“Did you ask her about the evidence your father said he had to exonerate him?”
She nodded. “But either she didn’t understand, or she doesn’t know.”
“Or she wouldn’t tell you?”
“That’s possible, too,” Carlotta said. “She might not trust me.” What had Priscilla said? She doesn’t know you.
“Your mother is awfully young for dementia, isn’t she?”
“You would think so. But she’s certainly been through a lot—maybe the trauma triggered it.”
“Wow, that doesn’t bode well for you—” Hannah stopped. “Er, sorry—I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay. But promise me you won’t say anything to anyone about this, especially Chance. I have to find the right time to tell Wes, and while he’s under arrest doesn’t seem ideal.”
“Wonder what the shithead did this time?”
“I don’t know. I hope it’s something minor, like underage drinking.”
“But even something minor will violate his probation, won’t it?”
“You’re probably right. Maybe Liz can work her magic for him. She seems to have special powers.”
“When you spoke to Liz, did she have an update on your dad’s condition?”
“No.”
“Well, I thought you were cordial to her under the circumstances.”
“I haven’t been very cordial to Jack.”
“That ass-sack deserves whatever you dish out.”
“It was nice of him to come out here,” Carlotta said. “And to agree to meet me at the police station.”
“It’s the man’s job—he’s a cop. It’s not like he baked you a cake.” Hannah slowed the vehicle and put on the turn signal. “Wow. Guess they don’t call this Sin City for nothing—look at the size of that police station.”
The massive complex resembled a university more than a jail.
“You can let me off here,” Carlotta said, gesturing to a crosswalk.
“Okay. I’m picking up Chance. If he knows anything about Wes’s situation, I’ll pass it along.”
“Thanks. But remember, not a word about…the other stuff.”
Hannah pulled her hand across her mouth in the motion of closing a zipper—which would probably look good on her Goth friend, Carlotta acknowledged.
She climbed out and headed toward the central entrance of the horseshoe-shaped facility, lit up like a tourist attraction. She looked forward to the day when she wasn’t familiar with so many different incarceration facilities.
The lobby was jammed with bodies, people standing, sitting, and lying, waiting, she presumed, to see or be seen. A handful of uniformed officers walked around with clipboards answering questions, passing out forms, and generally trying to keep everyone in queues.
Across the teeming room she saw Jack and, God help her, everything was instantly better. He was talking on his phone, but gestured her over. As she approached his tall, muscular form, she snapped the pink elastic bracelet hard against her wrist.
He was putting his phone away when she reached him. “Hi. Another day, a different wig?”
She’d forgotten about the blond wig. “I thought you liked blondes, Jack.”
A corner of his mouth went up. “Touché. You look tired.”
She wanted to laugh, but didn’t have the energy. “It’s been a long day, and I guess the time change is getting to me.”
He nodded, and his face immediately turned serious.
Her pulse jumped. “What’s Wes done now?”
He glanced around. “I was hoping to find somewhere private we could—”
“Just tell me, Jack.”
The more he hesitated, the more worried she became. This wasn’t an underage drinking charge.
“There are a few charges, but the most serious is placing bets with counterfeit money.”
She blinked. “Is this a joke?”
“I’m afraid not. And it’s serious, Carlotta.”
“We deal with counterfeit money at the mall all the time. Anyone can get a fake twenty in the course of daily transactions—Wes probably didn’t even know he had a fake bill.”
“It wasn’t a fake bill or two. It’s over twenty thousand dollars in fake hundreds.”
She gasped.
“This is a big-time federal charge, under the jurisdiction of the Secret Service.”
She kept breathing, but there didn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the room to supply her body, which needed an influx to keep up with this new pinnacle of stress.
She had, it seemed, reached her breaking point.
“Carlotta.” Jack’s voice sounded distant.