” He looked over the rim of his brown glasses and offered me an apologetic look.

Now it was my turn to be surprised. His sudden compassion was welcome, even though the truth hurt like a physical stab.

“All right,” Steve said through the speaker in the glass, his voice slightly distorted. “If you go down that hall and take a left, you’ll see the visiting room. I was able to get you a thirty-minute visit which won’t count against her four-hour monthly total.”

“Thank you.” I gave him a weak smile. What he said barely even registered until I was halfway down the hall. If worst came to worst, and Hazel was stuck here, then she’d only get four hours to see people on the outside? That totaled a whopping two days for the entire year.

I couldn’t even begin to imagine the toll that would take.

A boulder formed in the center of my throat. I swallowed it down as I entered the visitation room.

It was a musty-smelling place, with fluorescent lights and scattered tables with rickety chairs around them. It made me think of an extremely sad cafeteria, replacing the kids with adults, half of them wearing their light blue prison jumpsuits. I looked around desperately for Hazel’s face, not seeing her.

Then I felt a hand grab me by the elbow. “Sam!”

I spun around, and Hazel fell into me. I wrapped her into the tightest hug I’d ever given. Tears flowed, uncontrolled, into her hair. She still smelled like her favorite strawberry shampoo, even though it was fading, replaced by the smell of sweat and secondhand cigarette smoke.

“All right, go sit down,” the burly officer said behind her, his voice knocking us out of our moment.

We separated. I looked into my best friend’s eyes, seeing all her pain reflected back at me. Her mascara ran down from her eyelids in dried and blotchy serpent-like rivers, smudged under her eyes where she’d rubbed, some of it darkening her hands.

“Oh, Hazel.” My voice cracked, but I knew I had to stay strong. This wasn’t the moment to break down. This was just like hitting a boss encounter. I had to buckle down and stay strong because crumbling down into a ball and crying never defeated any Lich King.