“You want me to get the fan?” I ask him,

“Nah,” he says. “It’s like a free sauna in here. If it’s good for the Swedes, it’s good for us.”

Still, I grab us both a soda from the upstairs fridge.

While we’re drinking them, I hear the bell chime at the front of the shop. New customer.

“I’ll get it,” I tell my dad.

I hurry up front, setting my soda down on the reception desk. We don’t have a receptionist—the desk is just there for show, and for when my dad tries to sit down and muddle through all the bills and receipts we should have organized as soon as we got them.

I see a man in a tight white t-shirt and a Cubbies cap, looking through our stack of classic car magazines.

He glances up when he hears me. I see that square jaw and tanned face, and the friendly smile.

Shit.

It’s Officer Schultz. I was so distracted with the truck and my dad that I totally forgot about him.

“Camille,” he says. “Nice to see you again.”

Wish I could say the same.

“Officer Schultz.”

“Call me Logan.”

I don’t really want to, so I just nod stiffly.

“You and your dad own this place?” he says, looking around.

“Uh-huh.”

There’s nothing fancy about our shop. It’s cramped, dingy, decorated in the saddest way possible with a couple old posters and a single ficus tree we never remember to water. Still, I don’t like his condescending tone or the way he’s shown up here like he’s marking territory in the only place in the world that belongs to me.

“You live in that apartment up above?”

“Yep.”

“And your brother Victor, too?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He goes to Oakmont?”

“Yeah. This’ll be his last year.”

“I went there,” Schultz says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The movement flexes his pecs under the tight white T. He didn’t wear his uniform to come see me. Maybe he’s trying to put me at ease. It’s not gonna work, and neither is his small talk.

“Yeah, me too,” I say.

“What year did you graduate?”

“2013.”

“Ah. I was ‘08. We just missed each other.”

“Guess so.”

My dad pokes his head out of the garage. “Need any help?” he says.

“No!” I say, quickly. “I’ve got it covered.”

“Alright. Call me if you need anything.” My dad gives a friendly nod to Schultz, not knowing that this dude is here to royally fuck with his kids’ lives. Schultz gives him a little salute in return.

I wait for my dad to leave, then I turn my unfriendly attention back onto Schultz.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” I say.

“Sure,” Schultz says, smiling easily. “Let’s do that. You were in possession of 114 tablets of MDMA.”

Fuck.

“I’ve logged the traffic stop and the acquisition, but the Chicago PD has some flexibility in making arrests.”

“What does that mean?”

He fixes me with those bright blue eyes, smiling pleasantly.

“Well, think of your drug charge as a debt. You owe the State of Illinois four years. But you’re not going to do anybody any good sitting in prison. In fact, you’ll cost the taxpayers a lot of money. So it benefits the good people of this state if you work off your debt another way.”

I don’t like the way he’s standing so close, looking down at me.

“How am I supposed to do that?” I say.

“Well . . . have you ever heard of a CI?”

Yeah. Like I said, I watched a lot of Law and Order growing up. I know about Confidential Informants.

“You want me to rat,” I say flatly.

“I prefer to call it ‘assisting the police in apprehending dangerous criminals.’ ”

Dangerous criminals who will slit my throat if they know I’m talking to the police.

“You ever heard the phrase ‘Snitches Get Stitches?’ ” I ask him.

He cocks his head to the side, looking me up and down though he can’t see shit through my coveralls.

“You ever heard the phrase ‘Don’t Drop the Soap?’ ” he says, his voice low and mocking. “I don’t think you’d like federal prison, Camille. The women there are just as brutal as the men. Worse, sometimes. They love when a pretty young girl gets thrown inside. It’s like chum in the water. They don’t even want to take turns.”

My skin crawls. I hate being threatened. And I’m especially pissed that he’s doing it over some baggie of bullshit party drugs. There are people murdering each other every day in this city. He’s gonna rake me over the coals because a bunch of rich kids like to get high and dance around to shitty music?

“What do you expect me to do?” I say, through gritted teeth. “Wear a wire or something? I don’t know any serious criminals. Just a bunch of idiots who like to get high. And we’re not even friends.”

“Where did the Ex come from?”

“Levi Cargill,” I say without hesitation. I’ve got no problem throwing that guy under the bus after he recruited my underage brother to sell drugs for him. “He lives on—”

“I know where he lives,” Schultz says.

“If you already know who he is, what do you expect me to do?”

“Get close to him,” Schultz says. “Find out where he gets his product. Find the names of all his dealers and suppliers. Report back to me.”

“I’m not Inspector Poirot!” I cry. “I don’t know how to do any of that!”

“You’ll figure it out,” Schultz says with zero sympathy. He hands me a business card. On the back he’s written his personal cell number.

“Memorize that number. Get used to calling it,” he says. “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

I stifle a groan. I would like this to be the most I ever see of Schultz. Or Levi either, for that matter.

“And what if I can’t get any more information?” I ask him.

“Then you go to prison,” Schultz says coldly. “And your brother, too. Don’t forget, he had product in his pocket. He’s old enough to be charged as an adult.”

I press my lips together to keep from snapping at Schultz. Vic and I are just tools to him. He doesn’t care if he destroys us, as long as he gets another tally in his arrest book.

“Memorize that number,” Schultz tells me again.

“I’ll put it in my phone,” I say. So I can make sure never to pick up when you call.

“Perfect. You got any more of those sodas?” Schultz says, nodding to the half-empty can on the reception desk.

“No,” I lie. “Fresh out.”

Schultz chuckles. He knows I’m lying.

“Nice to see you, Camille,” he says. “Let’s do this again real soon.”

I stand there with my arms folded until he leaves.

When I head back into the garage, my dad says, “What did he want?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Directions.”

My father shakes his head. “Tourists.”