An older cop with a grayed mustache slides into the driver’s seat. He shuts out the chaos, and the car is hushed again. He taps on the screen near the steering wheel. “Sorry about the cuffs. We have to treat you like the others.” His brown eyes meet mine through the rearview mirror. “We can’t let anyone know you’re the informant. You understand?” I nod once. “Yeah.” “We’ll have to book you.” I blow forward. “I need to be with her at the hospital. I can’t be stuck in a holding cell—” “It’s important that no one in your family knows you drew us here. It’d put you at risk, and that’d put the
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