Read Online No Way Back (Mia's Way, #1) by Chloe Adams - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chloe Adams
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the car is here for you,” Paul, the butler, calls through my door.
“I’m almost ready,” I reply.
It takes me another ten minutes to figure out what to wear. I still don’t feel comfortable when I emerge from one of my closets in designer jeans, booties and a loose, light, long-sleeve sweater, the kind suited more for fall evenings than the balmy days at the end of summer. I slip on earrings, give myself a once over and leave my safe place.
The house is quiet as I trot down the stairs and out the front door. I’m all alone in the world, except for one of Daddy’s chauffeurs, who waits by the open door. I get in and pull my phone free, ready to call for help if something bad happens. The windows are tinted, but I still feel exposed. I pull my knees to my chest and watch as we roll slowly to the front gate.
The supporters part, and I gawk at the signs as we pass.
We love you Mia!
Death penalty for rape
Joan of Arc. This one had a picture of my battered face on it and an X drawn through a picture of some kind of pill. I’m not sure what this one means, unless they want to outlaw Rufis. It’s strange to see people in front of my house with positive messages. No one eggs the car or screams at it as we coast through the crowd. I twist to watch them out the rear window, smiling at the idea that there are people out there who don’t hate me for my Daddy’s politics. These people think I’m brave.
My smile fades. They’re totally wrong about me. I stare out the window, lost in my thoughts, until the car slows in front of a large building. I read the sign and freeze.
“I’m going to court?” I ask the driver.
“I’m not sure, Miss. Either there or the neighboring police station.”
I hadn’t noticed the police station next door and glance at it. My first thought is that I’m not dressed for court. My second, that I’m about to face Robert Connor. I start sweating. My hands shake, and I start to panic. I don’t get out. Chris appears from the doors at the top of the stairs and trots down to me, opening the car door.
“I don’t want to do this, Chris!” I say, inching away.
“You have to give them a statement about the fake ID.”
I blink. I’ve forgotten about the ID.
“That’s it?” I ask him.
“Yes.”
I blow out a breath and climb out of the car. He has his game face on. I can’t read him. I have no idea if he’s lying. Chris starts back into the building. I follow, arms crossed. We enter, and he leads me through quiet hallways lined with offices and conference rooms into a fancier part of the building. The offices get bigger, the hallway wider. My boots click on the marble floors in this part of the building.
He enters a room finally, and I hesitate. The room is crowded. There’s a judge in black robes at the head of the small, wooden table, a police officer with tons of stripes and medals, and a few other men and women in suits. I recognize two members of Chris’s team.
They all stare at me. I want to run. Chris motions to the fluffy chair beside him. I sit instead.
“The police would like to charge you for possession of a fraudulent ID and also identity theft. Apparently, the ID you had belonged to a woman named Julie Smith and was stolen,” Chris tells me.
I stare at him.
“Due to the circumstances surrounding the events of that night, the Office of the District Attorney and your attorney have come to an arrangement,” the judge says. He has a much kinder smile than I expect.
“Ms. Abbottt-Renou, I’m the DA, Eric Tenet,” another of the men in suits speaks up. “You will be booked, processed, charged and released. While you are in police custody, you will provide us all the details of where you got your ID, down to sketches, if deemed appropriate. Afterwards, the plea deal your attorney has agreed to will require you to attend counseling for alcohol and do a hundred hours of community service.”
“Your records will be sealed, since you’re a minor,” the
“I’m almost ready,” I reply.
It takes me another ten minutes to figure out what to wear. I still don’t feel comfortable when I emerge from one of my closets in designer jeans, booties and a loose, light, long-sleeve sweater, the kind suited more for fall evenings than the balmy days at the end of summer. I slip on earrings, give myself a once over and leave my safe place.
The house is quiet as I trot down the stairs and out the front door. I’m all alone in the world, except for one of Daddy’s chauffeurs, who waits by the open door. I get in and pull my phone free, ready to call for help if something bad happens. The windows are tinted, but I still feel exposed. I pull my knees to my chest and watch as we roll slowly to the front gate.
The supporters part, and I gawk at the signs as we pass.
We love you Mia!
Death penalty for rape
Joan of Arc. This one had a picture of my battered face on it and an X drawn through a picture of some kind of pill. I’m not sure what this one means, unless they want to outlaw Rufis. It’s strange to see people in front of my house with positive messages. No one eggs the car or screams at it as we coast through the crowd. I twist to watch them out the rear window, smiling at the idea that there are people out there who don’t hate me for my Daddy’s politics. These people think I’m brave.
My smile fades. They’re totally wrong about me. I stare out the window, lost in my thoughts, until the car slows in front of a large building. I read the sign and freeze.
“I’m going to court?” I ask the driver.
“I’m not sure, Miss. Either there or the neighboring police station.”
I hadn’t noticed the police station next door and glance at it. My first thought is that I’m not dressed for court. My second, that I’m about to face Robert Connor. I start sweating. My hands shake, and I start to panic. I don’t get out. Chris appears from the doors at the top of the stairs and trots down to me, opening the car door.
“I don’t want to do this, Chris!” I say, inching away.
“You have to give them a statement about the fake ID.”
I blink. I’ve forgotten about the ID.
“That’s it?” I ask him.
“Yes.”
I blow out a breath and climb out of the car. He has his game face on. I can’t read him. I have no idea if he’s lying. Chris starts back into the building. I follow, arms crossed. We enter, and he leads me through quiet hallways lined with offices and conference rooms into a fancier part of the building. The offices get bigger, the hallway wider. My boots click on the marble floors in this part of the building.
He enters a room finally, and I hesitate. The room is crowded. There’s a judge in black robes at the head of the small, wooden table, a police officer with tons of stripes and medals, and a few other men and women in suits. I recognize two members of Chris’s team.
They all stare at me. I want to run. Chris motions to the fluffy chair beside him. I sit instead.
“The police would like to charge you for possession of a fraudulent ID and also identity theft. Apparently, the ID you had belonged to a woman named Julie Smith and was stolen,” Chris tells me.
I stare at him.
“Due to the circumstances surrounding the events of that night, the Office of the District Attorney and your attorney have come to an arrangement,” the judge says. He has a much kinder smile than I expect.
“Ms. Abbottt-Renou, I’m the DA, Eric Tenet,” another of the men in suits speaks up. “You will be booked, processed, charged and released. While you are in police custody, you will provide us all the details of where you got your ID, down to sketches, if deemed appropriate. Afterwards, the plea deal your attorney has agreed to will require you to attend counseling for alcohol and do a hundred hours of community service.”
“Your records will be sealed, since you’re a minor,” the
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