The holding cell was cold, the air stale with sweat and despair. Dana sat on the metal bench, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. The bag, the drugs, Caleb’s face—how smug he looked.
What the hell was happening?
She kept replaying the moment in her head. The way he’d pointed. How he hadn’t flinched. And now, hours later, no call, no lawyer from him. Nothing.
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