Marked by Alex Hughes

seen him. He had to pull a double shift on no notice. What’s going on?” She sat back in the chair, seemingly tired and kind, but I knew better. If I didn’t have a good reason, she would roast me over the coals. Slowly. “You look like hell.”
    â€œKara called. There’s been a death in her family and she wanted me there,” I said, which was true but not the whole truth.
    â€œAnd Kara is . . . ?” Paulsen prompted.
    â€œRemember the Guild attaché who came down to help us with the Bradley case last August? We were engaged a long time ago. She’s helped the department more than once.”
    â€œAh. Chenoa. I’m sorry to hear about that,” Paulsen said. She sighed. “It’s not family. You can’t take unplanned leave if it’s not family. Those are the rules. You owe Clark an apology and at least a couple of double shifts to make up for his time loss earlier. You also owe me some pay—I’ll dock for the entire week.”
    â€œWhat?” I protested. It’s not like I got to see the money—the department handled my finances for me—but a whole week? “That seems out of proportion.” I knew I’d have to bring up the Guild at some point, especially if I couldn’t do the double shifts, but I didn’t know how to do it.
    â€œBe glad that’s all I’m doing,” Paulsen said. “The department is under extreme surveillance by the powers that be, and I am out of rope with you.” She paused. “Speaking of, the review board is less than two weeks away. Do you have your license?”
    I swallowed. The PI license. Great, not another thing. “Not yet.”
    â€œI told you to have a license prepared by now. Your Guild inquiry didn’t work out. What do you have?”
    I took a breath. “I’m in final stages of appealing. There was no reason for them to slow down the process in the first place. Legally, I have passed all the requirements. I have all of the filing paperwork for you to show if you need to.” It shouldn’t be this hard.
    â€œAppealing?” she said. “That means they denied you.”
    â€œI passed every test,” I said defensively. “I’ve jumped through all the hoops for the Second Chance Act. I’ve done the rehab. You yourself have mandated the drug testing. We have, what, three and a half years of records?”
    â€œCloser to four,” she said flatly. “They’re giving you issues about the felonies.”
    â€œWell, yes.”
    I could feel her pulling back a cloud of negative emotion, lassoing it, and setting it aside. Cops didn’t like felonies. They didn’t like felons. And me . . . well, mine were all drug related, and what I did made up for them. Mostly. On most days.
    Finally she spoke. “I hope for your sake that you get your approval. I warned you already, if you don’t have some kind of license going forward, the odds are that the review board will terminate your contract. That review is in two weeks.”
    â€œYou said you were going to stand up for my job,” I said very, very quietly. I’d fought tooth and nail to get here this morning at all. I needed this job. I wanted this job. And she’d promised.
    â€œI said I would do what I can,” she returned, and looked down at another pile of folders on the side of her desk. Cutbacks, likely, again. The county was cutting back far too much from far too many directions lately. As she put it, “real cops” were losing their jobs. What right did I have as a felon to be here?
    Obviously I couldn’t tell her about the Guild issue right now, not and keep my job. It was Friday—I had the weekend to figure this out.
    She was still waiting on me.
    I sighed. “I’ll get the certification. I will. I can’t promise timing, though I’ll do my best. I may need you to fill out a few