All the Little Lights(86)

“November sixteenth. Nineteen ninety-nine,” Elliott said.

“February second,” I said.

Detective Thompson snatched a pen from Mrs. Mason’s jar and scribbled down our answers.

“You had a birthday this weekend, huh?” the detective said.

Elliott nodded.

“Catherine?” Mrs. Mason said. “Do you know where Presley is? Have you heard from her?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Mrs. Mason.” Thompson said the words, but he waited for me to answer.

I tried to relax, to appear as confident as Elliott, but Thompson had already made up his mind. It felt more like he was expecting a confession than conducting an informal interview.

“The last time I saw her was after the game Friday night in Yukon,” I said.

“You traded words?” Thompson said.

“That sounds an awful lot like leading, Detective,” Elliott said.

Thompson’s mouth twitched again. “Kids these days,” he said, putting his muddy boots on Mrs. Mason’s desk. Some flat, dried pieces fell off onto the wood and the carpet. “You watch far too much television. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Mason?”

“In some cases. Elliott and Catherine are two of our best students. They show exemplary behavior as well as maintain impressive grade point averages.”

“You’ve seen Catherine quite a bit since her father died, haven’t you?” Thompson asked. He’d meant the question for Mrs. Mason, but his eyes remained on me.

Mrs. Mason stumbled over her words. “I’m sorry, Detective. You know I can’t discuss—”

“Of course,” he said, sitting up. “So? Catherine? You and Presley traded words at the ball game in Yukon?”

I thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think we did.”

“Madison seems to disagree,” Thompson said. “Isn’t that how you got to the game? Your friend Madison?”

“Yes, but I never spoke to Presley,” I said with confidence. “Madison responded to her a couple of times. She told her hi, and then . . .” I swallowed my words. Implicating Madison in any way was the last thing I wanted, and if Presley was missing, any hostility, even if it was warranted, would draw Thompson’s focus.

“Told her to eat shit?” Thompson asked. “Isn’t that what she said?”

I felt my cheeks flush.

“Yes?” he asked.

I nodded.

Elliott breathed out a laugh.

“Is that funny?” Thompson asked.

“Presley doesn’t get talked to that way a lot,” Elliott said. “So yes. It’s a little funny.”

Thompson pointed to me and then to Elliott, wagging his finger back and forth. “You two are an item, aren’t you?”

“Why does that matter?” Elliott asked. For the first time, he showed signs of discomfort, and Thompson zeroed in on it.

“Do you have a problem answering that question?” Thompson asked.

Elliott frowned. “No. I’m just not sure what it has to do with Presley Brubaker or why we’re in here at all.”

Thompson gestured to our hands. “Answer the question.”

Elliott squeezed my hand again. “Yes.”

“Presley has a history of bullying Catherine, doesn’t she? And you . . . you have a history of punching holes in walls.”

“Doors,” Elliott corrected.

“Kids,” Mrs. Mason said. “Remember, you can have an attorney present. Or your parents.”

“Why would we do that?” Elliott asked. “He can ask us anything.”

“There was a party after the game. Did either of you go?” he asked.

“I went with Sam,” Elliott said.

“Not with Catherine?” Thompson asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I didn’t want to go,” I said.

Thompson watched us for several seconds before he spoke again. “And why is that?”

“Elliott took me home, and I went to bed,” I said.

“You went home?” he asked, pointing at Elliott. “The night of his birthday? After a big win against Yukon? That’s odd.”

“I don’t go to parties,” I said.

“Never?” Detective Thompson asked.

“Never,” I said.

Thompson puffed out a laugh, but then he grew stern. “Did either of you see Presley after Friday night?”

“No,” we both answered in unison.

“What about last night, Youngblood? Tell me about your evening after football practice.”

“I walked around for a while.”

I looked at Elliott. He’d told me he had things to do between football practice and coming to my house. It didn’t occur to me to ask what he’d been doing at the time.

Thompson’s eyes narrowed. “Walked where?”

“Around my neighborhood, waiting for Catherine to settle in.”

“And why’s that?”

“I waited, and when I saw some movement, I threw a few pebbles until she came to the window.”

“You threw rocks at her window?” Thompson repeated, unimpressed. “How romantic.”

“I’m trying,” Elliott said with a small grin.