Getting released from Lincoln Heights PD was like escaping the world's worst escape room—no clues, no snacks, and your prize for winning is a criminal record. Sterling waved his legal wand, the judge set bail at a price you could find in a moderately offensive vending machine (thank you, spotless record), and suddenly I was free.
Free, except for the minor detail where I'd turned a vice principal into emotional sashimi.
Madison was waiting by her car, looking like a trust fund angel who'd taken a wrong turn on the way to Coachella. The second she saw me, she launched herself at me like we were in a Nicholas Sparks movie—if Nicholas Sparks had a chapter about felony assault and questionable morals.
"Oh my God, are you okay? Did they hurt you? Do you need anything?"
"Babe, relax. I'm fine. They don't torture teenagers anymore—it's bad for the Yelp reviews."
