Thicker Than Water (6 page)

His eyes flick toward the mirror on the wall. I’m not stupid. I know it’s a two-way mirror—I just don’t know who’s on the other side.

His gaze returns to me, but it’s more appraising now. “I don’t know.”

“Pretty precise timing, don’t you think?”

He frowns. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m wondering if this was a setup to get me back in jail.”

Stan sighs a little, like he hears this kind of thing from perps all the time. “The police don’t work like that.”

“Do they randomly stroll through the cemetery?”

“Tom.” His tone is a warning.

I point at myself. “Is it police procedure to punch someone in the face?”

I don’t know who’s on the other side of that mirror, but they don’t like me asking these questions. I can almost feel the irritation through the glass.

Maybe Stan can, too. He’s looking at the mirror on the wall behind me.

“One of them punched you?” he says evenly.

“No, I did this shaving.”

His eyes snap back to mine. “I’m serious. Did one of them hit you?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal.”

“Is it a big deal to set someone up? Because that’s what this feels like.”

Stan’s voice is tired. “There was no setup, Tom.”

“Whatever.” I flick my hand. No one believes me. No one cares about me. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

“There wasn’t a setup.” Stan’s eyes hold mine. “Those weren’t cops patrolling the cemetery. The police officers who found you are Charlotte’s other brothers. They were coming to check on her because she hadn’t eaten lunch.”

Her brothers. Now I understand the punch. “Do you have your gun on you, Stan? Why don’t you just shoot me and save them all the trouble?”

He sighs.

I shove out of my chair and turn to face the glass. “Are you in there?” I yell.

No one says anything, but I know they are. “Why didn’t you all just shoot me in the woods?” I yell. “I’m such a danger, right? It wasn’t enough to drag me out of there once. Can’t have the murderer visiting his own mother’s grave—”

My voice breaks, and I almost collapse. The grief hits me hard and fast, more painful than a bullet. My hands press into my stomach, as if I’ve been shot and I need to hold my intestines in.

I don’t even realize my eyes are shut until Stan’s hand is on my shoulder, and he’s guiding me back to the chair.

The room is so silent that the fluorescent lights tick overhead.

It’s so silent that when someone shouts from the other side of the mirror, I have little trouble making out the words.

Of course.

My cheeks are wet. I held it together in the jail cell, when I was alone, but here, in this fucking fishbowl, my emotions are on full display. It’s humiliating, but maybe they can’t tell. I keep my hands down, because wiping my eyes would make it obvious.

“I want an attorney,” I say to Stan. The words are thick, but I manage to keep my voice level. “Just leave me alone and bring me someone who can help me.”

Stan doesn’t respond. The tears are drying on my cheeks, but some made it all the way to my collar. I duck my head to wipe my face on my shoulder, and the chain of the handcuffs rattles.

“I can help you,” says Stan.

“You don’t want to help me.”

He acts like I didn’t respond. “It might take me an hour,” he says. “You need to sit tight.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t even look at him. Stan feels like the enemy now. I don’t trust him.

“No more shouting at the window,” he says, his voice very quiet. “Get me? Not another word at all.”

He sits there for so long that I know he’s not going to move until I respond.

I look at him. “Fine. Whatever.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.

 

It doesn’t take an hour.

It takes three.

By the time he comes back, I’m irritated and starving and sitting on the floor of the tiny room, leaning into the corner. The lights have given me a migraine. My shoulders ache, and my wrists are sore from being held together for so long. I can barely feel my legs.

“We’re out of here,” Stan says. He throws a windbreaker on the table. “Get up. Let’s go.”

I blink up at him. “What?”

“I’ll take the cuffs off. Come on. You’ve got to be hungry. I am.”

“Wait. They’re letting me leave?”

“Yes.” He sounds irritated about it. “Move it before they change their minds.”

I move it.

He leaves the handcuffs on the table, then holds up the windbreaker. “Put this on.”

I take it from him. It says POLICE across the back in bright yellow letters. “Why? Is it still raining?”

He looks aggrieved. “Just put it on. We’ve got to run the gauntlet.”

I have no idea what that means, but lack of food doesn’t leave my brain too sharp. I slide my arms into the sleeves, and Stan takes my arm as if to escort me.

“I can walk, Stan.”

“Put the hood up. I want to make sure you keep walking. Don’t talk to anyone. Just walk, straight to the car. Ready?”

Every cop in this place probably knows who I am. “What’s with the big—?”

“Don’t talk. Walk.” He jerks the hood up. The entire jacket is too big for me, and the hood hangs over my face a bit.

