All the Little Lights
Page 61
“Do you think it’s about Maddy’s car?” Sam asked. “Maybe they got caught and want to talk to her about it?”
“Didn’t you see Mrs. Mason’s face?” Elliott said. “Whatever it is . . . it’s bad.” He reached down, sliding his fingers between mine.
Second and third hour came and went. After class, I expected Madison to be at my locker, talking so fast about whatever they’d taken her to the office for, her words barely audible. Elliott, Sam, and I waited at my locker, but Madison never came.
“She’s still in the office,” Sam said.
That was when I noticed the tears, the somber faces, some even looking afraid.
“What the hell is going on?” Elliott asked.
Sam pulled out his cell phone. “I’m texting Maddy’s dad. He should know what’s going o—”
Mr. Saylor passed us, giving Sam a strange look before disappearing around the corner.
“He’s going to the office,” Sam said, putting his phone away.
“I’m going,” I said.
“Catherine, no,” Elliott said, but before he could finish his sentence, I had already closed my locker and was following Mr. Saylor.
Mrs. Rosalsky seemed panicked the moment Elliott, Sam, and I walked in. She stood, holding out her hand.
“Catherine, you should go. You too, Elliott. Sam, go with them.”
“Where is Maddy?” I asked. “Mrs. Mason came for her two hours ago. We just saw her dad.”
Mrs. Rosalsky lowered her chin, meeting my gaze. “Catherine, go. They’ll call you in soon enough.”
“Miss Calhoun,” a man said, stepping out of Mrs. Mason’s office. Madison followed him out with her father, looking horrified.
“What’s going on?” Elliott asked.
“I’m Detective Thompson,” he said, shaking Elliott’s hand. He eyed us with his bulging blue eyes.
“Nice to meet you,” Elliott said, nodding once before peering around to see Madison. “You okay?”
Madison nodded, looking small behind her father.
Detective Thompson wore a dark, worn suit, his Western boots wet from a weekend of rain. His wiry gray mustache made him look more like a cowboy than an officer of the law. “Since you’re both here, why don’t you step into Mrs. Mason’s office?”
I looked to Elliott, searching for an answer in his expression. I hadn’t a clue what was going on, but Elliott seemed unfazed. He took my hand, leading the way. As we passed, Madison’s eyes expressed a dozen warnings. Her hand brushed over mine and Elliott’s as she left with her father, silently wishing us good luck.
Mrs. Mason was standing behind her desk, gesturing for us to take the two chairs that sat in front of it. We did, but Elliott kept hold of my hand.
Detective Thompson stared at our interlaced fingers as he sat in Mrs. Mason’s chair, clasping his hands behind her nameplate.
“Do you know why we’ve brought you in here today?” Thompson asked.
Elliott and I traded glances and then shook our heads no.
“Presley Brubaker didn’t come home last night,” Thompson said matter-of-factly.
I frowned, waiting for the words to make sense, for the detective to explain.
“She ran away?” Elliott asked.
Thompson’s mouth twitched. “It’s interesting you’d say that, Elliott. No one else I’ve spoken to seems to think so.”
Elliott shrugged. “What else could it be?”
The detective sat back, as calm and collected as Elliott. They were staring at each other in a sort of standoff. “I’ll need your birthdates. Let’s start with Elliott.”
“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.
“Didn’t you see Mrs. Mason’s face?” Elliott said. “Whatever it is . . . it’s bad.” He reached down, sliding his fingers between mine.
Second and third hour came and went. After class, I expected Madison to be at my locker, talking so fast about whatever they’d taken her to the office for, her words barely audible. Elliott, Sam, and I waited at my locker, but Madison never came.
“She’s still in the office,” Sam said.
That was when I noticed the tears, the somber faces, some even looking afraid.
“What the hell is going on?” Elliott asked.
Sam pulled out his cell phone. “I’m texting Maddy’s dad. He should know what’s going o—”
Mr. Saylor passed us, giving Sam a strange look before disappearing around the corner.
“He’s going to the office,” Sam said, putting his phone away.
“I’m going,” I said.
“Catherine, no,” Elliott said, but before he could finish his sentence, I had already closed my locker and was following Mr. Saylor.
Mrs. Rosalsky seemed panicked the moment Elliott, Sam, and I walked in. She stood, holding out her hand.
“Catherine, you should go. You too, Elliott. Sam, go with them.”
“Where is Maddy?” I asked. “Mrs. Mason came for her two hours ago. We just saw her dad.”
Mrs. Rosalsky lowered her chin, meeting my gaze. “Catherine, go. They’ll call you in soon enough.”
“Miss Calhoun,” a man said, stepping out of Mrs. Mason’s office. Madison followed him out with her father, looking horrified.
“What’s going on?” Elliott asked.
“I’m Detective Thompson,” he said, shaking Elliott’s hand. He eyed us with his bulging blue eyes.
“Nice to meet you,” Elliott said, nodding once before peering around to see Madison. “You okay?”
Madison nodded, looking small behind her father.
Detective Thompson wore a dark, worn suit, his Western boots wet from a weekend of rain. His wiry gray mustache made him look more like a cowboy than an officer of the law. “Since you’re both here, why don’t you step into Mrs. Mason’s office?”
I looked to Elliott, searching for an answer in his expression. I hadn’t a clue what was going on, but Elliott seemed unfazed. He took my hand, leading the way. As we passed, Madison’s eyes expressed a dozen warnings. Her hand brushed over mine and Elliott’s as she left with her father, silently wishing us good luck.
Mrs. Mason was standing behind her desk, gesturing for us to take the two chairs that sat in front of it. We did, but Elliott kept hold of my hand.
Detective Thompson stared at our interlaced fingers as he sat in Mrs. Mason’s chair, clasping his hands behind her nameplate.
“Do you know why we’ve brought you in here today?” Thompson asked.
Elliott and I traded glances and then shook our heads no.
“Presley Brubaker didn’t come home last night,” Thompson said matter-of-factly.
I frowned, waiting for the words to make sense, for the detective to explain.
“She ran away?” Elliott asked.
Thompson’s mouth twitched. “It’s interesting you’d say that, Elliott. No one else I’ve spoken to seems to think so.”
Elliott shrugged. “What else could it be?”
The detective sat back, as calm and collected as Elliott. They were staring at each other in a sort of standoff. “I’ll need your birthdates. Let’s start with Elliott.”
“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.
