All the Little Lights
Page 62
“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.
Mrs. Mason leaned against her file cabinet, pressing her lips together into a hard line. Elliott took most things in stride, but the detective didn’t know that. To him, Elliott could seem flippant—or worse, callous.
“Did Cathy come to the window?” Thompson asked.
“It’s Catherine,” Elliott said, his tone firm. Much too firm for speaking to an adult, especially a detective.
“My apologies,” Thompson said, a spark in his eye. “Continue.”
Elliott sat forward and cleared his throat. “Catherine came to the window, and . . . we talked.”
“That’s it?”
“I might have climbed the side of her house and stolen a kiss,” Elliott said.
“Is that how you scraped your hands?” Thompson asked.
Elliott held up his free hand. “Yep.”
“What about your knuckles?”
“Fight Friday night after the game.”
“Oh?” the detective said.
“We were still feeling invincible after the game. Got into it with the wrestlers. Stupid guy stuff.”
“I heard you beat Cruz Miller senseless. Is that true?”
“I got a little carried away, yeah.”
“Was it over Catherine?” Thompson asked.
“We were both mouthing off. We’re over it.”
“When did you leave Catherine’s house last night?”
Elliott moved around in his chair. Honesty meant risking the detective telling Mama that he’d stayed the night in the Juniper.
“Elliott,” Thompson prodded, “what time did you leave Catherine’s?”
“I can’t remember,” Elliott said finally.
“You two aren’t telling me something. I can tell you now, it’s best just to be honest in the first place. Otherwise, anything you say later will be questioned.” When we didn’t divulge, he sighed. “Do you have any idea what time he left?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t look at the clock. I’m sorry.”
“Tell me, Catherine. Is Elliott a little too possessive for your taste? Maybe a little controlling?”
I swallowed. “No.”
“He just moved here, right? You two look awfully serious.”
“He stays with his aunt in the summers,” I said. “We’ve known each other for several years.” Walking the tightrope between the truth and lies was something I’d done many times, but in this case, Thompson had an agenda, and I wasn’t sure if my half truths were doing more harm than good.
Thompson tapped his wrinkled index finger on Mrs. Mason’s desk, his wedding ring catching the fluorescent light. He cradled his chin with his other hand. I kept my eyes on his thin hand, counting the liver spots, wondering if his wife knew he terrorized high school kids for sport. The way he watched Elliott made me think he was just getting started.
“Anything else?” Elliott asked. “We should get back to class.”
Detective Thompson was quiet for a while, and then he stood up abruptly. “Yes. Catherine, why don’t you head back to class.”
We stood, hand in hand.
“Elliott, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me,” Thompson said.
Elliott took a protective stance in front of me, holding me close. “What? Why?”
“I need to ask you a few more questions. You can decline, but I’d just be back with a warrant. We can question you then.”
“A warrant for my arrest?” Elliott asked. Every muscle in his body was tense, as if he couldn’t decide whether to run or attack. “Why?”
Mrs. Mason stood, holding out her hands. “Detective, I know you’re not familiar with Elliott, but I think you’re sensing possessiveness when Elliott is actually just very protective of Catherine. Her father passed away a few summers ago, and she and Elliott have a history together. He cares about her very much.”
Thompson arched a brow. “And Catherine has a history with Presley Brubaker. We’ve established that Elliott is very protective of Catherine . . .”
Mrs. Mason shook her head. “No. You’re twisting things. Elliott would never—”
“Will you come to the station with me, Mr. Youngblood? Or will I be seeing you at football practice with a sweet new pair of silver bracelets?” Thompson asked.
Elliott looked down at me, then back at the detective, exhaling through his nose, his nostrils flaring. His expression was severe. I’d only seen that look on his face once before—the day we met.
“I’ll go,” he said simply.
Detective Thompson’s face lit up, and he patted Elliott on the shoulder. “Well, then, Mrs. Mason. I might not be familiar with Mr. Youngblood now, but we’re going to get to know each other real well this evening.” He gripped Elliott’s arm, but I held on to him.
“Wait! Wait a second,” I said.
“It’s going to be okay.” Elliott kissed my forehead. “Call my aunt.” He fished in his pocket and handed me his car keys.
“I . . . don’t know her number.”
“I do,” Mrs. Mason said. “Request a lawyer, Elliott. Don’t say anything else until one arrives.”
Elliott nodded and then left with Detective Thompson. I followed a respectful distance behind, escorted by Mrs. Mason. I watched out the wall of windows at the front of the school while Thompson opened the back of his navy-blue Crown Victoria. I touched the icy window, watching helplessly until Elliott and Thompson were out of sight.
I turned to Mrs. Mason. “He has nothing to do with this!”
“Come back to my office. We’ll find Leigh’s number. We should call her. Now.”
I nodded, following the counselor back to her office. I sat down in the seat I had just occupied minutes before. My knee bounced, and I dug my thumbnail into my forearm while Mrs. Mason tapped on her computer, then picked up her phone.
“Mrs. Youngblood? Hi, it’s Rebecca Mason. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Presley Brubaker has gone missing, and Detective Thompson from the Oak Creek Police Department has come to collect Elliott for questioning. He just took him to the station less than five minutes ago. Elliott asked that I call you.”
