“Pink coached me up,” someone said.
“He ain’t never gonna coach nobody up never again.”
Yet another locker door was kicked off its hinges.
“You—” Charlie’s voice cracked before she could finish. This was dangerous. Too dangerous. “Stop,” she said, then begged, “Please stop.”
They either didn’t hear her or didn’t care.
“Charlotte,” Huck said. “Don’t get into this. Just—”
“Fucking bitch.” The cop with his knee jammed into Kelly’s back yanked a fistful of the girl’s hair. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you kill ’em?”
“Stop,” Charlie said. Huck’s hand went to her arm, but she stood up anyway. “Stop,” she repeated.
No one was listening. Her voice was too timid because every muscle in her body was telling her not to insert herself into this buzz saw of masculine fury. It was like trying to stop dogs from fighting, except the dogs had loaded guns.
“Hey,” Charlie said, fear making her choke on the word. “Take her to the station. Put her in lock-up.”
Jonah Vickery, an asshole jock she knew from high school, snapped out his metal baton.
“Jonah.” Charlie’s knees were so weak that she had to lean against the wall to keep from sliding to the floor. “You need to Mirandize her and—”
“Charlotte.” Huck motioned for her to sit back down on the floor. “Don’t get into this. Call your dad. He can stop this.”
He was right. Cops were afraid of her father. They knew about his lawsuits, his public platform. Charlie tried to press the home button on the phone. Her fingers were too thick. Sweat had turned the dried blood into a thick paste.
“Hurry,” Huck said. “They’re going to end up killing her.”
Charlie watched a foot swing into Kelly’s side hard enough to make the girl’s hips leave the ground.
Another metal baton snapped out.
Charlie finally managed to press the home button. A photo of Huck’s dog filled the screen. She didn’t ask Huck for the code. It was too late to call Rusty. He wouldn’t make it to the school in time. She tapped the camera icon, knowing it bypassed the lock screen. Two swipes later, the video was recording. She zoomed in on the girl’s face. “Kelly Wilson. Look at me. Can you breathe?”
Kelly blinked. Her head looked like it was the size of a doll’s compared to the black police-issue boot that was pressing into the side of her face.
Charlie said, “Kelly, look into the camera.”
“God dammit,” Huck cursed. “I said to—”
“You guys need to stop this.” Charlie dragged her shoulder against the lockers as she walked closer to the lion’s den. “Take her to the station. Photograph her. Fingerprint her. Don’t let this blow back on—”
“She’s filming us,” one of the cops said. Greg Brenner. Another asshole jock. “Put it down, Quinn.”
“She’s a sixteen-year-old girl.” Charlie kept recording. “I’ll ride with her in the back of the car. You can arrest her and—”
“Make her stop,” Jonah said. He was the one with his foot pressed against the face of a teenage girl. “She’s worse than her fucking father.”
“Give her a bowl of ice cream,” Al Larrisy suggested.
Charlie said, “Jonah, get your boot off her head.” She trained the camera onto each man’s face. “There’s a right way to do this. You all know that. Don’t be the reason this case gets tossed.”
Jonah pressed his foot down so hard that Kelly’s jaw was forced open. Blood dribbled out where her braces had cut into her cheek. He said, “You see that dead baby over there?” He pointed up the hallway. “You see where her neck got blowed off?”
“What do you think?” Charlie asked, because she had the little girl’s blood all over her hands.
“I think you care more about a fucking murderer than you do about two innocent victims.”
“That’s enough.” Greg tried to grab the phone. “Turn it off.”
Charlie turned away so she could keep filming. “Put us both in the car,” she said. “Take us to the station and—”
“Give me that.” Greg reached for the phone again.
Charlie tried to feint away, but Greg was too fast. He snatched the phone out of her hand and threw it to the ground.
Charlie leaned down to retrieve it.
“Leave it,” he ordered.
Charlie kept reaching for the phone.
Without warning, the point of Greg’s elbow cracked against the bridge of her nose. Her head snapped back, banging into the locker. The pain was like a bomb had gone off inside of her face. Charlie’s mouth opened. She coughed out blood.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Charlie cupped her hands to her face. Blood poured from her nose like a faucet. She felt stunned. Greg looked stunned. He held up his hands as if to say he didn’t mean it. But the damage had already been done. Charlie staggered sideways. She tripped over her own feet. Greg reached out to catch her. He was too late.
The last thing she saw was the ceiling spinning over her head as she hit the ground.
Charlie sat on the floor of the interview room with her back wedged into the corner. She had no idea how much time had passed since she’d been hauled off to the police station. An hour at least. Her wrists were still handcuffed. Toilet paper was still shoved up her broken nose. Stitches prickled the back of her scalp. Her head was pounding. Her vision was blurry. Her stomach was churning. She had been photographed. She had been fingerprinted. She was still wearing the same clothes. Her jeans were dotted with dark red splotches. The same pattern riddled her Duke Blue Devils T-shirt. Her hands were still caked with dried blood, because the cell where they had let her use the toilet only had a trickle of cold, brown water coming out of the filthy sink faucet.
Twenty-eight years ago, she had begged the nurses at the hospital to let her take a bath. Gamma’s blood was seared to her skin. Everything was sticky. Charlie had not completely submerged herself in water since the red-brick house had burned down. She’d wanted to feel the warmth envelop her, to watch the blood and bone float away like a bad dream fading from her memory.
Nothing ever truly faded. Time only dulled the edges.
Charlie let