I feel a little giddy. Maybe I’ve fallen asleep and this is all a dream. “You’re not, like, breaking me out of here, are you?” I whisper.

He gives me a withering look. “Walk, kid.”

The police station is busier than it was earlier, but no one really pays attention to us. The hood of the windbreaker cuts down my vision, making me feel like a horse with blinders on. I keep trying to peek around.

“It’s change of shift,” Stan says, his voice low. “Just keep walking.”

“You’re not—”

“Shh! Not a word.”

His voice is so tense that I wonder if he really
is
breaking me out of here. I clamp my mouth shut and walk.

Before I know it, we’re through the first set of double doors, and we’re in the little vestibule before pushing through the heavy fire doors into the outside air. Pamphlets about spousal abuse and drug rehabilitation line the walls. There’s a flyer for a family day at the local fire department. The small area is blessedly silent and free of people.

I breathe a sigh. “That wasn’t worth all the drama. No one even looked at us.”

“It’s not cops I’m worried about,” he says. “You’re allowed to leave. I’ll give you the details when we get home.”

“Then what’s with the cloak and dagger?”

“This.” He pushes the door open, and my world explodes with light and noise.

CHAPTER SIX

I
’m on house arrest. I’d prefer a jail cell. Or even the hospital, for god’s sake. At least there they wouldn’t be checking on me every fifteen minutes.

My mother actually sent me to bed. It’s not even seven o’clock at night, and I’m stuck in my room. You’d think I was twelve years old and got caught sneaking out with the local bad boy.

The thought sticks in my head. Aside from the whole insulin shock, that’s a pretty solid description of what happened.

No. It’s not. We weren’t sneaking. We weren’t hiding. We aren’t romantically involved.

I was walking beside him pretty closely. I can still smell him, some faint mix of sandalwood and sage. When he took his jacket off, he was more built than I expected. The suit hid some real muscle.

His voice was rough and bitter, but there’d been grudging respect under his tone. Remembering it throws a blush on my cheeks.

I was blushing in the hospital, too, and I couldn’t get my cheeks to knock it off. Matt wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. His voice could have cut ice. “We’re trying to convict this kid of murder, and you were out swooning all over him.”

I was
not
swooning. I was falling. Distinct difference.

I was ready to fire back at Matt, but then Ben said, “We thought you were dead, Char.” He swallowed. “When he carried you out of the woods—we thought he was carrying a body.”

The fear in his tone stole the fight from me.

I pace the floor again, wrestling with boredom and agitation. My insulin levels are fine, now. I don’t need to be in bed at seven o’clock. Like a
toddler
.

They can’t honestly think I’m sleeping up here, but there’s nothing else to do. My mother never let me have a television in my room, saying it creates distance in the family. Danny has a television in
his
room, and when I bring it up, she says, “Danny is an adult, earning a living. He bought that with his own money.” Then I ask if I can buy a television with
my
own money, and I get a glare. I should tell her he watches porn on it.

Yes. That’s exactly what I should do.

My cell phone chimes, and I leap on it. I’d sell a kidney for a smartphone, because at least then I’d have Internet access and some way to entertain myself. A text message is almost as good.

It’s Nicole. My best friend.

About time, since I’ve sent her twenty texts without a response. I told her everything that happened, but I haven’t heard anything back. I knew I just had to wait until the dinner hour was past—her parents don’t allow any “techno-gadgets” at the table.

My fingers fly across the keys.

What? I’m on the news?

I look around my room like a television has somehow appeared on the corner of my dresser.

My phone vibrates in my hand. Nicole is calling.

I have no idea if my parents will come up here and confiscate it if they hear me on the line, so I answer as quietly as I can.

“Hello?” I whisper.

Nicole’s voice is low and ironic. “Oh, sweetie, I told you to take that picture off Facebook. Now your boobs are all over the news.”

“What picture? What’s going on?”

“The picture from the lake. The one where you’re in that purple tankini and a life jacket. You need to turn on the television.”

What? I know the picture she’s talking about. It’s from last summer, and I’m half sunburned. Why is it on the news?

“Are you watching yet?” Nicole says.

“I don’t have a television in here!” I hiss.

“I don’t care. Find one. Climb out your window and watch your neighbor’s.”

I open my bedroom door and peek out. The hallway is hushed. Danny’s door is closed, but that could mean anything. If it was open, I might have tried to sneak in there to watch, but closed . . . I mean, he really
could
be watching porn.

