The train slowed to a stop. Leslie hurried toward the doors. Ash jumped up, grabbing her sleeve to try and stop her. “Wait! You can’t go back there,” Ash said.

Leslie offered Ash a sad smile. “Where else am I supposed to go?”

The train doors opened, and Leslie raced out, leaving a stunned Ash behind. She thought about following, but Leslie’s warning haunted her.

Ash sank back onto the bench. Was it possible they’d killed Eli? Were they capable of that? She couldn’t believe Nate would allow that to happen. She couldn’t believe he wouldn’t tell her. Ash’s heart ached as she considered the possibility that Nate might have betrayed her. Her entire body was trembling. The woman with the stroller was staring at her. “Are you okay?” she asked gently. Ash nodded, but she wasn’t okay. She hadn’t been this afraid in so long. Ash needed to think, but her mind was a jumble. A flicker of an idea appeared.

No, don’t do this, she told herself. The more Ash thought about it, the more she wanted something to numb the fear, something to help her think. She quickly grabbed her phone and texted, holding her breath, hoping her dealer hadn’t changed his number.

A few minutes later, he texted back. Hey stranger. What do you need?

Ash wasn’t going to use any of the hard stuff. All she wanted were a few pills, something to ease her nerves and make things a bit clearer. She confirmed their meeting place near the reservoir and closed her eyes, remembering Eli’s desperate cries for help, Leslie’s warning, Mo’s cartoonish smile, and Nate’s possible deception. There was no denying it, Ash was totally and utterly fucked.

BECCA

The sun was slowly setting, slivers of pink and orange peeking through the crown of palm and eucalyptus trees, bringing the purple bougainvillea to life. All of nature’s efforts couldn’t disguise the run-down housing project on the south side of Los Angeles. The LAPD cruiser’s sirens wailed as it turned onto a cul-de-sac. From the passenger’s seat, Becca watched as neighbors milled around, eyeing the first officers on the scene with the usual amount of suspicion and disdain.

“Dispatch said you know this family?” Sgt. Nina Stanton, asked, pulling up beside another cruiser, their ambers still flashing.

“Mother’s name is Yvette Parsons. Daughter is Raya. Twenty. Diagnosed with schizophrenia last year. Since then, Mom’s called us out on three separate occasions. Each time, Raya was hospitalized.”

“History of violence?” Nina asked.

“Self-harm. No history of hurting others.”

“That’s good news,” Nina said. “You know this call will probably take hours.”

“Guess I’ll have to cancel the facials,” Becca teased.

“Reschedule the mani-pedis,” Nina said.

Becca laughed, the two of them relying on humor to see them through the darker nature of their job. For the past eight years, Becca worked alongside the LAPD in conjunction with the Department of Mental Health. As a licensed clinical psychologist, Becca was part of the Mental Evaluation Unit. In this unit, a clinician like Becca was partnered with an armed patrol officer. They were dispatched to mental health crises involving a range of issues, including suicide, domestic violence, barricades, stalking, or any situation that required deescalating. In more severe cases, Becca and Nina were responsible for transporting people who posed a risk to themselves or others to the hospital. Though Becca wasn’t a police officer, she underwent tactical training when she was hired to ensure she knew what to do in case she was mistaken for an officer. This job wasn’t for the fainthearted. It was high stress and high pressure, but that was something Becca thrived on. She steeled herself. This job didn’t allow for distractions.