“No, sir. I was found.”
“Found?”
“Yes, sir. Under a bridge.” A little flustered, I amended, “...Overpass. Registered as a ward of the state, January 13, 1984. Status transferred August 19, 1984. Adopted. Carl and Mia Taylor. Birth parents unknown.” I hesitated after my usual litany, feeling every eye in the room on me now. “My blood’s been verified. About a hundred times now, sir...”
The clerk continued to frown at me.
I glanced around at all the other house-arrest criminals, like me, who sat on the scuffed benches or on metal chairs in the white, featureless room. Some of them were probably coming down off more deadly forms of domestic violence charges, statutory rape, petty larceny, drug dealing, assault, identity theft...God knew what else.
But I’m the freak, because of something I had no control over. Something that happened before I’d worn diapers. Well, that and the occasional homicidal freakout regarding cheating boyfriends...apparently that was a thing of mine now, too.
The thought made me feel tired.
My grandmother warned me once that nothing in life is ever secure. No matter how stable, boring or predictable the different components of your life may seem...everything can be gone with a single bad decision. In my case, it was a very bad decision.
One I still couldn't quite believe I'd made.
Now, not only had I lost my boyfriend of six years, in about the most permanent way I could have managed it, I'd made myself into a violent criminal.
I wasn't the only one in shock at what I'd done. My brother still couldn't believe it. He didn't come out and say anything––well, at least not now that he’d finished giving me the third degree and going through my apartment looking for drugs––but I could still see it in his face. He just couldn't believe I'd done something that, well...crazy.
My mom, as per usual, was pretty much in denial. She fluctuated between blaming the alcohol (I hadn't been drunk) and saying everyone just kind of lost their shit now and then, that I should just learn from it and not do it again.
Yeah, great advice, mom.
The thing is, I’d been pretty sure me and Jaden would get married at some point, have kids, do the whole domestic thing...so when I found out I’d been replaced by the newer, sluttier model, I didn’t take it very well.
I kind of went nuts, I guess.
Looking back on it now, it felt almost like I’d become a different person. A person I didn't like very much, truthfully.
Now I had a tracker on me. One of those GPS numbers I had to wear on my wrist, and occasionally explain to customers at the diner where I worked. According to the State of California, I wasn’t going anywhere for awhile.
Which was too bad, really. After everything died down and I faced the fact that I was on my own again, I wanted nothing more than to leave town...take a nice long sabbatical.
But the man at the podium was talking again, so I forced my mind back to him.
“They weren’t able to track down birth parents?” the clerk persisted. “Through DNA records? Through medical records? Those were all international by then, weren’t they?”
“No, sir,” I said. “And yes, sir...they were.” When the clerk continued to stare at me, I felt my face flush. “Is this strictly relevant?” I said. “I’m going to be late for work.”
“Place of employment?”
I felt my jaw tighten.
To avoid glaring at this pompous jerk maybe, and just escalating things, I glanced around at the other people waiting with me in the courtroom instead.
A big, biker-looking guy covered in tattoos winked at me, folding massive arms across his leather-clad chest. The big guys always liked me for some reason. Maybe because I’m smallish for my age.
Then I saw the other guy.
Starting a little when I saw his pale eyes on mine, I stared back at him briefly, then forced my gaze back to the front of the room. He looked the same as he always looked.
Tall, even sitting down. Strangely silent. Focused. Weird eyes.
Those were the first words that popped into my head, anyway.
Jon and I had dubbed him Mr. Monochrome. With his black hair, pale skin, light eyes of some indeterminate color, the nickname seemed almost funny to us at the time. He even wore a black jacket, as if the contrast of his skin and hair wasn't quite enough.
I took another breath, just as the clerk’s voice sharpened.
“Place of employment?” he repeated.#p#分页标题#e#
“Lucky Cat,” I said. “It’s a diner on Divisadero.”
“Other sources of income?”
“Freelance.” At the clerk’s quizzical look, I explained, “I’m an artist. I do tattoo designs for Fang’s on Geary. Also Gorilla Joint, up on Haight...”