I hear running water and dishes clinking downstairs. Mom must be cleaning up from dinner. My father always watches television after dinner, so I’m sure it’s on, but he usually avoids the news. Thank god.

OMG. If my grandmother sees me in a bikini on television. . .

Nicole is still feeding me the play-by-play. “Now they’re showing some guy being dragged out of the police station. What a fox. Is this the guy you texted me about?”

My brain decides to kick into gear. Is there a story about me and Thomas on the news? I need to find a television.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “What’s going on now?”

“He’s being dragged across a parking lot. They’re saying his name is Thomas Bellweather. Do you think they’re taking him to prison? Maybe you could offer him a conjugal visit.”

Only Nicole would think about sex with an accused killer at a time like this. “I can’t even leave my bedroom. Pretty sure he’s going to be sleeping alone.”

“
That’s
all that’s stopping you? Being grounded? You mean you’d offer him a conjugal visit if you
weren’t
in trouble?”

Heat hits my cheeks before I can stop it. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.”

Then I stop. What is
wrong
with me?

I ease my door closed and go back into my room again. “What’s happening now?”

“He’s being shoved into a car. It’s a circus. Are you sure something else didn’t happen at that funeral?”

My text version wasn’t too specific, but I can’t imagine anything about our interaction in the woods that would have generated a media circus. “Is it a police car?”

“No. Just a sedan.”

That doesn’t mean it’s not a police car. If I could see it, I could tell. I wonder if he’s being moved to a more secure facility. “Is he in handcuffs?”

“No. Doesn’t look like it. Is he a cop? He’s wearing a POLICE windbreaker.”

“No. He’s not. Who’s with him? Do you recognize them?” We’ve been friends long enough that she knows most of my brothers’ friends and some of their colleagues.

“No,” Nicole says. “Whoever it is, he’s not in uniform. Older. Forties, maybe. His lawyer?”

If Thomas isn’t in handcuffs, that probably means he’s not being held. He got out. I thought
for sure
my dad would have him on death row by Saturday.

Okay, not really. But I didn’t think Thomas would be walking around town anytime soon.

“He’s free,” I whisper.

“He’s being chased by news vans. Not sure that counts as ‘free.’” She stops abruptly, and the line goes silent.

“Nicole?”

Nothing.

“Nic? What’s happ—?”

“Shh!”

I shh.

“Sorry,” she finally says. “I wanted to listen. Apparently he’s not being charged at this time. Oh, and he’s filing a harassment complaint.”

“Shut. Up.” Danny is going to give birth to a large, mooing cow when he hears about this. Right in the middle of our living room. Matt will probably be doing the same thing across town. I can see it coming.

“The police have declined to give a statement,” Nicole says.

“Of course.”

“Oh, look, your picture again. At least you’re fully clothed in this one.”

I still don’t understand why I’m featured in Thomas’s story. “What are they saying?”

“They’re totally lifting all of these from the Internet. I don’t know why they even bother crediting Facebook, like Mark Zuckerberg took the photo himself—”

“Nicole! Oh my god!
What are they saying?!
”

“Oh. That he . . .” She falls silent.

She. Is. Killing. Me.

“What?” I demand.

Her voice is less animated. “That he lured you to a secluded area and attacked you.” She hesitates. “You didn’t tell me that, Char. I didn’t know he hurt you. I didn’t mean to make a joke about a conjugal visit.”

Nicole is crazy, but she has the biggest heart of anyone I know. She’s probably realigning all her thoughts so nothing involves sex in a prison cell and is now envisioning stroking my hand while I weep into a pillow.

“No. Nicole. That didn’t happen. I didn’t eat lunch. It was hot, and I didn’t pay attention to the signs. My sugar got too low, and I collapsed.”

She doesn’t say anything. The line is silent.

“Really,” I insist. “There was no assault.”

“They said he lured you.”

Breath leaves my mouth in a heavy sigh. “I’ll explain.” And I do. It takes a minute or five.

When I’m done, I can tell she’s imagining conjugal visits again.

“He
cried
?” she says softly. “He must be so sensitive.”

“No. That’s not the right word for him. And he was trying
not
to cry.”

“What is the right word?”

I don’t say anything. How to describe Thomas?

I think of his fist wrapped around the rock, propelling it across the creek to crack into a tree. The indignant fury in his voice when he talked about Danny.

I lick my lips. “He’s different.”

“In a good way?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yet,” she says.

My mother would kill me if she could hear this conversation. Thank god we’re not on the house phone.

But I agree with Nicole.

“Yet,” I whisper. “I don’t know
yet
.”