Time to Steal by John Gilstrap

strong. Ironclad. They had fingerprints, a positive identification from a witness, and a perpetrator with a past record of armed robbery and murder.
    He wanted it to be impossible, but it was entirely feasible that Brad Ward could have done this. If Nicki had even been in the same car, that would mean an accessory charge at minimum.
    It was all too big to wrap his mind around: his daughter—his only child—sentenced for a crime committed by a boy she hardly knew. Surely, a jury would show leniency under those circumstances. Maybe not. Would it matter? If the North Carolina courtrooms were as packed as their New York counterparts, it could take a year or longer for the case even to arrive on the docket. Given Nicki’s out-of-state status and the seriousness of the crime, the prosecutor would undoubtedly oppose bail. Carter would have if the roles were reversed.
    For Nicki, every scenario equated to life without parole.
    Carter tried to think of the right thing to do. The kids were bound to be caught. If not today, then certainly this week. The search was just too hot for it to be otherwise. People might not care about teenage runaways, but they cared a whole hell of a lot about teenage murderers.
    He needed to talk to her, counsel her on what her next move should be. As if he had any clue what that was.
    The right thing would be to turn herself in and hope for the best. But was it the reasonable thing? If he were in her position, is that what he would do, or would he try to preserve every moment of freedom?
    How was a person supposed to wade through such terrible options and come up with any kind of rational—
    The chirp of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. Reaching into his suit coat pocket, he checked the number on the display, and when he didn’t recognize it, he nearly ignored it, but then pushed the connect button anyway. “Carter Janssen.”
    â€œDaddy, it’s me.”
    The sound of Nicki’s voice startled him. He shot a panicked look to all compass points to see who might be listening. “Nicki, are you okay?” He settled his tone. This was a time to be cool, a time to chat as if he were hearing from an old friend. “Where are you, honey?”
    â€œDaddy, I’m in so much trouble. You need to help me.” She was crying, but not hysterical.
    â€œI know, sweetie,” Carter said. “Just tell me where you are and I’ll come right there and get you.”
    â€œI’m so sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to . . . I’m so sorry.”
    â€œThat’s all right, honey. Whatever happened, there’s a way to fix it. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
    â€œYou don’t understand, Daddy. Somebody’s been killed. In a little town in North Carolina—”
    â€œEssex. Yes, I know. I’m there now. I know what happened. I know who you’re with, and I know that you never would have been the one to pull the trigger. Your friend Brad did that. I know. But if you—”
    â€œNo, Daddy, it’s not like that. He—”
    â€œListen to me, Nicki. I think there’s a deal to be made here. If you cooperate and turn Brad in—just tell me where you are—then I think a judge would be swayed—”
    â€œNo, Daddy!” This time, the urgency in her voice cut him off in mid-sentence. “We didn’t shoot anyone. Someone else did. He wore a mask and he had a red shirt on. A sports shirt with a number on it. He came into the store, pulled a gun, and when Brad tried to stop him, the guy shot the clerk. He shot Chas.”
    Carter wasn’t buying it. “Honey, I know you think you love this boy, and I know that you’re trying to cover for him—”
    â€œNo, Daddy! Listen to me! He didn’t do anything.”
    â€œNicki, your fingerprints are all over that store. Bloody fingerprints, at that. You can’t—”
    â€œOf course they