“Can I help you?” I asked, and not in a nice way.
He spun to face me. “You must be Savannah,” he said. He tried to sound confident, but I heard uncertainty in his voice. Let him wonder, I thought.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” I glanced at my mom. She was sleeping. I wanted to go to her, needed to go to her, but the suit was standing in my way.
“I want to help you,” he said, and I knew immediately what he was. I almost kicked him in the nuts. I didn’t need help from some sleazeball ambulance chaser. Once the cops had the video, this case would be open and shut.
I waved my phone and told him to fuck off. “Dashcam, dickhead,” I said. “I have video. So you can leave now, we don’t need your help.” I didn’t actually have the video yet, it wouldn’t upload to my phone until I got the camera and synced them. But he didn’t have to know that.
I saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He had taken me for a helpless little girl, and I’d ruined his plan for an easy score. I thought for sure he would leave then, but he didn’t. So I pushed him harder. “We’re not hiring a lawyer who tailed us to the hospital,” I told him. “You’re wasting your time here.”
And then he said something I didn’t expect.
“How much do you want for it?” He must have seen from my reaction that I didn’t understand, so he added, “I’ll buy it from you.”
And then I realized I had gotten it wrong. Mr. Expensive Suit wasn’t a personal injury lawyer. He was a crook. There was only one reason someone would want to buy that video—they didn’t want anyone else to see it. The vulture didn’t want to profit off our tragedy, he wanted to cover it up.
My dad joined the marines on his eighteenth birthday. He loved to tell the story about how the recruiters came to his high school, on that day—the very first day he was eligible to enlist. He understood it to be “God’s will” that he sign up, and serving his country was his proudest accomplishment. Dad spent a lifetime fighting for what was right—in Afghanistan, then after he came home as a “big brother” to like a dozen messed up kids. He was so straight and narrow he wouldn’t even let me sneak soda into my water cup at McDonald’s, because “stealing was stealing,” and we didn’t do that. My dad was maniacal about doing the right thing. And look where that got him. Dead in the morgue, with barely an extra month’s rent in the bank.
I loved and respected my dad, but I didn’t want to end up like him. And he was not here to stop me.
I looked at my mom. She was resting, but with tubes jammed in her hand and one leg dangling from a sling, she looked anything but peaceful. My fear turned to rage. I wanted to punch him in his fat, smug face.
If there was a way to take this creep and his fancy Italian suit for everything he had, I would do it.
Which meant I had to get my hands on that dashcam.
Before Kellogg and his LAPD buddies did.
CHAPTER 16
His kiss took me completely by surprise.
I was gazing down at the tacos. He’d ordered one of each—six in total—including a vegan one that was just peppers and onions and not really a taco at all. There were two kinds of beef—carne asada and some type of steak. I had thought carne asada was steak, but apparently they are different. Then there was chicken cut in little cubes, shredded pork carnitas, and some fried, breaded nuggets they claimed were fish.
Logan had reminded me of our “date” the moment I walked out on the field. “We on for tacos?” he’d asked as I picked a spot to stretch. He was wearing a tight, black wicking shirt that hugged a chest so perfectly puffed out and firm it looked like two partially submerged volleyballs. I remember wondering if it was hairy. A little chest hair is sexy. But if it crept its way onto his back, that would be gross. I wanted to go out with a boy, not a primate.
I had told my mom “some of the girls on the team” were going out for tacos after workout, which was potentially true when I told her—I didn’t know for certain Logan hadn’t invited anyone else. And we were having tacos. I felt a little bad, abandoning her for dinner. I didn’t like to think of her eating alone. But she moved me to Calabasas so I would have a life, so I figured I should try to have one.
The taco joint turned out to be just a truck with some picnic tables around it. Most of the customers were Mexican. There was only one other gringo there, some guy with a guitar slung over his shoulder, who took his tacos to go. Logan ordered in Spanish, probably to try to impress me. I didn’t let on that I spoke it better than he did. I’d gotten pretty fluent talking to my old neighbors, and then of course took it freshman and sophomore years just to have easy A’s.