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"Apparently, we've solved crime in Las Vegas," Ramirez mutters. "Nothing left but fake Prada."

I study the line more closely now and notice some men waiting in the lobby who look just as out of place as the women. Tailored suits. Watches that cost more than the average officer's salary. Designer loungewear that probably costs more than most suits. Some rush forward, wrapping their wives in protective arms. Others don't bother with comfort.

"What were you thinking?"

"Are you out of your mind?"

"This is humiliating."

Ramirez mutters, "Nothing like a felony charge to spice up date night."

I scan the women without interest. Until I seeher. She isn't crying. Isn't arguing. Isn't shrinking. She walks slower than the others. Her chin is lifted slightly. Not defiant. Not submissive. Observant.

One of the regulars in holding whistles low. "Well damn."

She turns her head. Looks at him. A look that could freeze any man's blood. She arches one eyebrow, and the effect makes the regular shrink back; even the bald tattooed guy next to him looks impressed.

Ramirez keeps talking. I don't hear him. Because that look—that spark—is not what I expected to see in a woman cuffed over counterfeit leather. For the first time tonight, I'm not bored anymore. Suddenly, she looks up. Like she feels it. Like she feelsme. Her eyes meet mine, and the world detonates. Not metaphorically. Physically. A silent, violent explosion rips through my chest.

My sister had mesmerizing eyes. One in a million. A rare gray that shifted like storm clouds, impossible to forget.

But this woman? Her eyes are molten. Green shot through with gold, like sunlight caught in deep water. Not bright. Not soft. Dangerous. The kind of green you see right before a forest fire takes hold. Wild and luminous and alive. Red hair frames her face in copper waves, mussed from processing. Not delicate red. Not strawberry. Burnished flame red. The kind that belongs in myths. For one impossible second, everything stops.

The fluorescent hum: frozen. The crying: suspended. Ramirez: muted. There are no holding cells. No movement. No people. Nothing. It's like we've both stepped through a tear in reality. Like the hallway has collapsed inward, and we're suspended in something vast, dark, and silent. A black hole.

Just her.

Just me.

And recognition.

Not memory. Not familiarity. Recognition. Like I've been walking through noise my entire life, and someone just struck the right frequency. One word detonates in my skull: Mine.

I have never wanted anything the way I want her in this second. Not money. Not territory. Not vengeance. Not even blood. Her. The wanting is immediate. Absolute. Violent.

Until she looks away.

That's when sound slams back into existence.

"—Audra!" A man's voice sounds out, sharp, nearly frantic. "Audra!"

She turns and rushes forward. An officer takes off her cuffs as she moves, metal clatters away like it was never important. She falls into the arms of a man who steps out from the waiting area.

I look at him. And feel nothing. Average height. Average build. Polished but forgettable. The kind of man whose face dissolves in a crowd. Bank haircut. Sensible jacket. He looks like a spreadsheet in human form. She, in his arms, is a wildfire pressed against drywall. It's like watching a peacock fold its feathers and pretend it's a pigeon. Like a rare, poisonous flower blooming in a plastic pot.

She is copper, flame, and sharp light.

He's beige.

Yet she melts against him.

"I'm sorry, Pete," she breathes. "I'm so sorry."

Pete. Figures.

He wraps his arms around her, patting her back awkwardly. "It's okay. It's okay."

She's apologizing. Apologizing! A woman like her should never apologize.