“The police are at my house. My probation officer, too.”

“Why?” From the whoosh of air into the phone, I knew he’d probably just shot to his feet.

My throat was so tight I could barely talk. “I dropped my phone at the nest on Saturday. My knife too.”

He cursed. “Drive away. Come here. We’ll figure something out. We’ll ask Raphael to—”

But Diane was already walking up the sidewalk, and the police detective, stocky and blond, his badge clipped to his belt, was on her front step. “Too late. I have to deal with this. I’ll call you when I can, if I can. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize—just tell me what you need!” he shouted, so loudly I had to pull the phone away from my ear.

I talked fast. “You’re in charge. If you don’t hear from me, patrol tonight without me. Look up the city’s emergency winter shelters and sniff around there, since they seem to be targeting the homeless. Patrol the parks. The homeless camps—especially the ones mentioned in that news article Henry showed us. And check on Tegan and the rest of them, all right? Monitor statuses on Facebook.” I gripped the phone so hard it creaked.

“I could come, now. To you,” he said. “I could—”

“Those are my orders,” I said sharply, unshed tears stinging my eyes as I watched the police detective descend the steps and come my way. I hung up on my Lieutenant and stashed the phone in my pocket.

Diane pulled my car door open. Her silver hair, usually in a tight bun, was haloed around her head, and her deep brown skin was creased with worry. “I saw what happened at your school this morning. And the school called. Where have you been?”

I got out of my car. The detective had stopped by his cruiser and was watching us. “Sorry. I was taking Tegan home. We saw the whole thing. What’s with the cop?”

“We’ve been waiting for you, baby. The detective said he wants to ask you a few questions.”

“About this morning?”

Her expression tightened, making all the wrinkles deeper. “They didn’t tell me why. I’m sure they’re just trying to check in with all the witnesses. Come inside, so we can sort this out.”

It was like my brain had been tossed in a blender as I followed Diane up to the house, passing the car I knew belonged to Nancy, my probation officer. I might be back at the RITS by this evening. Completely cut off. Caged. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted Malachi to come bursting through Diane’s front door and carry me away. But instead, I sat down in a wooden chair at the kitchen table and folded my hands in my lap, trying to look sad and confused and not at all scared.