Lines of Defense

Ch. 10

AMELIA HART

I'm not ashamed to admit it—I'm a crier. Maybe not the kind of tears you'd expect from a prosecutor with a struggling career, but here I am, sprawled on my couch, stuffing my face with popcorn as I bawl my eyes out over a melodrama. Or at least I tell myself that's what the tears are for. It's the kind of show that hooks you with ridiculous plot twists, but when the main character's long-lost twin reappears, how can you not cry?

The bag of popcorn is nearly empty, kernels scattered on the blanket over my legs, when my phone starts buzzing on the coffee table. I glance at it.

Ethan.

Again.

I roll my eyes, wiping at my cheeks with the back of my hand. I ignore the call. I'm off duty, dammit. If he thinks I'm going to drop everything because he's probably about to gloat over his latest case, he's got another thing coming. But the phone doesn't stop buzzing.

It goes off once, twice—five times before I pause the show, glaring at the screen as if Ethan can somehow feel my irritation from wherever he is.

What the hell does he want?

On the sixth call, I finally snatch up the phone and press the answer button harder than necessary.

"Why won't you leave me alone?" I say sharply, eyes still puffy from crying. "Do you ever give up? Will you only be happy after I block your number?"

There's a split second of silence, like he wasn't expecting me to actually pick up, and then he speaks, unexpectedly calm. "Where are you?"

I blink. "I'm at home," I snap, still annoyed by the constant interruptions. "Now stop bothering me, Ethan, for God's sake—"

Something flutters in the corner of my eye, and before I can even process what it is, there's a sudden rush of wings. The popcorn in my hand spills all over the couch as I let out a high pitched scream. The thing—a cockroach—is flying right at me. It lands on my thigh, and I launch myself off the couch, phone forgotten as I wildly swat at it, knocking the blanket to the floor in the process.

My heart races as I scramble to put distance between me and the offending insect, still yelling at the top of my lungs like it's trying to kill me. In my panic, the phone slips out of my hand and clatters to the ground.

"No, no, no," I gasp, hopping from one foot to the other as the cockroach skitters across the floor. I grab a shoe, aiming poorly as I fling it at the creature, and it misses by a mile, thudding against the wall.

Just as I lunge for the phone, still panting from the ordeal, the screen flashes, showing the call has been disconnected.

Oh, crap.

I close my eyes for a second, trying to calm my breathing, but my nerves are still on high alert. Ethan's probably freaking out on the other end of the line now, but in my defense—no, I can't justify this.

Cursing under my breath, I pick up the phone again.

I'm staring at the screen, debating whether I should call him back or just let it go. My hand hovers over the phone for a second too long before I decide against it. The last thing I need is to hear his arrogant voice droning on about how I can't just drop a case or, worse, him pretending to care.

Instead, I flop back onto the couch, unpausing the melodrama. Crying over fictional characters is so much easier. At least their world is predictable, no pompous defense attorneys constantly upending their life. But my peace is short-lived. Just as the show pulls me back in, a loud bang echoes through my apartment—a heavy pounding on the door, followed by a voice shouting, "Hart! You in there?"