Page 34 of Levi

He sighs a long, tired sigh. “I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead. I go back to the cell, sit on the floor with the wall behind me and wait.

Dante’s coming.

He said he’s on his way and he’ll be here. No doubt in my mind about that.

By the time they walk me out to the lobby, Dante’s already done with the paperwork. He’s at the front counter signing a page, and when the deputy slides another across and taps the line, he signs that one without reading it. Not even hesitating to put his name on a line that says he takes full responsibility for me, at least for tonight.

While he’s signing, I sneak a peek at him. For once, he’s not put together, wearing shorts and an old t-shirt. Hair he hasn’t touched, sneakers worn soft at the heel. Every other time I’ve seen him he was built to seal a deal. This one rolled out of bed and drove straight to a jail because somebody who needed him called.

No idea Dante came in this version.

He’s mad, though. He can barely look at me. His jaw’s tight and he doesn’t say a word. The deputy gives him the envelope with everything from my pockets in it and Dante hands it straight over to me without checking what’s inside.

We walk out to the lot. He unlocks the SUV, gets in, starts it, and the cold air comes on hard. I slide in beside him.

He doesn’t drive. He sits with both hands on the wheel and looks straight ahead through the windshield at the jail.

“Where’s your phone, Levi?”

“I told you already. Back at the house.”

“You left it there on purpose.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I think about lying and don’t. “Because it’s tracked.”

He takes a deep breath. I can see the questions stacking up in his head. Who? Why? And him fighting against asking the questions because asking would make the problem his. He loses the fight anyway.

“Who is tracking your phone?”

“Somebody who thinks they own me.”

It comes out more truthful than I mean it to. It’s too late and I’m too far past sober to dress it up. “Can we go to your apartment?” I didn’t mean to ask. The words just blurted out in a panic.

His hand stills on the gearshift. “My apartment? Not the house?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to come to my apartment in the middle of the night? With me in it?”

“I know it’s a lot to ask. I don’t want to go back to that house tonight. I hate that fucking house.”

“Why do you hate the house?”

“It’s freezing cold, I’m alone, and the furniture is uncomfortable.”

“The furniture’s Italian. It photographs better than it sits.”

He turns his body to look at me, while I stare at the patrol cars lined up in front of the building.

“Do you need to be back tomorrow by a certain time?” he asks.

“By ten.”