Chapter 2
RAJAN’S NEW PROBATION officer is creeping him out.
Her smile hasn’t wavered since he walked in, even when he propped his muddy shoes on her desk and took a candy from her jar without asking.
She doesn’t even look like a probation officer; in that ankle-length, baby-blue dress and long blond hair tied in a low ponytail, she could be in a preschooler show with stuffed animals, singing songs about sharing. Instead, she’s threatening him.
The most unnerving part is that she’s smiling so widely while doing it.
Like they’re picnicking, instead of discussing how he can be dragged back to court, and then jail, if he breaches any of his probation conditions.
Of which there are many. She’s reading the list in her Eastern European accent, and he gets the sense she’s learning it along with him.
His case was passed off to her when he returned to Kelowna.
Report as directed to your youth probation officer.
Do not have or use weapons.
Do not use any drugs or alcohol.
Do not operate a motor vehicle.
Rajan reclines his chair onto the rear legs, looking out the window at the downtown skyline. Part of him can’t believe he’s back here. The town he left at the end of high school.
Have no contact with the people the court has specified.
Attend community service as the court has specified.
Be on good behaviour and keep up the peace—
Rajan removes the toothpick from his mouth. “A lot of conditions,” he drawls, interrupting her and basically violating the last condition in the process. “I have some follow-up questions. Like, who’re you again?”
She beams, unfazed though he’s asked this question twice already. “Katarzyna Mackewicz. But call me Kat.” She extends her hand for him to shake. Rajan looks back to the window.
“Next question. Why’d you have to bring alcohol into this? I wasn’t even drunk when I was arrested.”
“I did not set these conditions. The judge did.” Kat lowers her hand and flips through her notes package, presumably still digesting all the messed-up details of his history.
Bored, Rajan flicks his toothpick in the trash (he always keeps a supply on him) and reaches for another piece of Kat’s candy instead.
The jar is next to a framed photo of a younger Kat with a small boy.
He shares her creepy smile. Must be a relation.
“I have some questions, too,” Kat says. “Any drug use lately?”
He rolls his eyes. “Obviously not, dude.” When Rajan was arrested, he apparently had THC, coke, and fentanyl in his system.
He couldn’t claim surprise about the first two, but that last one had been a shock.
Or at least, Rajan told himself it was a shock.
Part of him knew the high that day was different—clearly, the friend who’d been raving about the “purity” of his supply was talking out of his ass.
Anyway, the judge wasn’t impressed either, so on top of everything else, Rajan isn’t allowed to have any fun for the next four months.
“And how’s the job?” Kat asks.
It’s no coincidence Kat went from drugs to his new job at a local roofing company.
She definitely knows what happens there.
Rajan shrugs, repressing a wince from the pain in his shoulder.
Swinging a hammer for hours can do that.
Even the foreman noticed; Rajan thought he was going to tell him to take more breaks, but instead he offered to pay him under the table for overtime work. Rajan wasn’t about to say no.
“Well,” Kat says after a pause, “I’m glad we got a chance to talk.” She closes his file. “You can go after we sign those papers at Hillway.”
That’s the Attend community service probation condition.
Rajan was given several options, and Hillway seemed the least mind-numbing.
But apparently, he has to sign something before he starts that basically says he promises to be nice to his mentor.
The honour system for criminals? He finds it funny, but sure.
Rajan follows Kat out of the office. There are three others in the waiting room. She waves to them. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Sit tight!”
Nobody responds; they’re riveted by the TV. Rajan gets the surprise of a lifetime when he sees his old drug dealer’s mug shot on-screen. Perry? No way. But there he is, with his ratty beard, massive eyebags, and the scar above the left side of his scowling mouth.
Rajan hangs back to listen to the news anchor.
“...seizure of illicit drugs including several kilograms each of fentanyl, methamphetamines, cocaine, and numerous firearms. Five people with suspected ties to the gang known as the Lion’s Share face charges of drug trafficking and firearms offenses.
Among them: a car dealership owner and an accountant from a well-respected Kelowna firm.
Police say this was the result of an extended investigation and is a huge win against the drug trade in the Okanagan region of BC. ”
They show all the mug shots side by side, and Rajan laughs under his breath. The fact that he recognizes every single one probably doesn’t say much good about him.