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.
Mrs. Mason leaned against her file cabinet, pressing her lips together into a hard line. Elliott took most things in stride, but the detective didn’t know that. To him, Elliott could seem flippant—or worse, callous.
“Did Cathy come to the window?” Thompson asked.
“It’s Catherine,” Elliott said, his tone firm. Much too firm for speaking to an adult, especially a detective.
“My apologies,” Thompson said, a spark in his eye. “Continue.”
Elliott sat forward and cleared his throat. “Catherine came to the window, and . . . we talked.”
“That’s it?”
“I might have climbed the side of her house and stolen a kiss,” Elliott said.
“Is that how you scraped your hands?” Thompson asked.
Elliott held up his free hand. “Yep.”
“What about your knuckles?”
“Fight Friday night after the game.”
“Oh?” the detective said.
“We were still feeling invincible after the game. Got into it with the wrestlers. Stupid guy stuff.”
“I heard you beat Cruz Miller senseless. Is that true?”
“I got a little carried away, yeah.”
“Was it over Catherine?” Thompson asked.
“We were both mouthing off. We’re over it.”
“When did you leave Catherine’s house last night?”
Elliott moved around in his chair. Honesty meant risking the detective telling Mama that he’d stayed the night in the Juniper.
“Elliott,” Thompson prodded, “what time did you leave Catherine’s?”
“I can’t remember,” Elliott said finally.
“You two aren’t telling me something. I can tell you now, it’s best just to be honest in the first place. Otherwise, anything you say later will be questioned.” When we didn’t divulge, he sighed. “Do you have any idea what time he left?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t look at the clock. I’m sorry.”
“Tell me, Catherine. Is Elliott a little too possessive for your taste? Maybe a little controlling?”
I swallowed. “No.”
“He just moved here, right? You two look awfully serious.”
“He stays with his aunt in the summers,” I said. “We’ve known each other for several years.” Walking the tightrope between the truth and lies was something I’d done many times, but in this case, Thompson had an agenda, and I wasn’t sure if my half truths were doing more harm than good.
Thompson tapped his wrinkled index finger on Mrs. Mason’s desk, his wedding ring catching the fluorescent light. He cradled his chin with his other hand. I kept my eyes on his thin hand, counting the liver spots, wondering if his wife knew he terrorized high school kids for sport. The way he watched Elliott made me think he was just getting started.
“Anything else?” Elliott asked. “We should get back to class.”
Detective Thompson was quiet for a while, and then he stood up abruptly. “Yes. Catherine, why don’t you head back to class.”
We stood, hand in hand.
“Elliott, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me,” Thompson said.
Elliott took a protective stance in front of me, holding me close. “What? Why?”
“I need to ask you a few more questions. You can decline, but I’d just be back with a warrant. We can question you then.”
“A warrant for my arrest?” Elliott asked. Every muscle in his body was tense, as if he couldn’t decide whether to run or attack. “Why?”
Mrs. Mason stood, holding out her hands. “Detective, I know you’re not familiar with Elliott, but I think you’re sensing possessiveness when Elliott is actually just very protective of Catherine. Her father passed away a few summers ago, and she and Elliott have a history together. He cares about her very much.”
Thompson arched a brow. “And Catherine has a history with Presley Brubaker. We’ve established that Elliott is very protective of Catherine . . .”
Mrs. Mason shook her head. “No. You’re twisting things. Elliott would never—”
“Will you come to the station with me, Mr. Youngblood? Or will I be seeing you at football practice with a sweet new pair of silver bracelets?” Thompson asked.
Elliott looked down at me, then back at the detective, exhaling through his nose, his nostrils flaring. His expression was severe. I’d only seen that look on his face once before—the day we met.
“I’ll go,” he said simply.
Detective Thompson’s face lit up, and he patted Elliott on the shoulder. “Well, then, Mrs. Mason. I might not be familiar with Mr. Youngblood now, but we’re going to get to know each other real well this evening.” He gripped Elliott’s arm, but I held on to him.
“Wait! Wait a second,” I said.
“It’s going to be okay.” Elliott kissed my forehead. “Call my aunt.” He fished in his pocket and handed me his car keys.
“I . . . don’t know her number.”
“I do,” Mrs. Mason said. “Request a lawyer, Elliott. Don’t say anything else until one arrives.”
Elliott nodded and then left with Detective Thompson. I followed a respectful distance behind, escorted by Mrs. Mason. I watched out the wall of windows at the front of the school while Thompson opened the back of his navy-blue Crown Victoria. I touched the icy window, watching helplessly until Elliott and Thompson were out of sight.
I turned to Mrs. Mason. “He has nothing to do with this!”
“Come back to my office. We’ll find Leigh’s number. We should call her. Now.”
I nodded, following the counselor back to her office. I sat down in the seat I had just occupied minutes before. My knee bounced, and I dug my thumbnail into my forearm while Mrs. Mason tapped on her computer, then picked up her phone.
“Mrs. Youngblood? Hi, it’s Rebecca Mason. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Presley Brubaker has gone missing, and Detective Thompson from the Oak Creek Police Department has come to collect Elliott for questioning. He just took him to the station less than five minutes ago. Elliott asked that I call you.”
