Call It What You Want(85)

“Just like last spring. I know.” I burst out of my chair and head for the stairs.

“Get back here!” my father thunders.

He’s never yelled at me like that. Not even last spring. Tears are in a free fall on my face now. I sprint up the stairs.

I’m about to go into my room, but Samantha is in her doorway.

“Megs,” she whispers. She steps back and holds her arms wide.

I don’t hesitate. I fly into her arms and hold on, as my sister closes the door behind me, locking our parents out.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Rob

When Dad tried to kill himself, I was questioned by the police, but it happened in my living room, and it was done with an air of sympathy.

Today, there’s no sympathy. I’m in a jail cell, sitting on a metal bench, staring at a gray wall. I’m not alone, but the other guy is pushing fifty, and he looks less eager to talk than I am.

We’ve been in here for hours. The room smells like a combination of vomit and urine and bleach. I’m tired and cold and starving. They took my picture, asked me some questions, and locked me in here.

I wonder if they called Mom. I expected to be taken to some kind of juvenile detention center, but one of the cops laughed and said, “When you do big-boy crimes, you do big-boy time.” I don’t know exactly what that means, but I’m guessing it means I’m being treated as an adult.

None of this seems fair. I was putting the earrings back. I wasn’t even going to admit the theft, but I stupidly thought somehow that would excuse me from breaking into their house.

I was wrong.

On top of it all, I can’t shake what I overheard. They can lock me up forever, but it won’t change the truth.

Connor’s father is just as guilty as mine was.

I tried to tell the cops what I overheard, but they exchanged glances and sighed and ignored me.

I’d ignore me, too. I have no proof. Nothing. A conversation I barely overheard bits and pieces of. It means nothing.

To them. It definitely means something to me.

The man across the cell shifts his weight and sighs. I understand the feeling. Fear and adrenaline and fury battled for space in my brain when they locked me in here, but they’ve long since settled into my bones. A sleeping lion, waiting to consume me.

There are no windows in here, and they took my phone. Nothing but a row of bars separating us from a narrow hallway, with a locked door at the end. I don’t even know how much time has passed.

I wonder if that’s deliberate. A torture method.

I wait.

I wait.

I wait.

The worst part is that I don’t really know what I’m waiting for. If I’m an adult, will I be allowed to see my mother? I get an attorney at some point, right? Will I have to go to prison? How does bail work? Where would Mom get money for that?

I swipe suddenly sweaty palms across my thighs.

Eventually—an hour later? A minute?—a loud buzzing sound echoes through the cell, and the door at the end of the hallway opens. We both turn to look as an officer comes through.

He looks at me and makes a come here gesture with his hand. “You’re out, kid. The family isn’t pressing charges.”

I almost choke on my breath. “I’m what? I’m out?”

“Yep. Let’s go.”

“Take me with you,” says the middle-aged man. It’s the first thing he’s said to me since we were locked in together.

I don’t say anything to him. I spring off the bench and make a beeline for the officer. Relief has bled through all the anxiety, and I practically want to give the guy a hug. I’m jittery with adrenaline again, but this time for an entirely different reason. I wonder if Mom is here to take me home.

The police officer leads me back through the doorway and into the main part of the police station. My eyes find a wall clock, which tells me that it’s ten o’clock in the morning. I’ve been here almost twelve hours. I expect everyone’s eyes to be on me, like they were after my father put a gun to his head, but they’re not. Maybe breaking and entering isn’t as exciting as white-collar crime.

The officer stops at the front desk and hands me an envelope that holds my cell phone and my keys and my wallet. My cell phone has gone dead. Fantastic.

“That’s it?” I say.

“That’s it,” he says. “You’re free to go.”

I stand there dumbly. Do I ask them to call me a cab? I don’t have any money. I can’t exactly walk home from here.

A man in the waiting room stands and approaches the desk. I’m so wrapped up in my own drama that I don’t pay him any attention until he stops in front of me and says, “I’ve talked to your mother. I told her I’d give you a ride home so she doesn’t have to leave your dad.”

Bill Tunstall. He looks smug and well rested.

Every muscle fiber in my body freezes in place.

The officer behind me chuckles and claps me on the shoulder. “You’re a lucky kid. If I broke into a friend’s house when I was a teenager, I think they all would have let me sweat it out a little longer.”

Lucky. My tongue won’t work.

I want to bypass theft and commit a murder right here. A flicker of thought makes me wonder if I can grab the cop’s gun.

Bill’s eyes are fixed on mine. There’s no love lost there. This isn’t a kind gesture.