Page 14 of Claimed Through Deception

In his hand is a massive, rectangular brick wrapped tightly in thick layers of clear plastic and silver duct tape. He hands it down to the tactical officer. Then, he reaches back into the vent and pulls out a second brick, identical to the first.

He steps down from the stool, dropping the heavy packages onto my shattered kitchen table.

Miller walks over. He pulls a pocketknife, slices a small slit in the plastic, and dips the tip of his pinky finger into the white powder. He rubs it against his gums.

He looks at me, a cold, satisfied smirk spreading across his face.

"Looks like a couple kilos of pure cocaine, Marino," Miller says. "That's a lot of weight for a dive-bar waitress. What is this, intent to distribute? Trafficking?"

The floor tilts violently beneath me.

"No," I whisper, shaking my head frantically. "No, no, no. I have never seen that before in my life. I don't know how that got up there. I swear to God, it isn't mine!"

"Save it for the judge," Miller says, waving a hand. "Read her her rights."

The younger detective walks over, grabbing me by the bicep and hauling me roughly to my feet. My legs feel like liquid. I can barely stand.

"You have the right to remain silent," the detective drones, dragging me toward the splintered doorway. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

"Wait!" I scream, fighting his grip, digging my bare heels into the floor. "Listen to me! I was set up. You have to investigate. Ask for character references and check the cameras at the bar to see that I am always at work. You have to talk to my manager!"

Miller pauses in the doorway. He looks at me, his eyes dead and entirely devoid of empathy.

He knows.

I see it in the slight, twisted curve of his mouth. "You're a drug dealer, Marino. Case closed."

"I will fight this," I sob, the tears finally spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. The panic is a living, breathing thing clawing its way up my throat. "I have money. I have a lawyer fund. I'll hire someone, I'll prove you planted this—"

Miller stops. He turns around fully, stepping back into my space.

"You have money?" he asks, tilting his head.

"Yes," I say, a desperate, pathetic defiance clinging to the word. "I have my savings."

Miller reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a secondary stack of folded paperwork. He holds it up, waving it slightly in the air.

"I'm glad you brought that up," Miller says. "See, when we find two kilos of syndicate-grade narcotics in an apartment, we don't just arrest the suspect. We follow the money."

My breath catches.

"As of an hour ago, a judge signed off on an emergency civil forfeiture order," Miller states, his voice dripping with sadistic pleasure. "Every bank account in your name has been frozen. Every dollar you have saved is now classified as the proceeds of illegal drug trafficking. The state owns it. All of it."

The words hit me with the kinetic force of a freight train.

"No," I choke out.

"Your money is gone, Livia," Miller says softly. "Your lawyer fund doesn't exist. You have absolutely nothing."

The world simply stops spinning.

The bakery. The white subway tiles. The smell of the ocean.

Gone.

Ten years of bleeding. Ten years of starving myself, wearing shoes with holes in the soles, and counting crumpled one-dollar bills in the dark. Gone. Erased by a signature on a piece of paper. A hollow, agonizing wail tears its way out of my throat. It is the sound of a spirit completely breaking in half. My knees buckle again, and if the detective wasn't gripping my arm, I would have collapsed onto the floor.

"Get her out of here," Miller orders.