The Outliers (The Outliers, #1)(42)

“Mmm,” the sergeant says without looking at the other officer. Like he doesn’t necessarily approve of where this conversation is going, but doesn’t disapprove enough to stop it.

“One of them stuck a damn fork right in another one’s eye.” The weasel points two fingers toward his own eye, then jabs them at Jasper’s and mine. “Some damn argument about Peeps. You know, those stupid little bunnies? Fork in the eye for a freaking marshmallow. EMTs said the guy was so high he didn’t even know there was a fork sticking out of his face.” He laughs, full on. Like this is hilarious. “Guy kept on talking the whole time.”

The sergeant finally glares at him. “You got somewhere to be, Officer O’Connell?”

“Not really,” the weasel says, eyes still on us. “Not unless I can go back to kicking your ass at Bullshit.”

“Then go pretend,” the sergeant says.

“Okay, boss man.” Officer O’Connell holds up his hands and grins some more. And I wonder if he could be high himself. He’s having an awful lot of fun. With his hands still raised, he whistles low and long, spinning on a heel and heading for a door at the back of the station. He pauses before he reaches it, grabs a piece of paper off a desk nearby. He crinkles it into a ball before winging it at the head of the other officer, the one who still has his back turned to us.

“Two points!” Officer O’Connell calls.

The paper ball bounces off the other officer’s head. But he easily catches it in midair and tosses it into the garbage can at his feet. Like it’s something he’s done, and that’s been done to him, a thousand times before.

The sergeant exhales, loud and annoyed. “You got to excuse Officer O’Connell. He’s, well, him.” He shakes his head, like that’s all the explanation we should need. “But he’s not making up the bit about the fork. You may not want to hear this, but if your friend is here, meth is almost surely the reason. Doesn’t even mean she’s not a nice kid. That garbage has ruined a lot of decent folks.”

Meth. This time the word sinks into me. I knew about the drinking, and Cassie being arrested for buying pot isn’t even that much of a shocker. But meth? It’s like comparing a fender bender to an eighteen-car pileup. But it also doesn’t feel totally impossible either. Not nearly as impossible as I wish it did. It would definitely explain her not wanting to tell us what was going on. Would explain someone like Doug wanting to keep us away from whatever crack den they have her in. And meth sure would have kept Cassie skinny.

“It could be meth, I guess,” I say quietly.

“What?” Jasper whips in my direction, eyes wide. “Cassie doesn’t do meth. What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m not saying that is what’s going on. But I can’t swear it’s not. Can you?”

And in that moment, all I want is for Jasper to say that he does know for sure it’s not meth. That he has proof. But instead, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, rests a fist down on the counter.

“I can’t say anything for sure anymore,” he says quietly.

I look back to the sergeant. The other younger police officer—the one the weasel beaned in the head—has finally gotten up and is making his way over. He’s surprisingly good-looking, with thick black hair and deep-set brown eyes. But there’s something a little wounded about him. Strange for someone so good-looking and tall. Weird for a policeman.

“This is Officer Kendall,” the sergeant says. “He spends a lot of his time cleaning out the users, combing through the mess they leave behind.” It’s kind of insulting the way the sergeant says it, like Officer Kendall is literally on garbage duty. “Your friend say where she was? There’s spots we can check, but there’s a lot of them. It would save time to have a place to start.”

“Camp Colestah?” I say.

The sergeant glances over at Officer Kendall, who still has not spoken. The two nod knowingly to each other. “Colestah’s a popular spot,” the sergeant goes on. “Shelter, privacy—what more could a junkie want? They are like rats. We chase ’em off and they keep coming back and coming back. But you and O’Connell did a pass-through earlier today, didn’t you? It was clear?”

Officer Kendall frowns and nods, glances back the way O’Connell has gone. Yeah, but with him, who knows, the look says.

“Might be worth a second look,” the sergeant goes on. “Most of the other camps are pretty well secured. They learned fast, hired people to live on site in the off-season. Caretaker kind of thing. But the Wynns, who own Camp Colestah, have been gone so long—I warned their lawyer the place will be destroyed soon. They’ll never sell it.” The sergeant checks his watch. “I’ve got to head out. But Officer Kendall here will take another ride up there, check for your friend.”

But there is still something off about the way he says it to Officer Kendall. Like there’s a you know what to do under his actual words. Rats or not, why are the meth addicts so sure that Seneca is such a safe place to set up shop? Is somebody—like maybe the meth dealers—paying the police to look the other way?

I watch Officer Kendall head back to his desk for his keys. And I’m already thinking about how I’m going to feel afterward, once he reports back that there’s nothing up at Camp Colestah. I’m not going to believe he even looked. I don’t trust these police officers, period.