“Come along, Rajan!” Kat trills from the elevator. He finally makes himself move.
The car is crowded. People eye him warily, seeing that he’s coming from the corrections floor of this government building.
Rajan offers a smile he hopes looks off-kilter, and stands with Kat.
As the doors close, he notices a Punjabi auntie leaning against the opposite wall.
He vaguely recognizes her. Probably from his childhood, a time when his family actually participated in their community.
The auntie makes eye contact with him. Manners his mother drilled into him spring out without conscious thought. “Sat Sri Akaal, Auntie ji.”
People look his way, then away when they realize he’s not speaking English. The auntie blinks. But then she smiles tentatively. “Sat Sri Akaal, putt. I’m trying to remember your name...Rajan, right?”
“Yes, Auntie.”
“Oh, you’re all grown up now,” she coos in that way aunties do. “So tall, so handsome. You must be in university.”
Why do people always think more school must be the next step after high school? He barely got out of that hellhole. “No, Auntie. I’ve just been living in Surrey.”
“Ah. Down south. But why not school? Are you taking time off?”
Something in him sours, right then. The smile is a lie.
The warm voice, the compliments, all lies.
She knows he’s not going to school. Of course she knows about him—there’s enough gossip.
And she saw him come from the corrections floor.
She’s trying to get more details, to give her something else to gossip about.
Well, fine.
Rajan looks around the crowded elevator before switching to English. “I was in jail for the last six months, if that counts. I ran over a guy and killed him. But, I’m happy to be back.”
He finishes with a wink. The auntie’s expression is priceless. As is the dead silence of the whole elevator.
Kat’s the only one still grinning. “What a nice purse! Where’d you get it?
” she asks the lady beside her, who is not-so-discreetly shielding her handbag with both arms. No response, but Kat seems unfazed.
When they reach the main floor, she’s the first out, whistling out of tune. “Off we go, Rajan!”
He follows without looking back.
Hillway House is across the street. The sidewalk is slushy, the last late snowfall of the year melting in the light April rain. They wait at the curb for a vehicle to pass.
It’s an ice-cream truck. Kat’s whistling is drowned out somewhat, thankfully, by its music. Who’s getting ice cream in this shit weather, anyway? Rajan glances through the windshield. Does a double take.
The driver is staring at him.
He’s just some random white guy. Rajan doesn’t know him, and their eye contact lasts only a moment before he looks back at the road. But something feels...off.
The truck passes, splashing slush onto the curb. Its song fades. The entire encounter lasts less than two seconds, but Rajan’s suddenly hit with the urge to run.
Kat doesn’t notice. She’s already crossing the street. Reluctantly, Rajan follows.
Hillway House is crammed between a bakery and a fabrics shop.
A middle-aged, brown-haired dude waves from the door, then ushers them into his office.
It’s only slightly bigger than the elevator, and plastered with inspirational posters.
“I’m Paul,” he says. “Your new mentor isn’t here yet, but that’s okay.
We can get started on the paperwork...You must be Kat! ”
Rajan tunes out the introductions. They all sink into hard-backed chairs, and he only jolts back to alertness when he hears the ice-cream truck’s music again. He sits upright and looks out the window. Within seconds the truck passes again.
Most people wouldn’t get antsy when an ice-cream truck starts circling the block, but Rajan has only survived this long because he’s paranoid. It can’t be a coincidence. Right? He didn’t expect them to find him so fast. He’s only been back in Kelowna a week and a half.
There’s a knock on the office door. Paul and Kat stop talking.
“There she is,” Paul says. “Come in, Simran!”
Because Rajan’s staring out the window, it takes him a second to process the name. By the time he does, the door’s already opening. No. Surely that’s not—
He turns to look. And it is.
The way his heart rate skyrockets, you’d think someone just pulled a gun on him.
Simran Kaur Aujla looks almost exactly the same as the last time he saw her, the end of high school nine months ago.
Right down to the wire frames of her glasses.
Dressed in her usual way: a shapeless maroon turtleneck, straight-leg jeans stuffed into laced boots.
And of course, that glossy, thick braid that falls to her knees.
He looks back at her face and finds her brown eyes locked on his.