not going anywhere.”
And those hands, those hands and that cold, hateful face—
Selina shoved the woman. Hard.
Hard enough that the social worker went careening into the table, chairs scattering.
Maggie screamed, and Selina whirled, fists up, knees bending.
Too slow. The mustached cop had risen to his feet. She didn’t have time to try to dodge before volts of pain tore through her. Before his leering, bloody face smiled as he dug a Taser right into her neck.
Agony barreled in—then the world tilted.
Then nothing.
* * *
—
The humming of the fluorescent lights was what awoke her.
Her tongue was a dry, thick weight in her mouth, her head a pounding mess, her body…
Sitting in a chair. Handcuffed to the metal table before her.
Precinct room.
Selina groaned quietly, surveying the space. Tiny. No one-way mirror. No speakers or cameras or anything.
She tugged on the cuffs linked to the table to see if they were secured.
They were.
Maggie—
The metal door hissed open, and Selina braced herself.
It wasn’t the blond social worker in her cheap suit. Or the cop who looked at her a little too long.
A tall, slim woman with night-black hair and skin like golden honey entered instead.
Selina had seen enough of the various businessmen who Falcone liked to associate himself with to know that the white pantsuit was high quality. And from her work with Mika, she knew that the simple, elegant gold jewelry at her neck and ears was real and expensive. The manicured nails, the silky sheet of hair cut into stylish layers, the full mouth painted red, were all markers that screamed money.
This was no social worker.
Those crimson nails tapped against a thick file in her hands as she approached the table and the empty chair before it. Selina’s file.
Not good.
“Where’s Maggie?” The words were a low rasp. Water—she needed some water. And aspirin.
“My name is Talia.”
“Where. Is. Maggie.”
Keeping her head upright took every bit of effort thanks to the Taser bruise that still radiated pain down her neck and spine.
“Your name is Selina Kyle, and you are seventeen years old. Three weeks away from being eighteen.” A click of the tongue as she slid into the metal chair across the table, opened up that fat file, and began flipping through the pages. The table was too long for Selina to see what the woman examined. “For someone so young, you’ve certainly accomplished an impressive amount.” Flick, flap, hiss. “Illegal betting, assault, robbery.”
Shame and pride warred through her. Shame for the fact that if Maggie ever heard this, the unvarnished truth of her crimes…Selina knew she couldn’t endure the look she’d see on her sister’s face. Pride for the fact that she had done this, had survived in the best way she could, had given her sister what she could as well.
But Selina managed to keep her voice cool, bored, as she replied, “I was never convicted of the last two.”
“No, but the charges are on here,” Talia countered, tapping a red nail on the paper. “What you will be convicted of in a matter of days is aggravated battery of two police officers and a state worker.”
Selina just stared at the woman from beneath lowered brows. No way out of this room—this precinct. And even if she did make it, then she’d have to find Maggie. Which would be the first stop the cops would make, too.
Talia smiled slightly, revealing too-white teeth. “Did the police give you those bruises?”
Selina didn’t reply.
Talia flicked through those papers again, scanning for something. “Or are those bruises and split knuckles from the fighting you do for Carmine Falcone?”
Silence. Leopards didn’t talk. Selina hadn’t the first two times she’d been here. She wasn’t about to now.
“Do you know what it means to be three weeks away from eighteen in Gotham City?” Talia leaned forward, resting her arms on the metal table. There was a slight accent to her words, some rolling purr.
“I can buy lotto tickets?”
Again, that hint of a smile. “It means you will be lucky if the judge tries you as a juvenile. It’s your third strike. You’re looking at bars no matter what. The question is whether it’s kiddie prison or the big girls club.”
“Where. Is. Maggie.”
The question was a roar in her blood—a screaming, thrashing demand.
Talia leaned back in her chair and slid a paper-clipped file toward Selina. “Your sister is at a group home. In the Bowery of the East End.”
Oh God. If their apartment complex was garbage, then the Bowery was the entire dump. The gangs in that area…Even