AVERY’S POV:
My gaze dropped to the black loafers placed at the foot of the bed. Functional, basic—just another part of my life that screamed, "borrowed." Sliding them on, I winced as the stiff leather rubbed against the bruises and cuts on my feet. Every step I took hurt.
The loud knock on the door startled me before I could investigate the tattoo any further. The two officers were impatiently asking me to come with them. They barely gave me time to gather my drugs before ushering me out of the room.
The hospital corridor felt like a tunnel, narrow and endless as we walked toward the exit. Outside, a gray police car waited by the curb. One officer, the taller of the two, pulled the back door open for me.
“Right this way, ma’am,” he instructed.
I hesitated. Something about the
