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Authors: Jennifer Shaw Wolf
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with a look that I hope is braver than I feel. “I was unconscious. Did he mention that?”
“I also talked to a nurse at the ER in Aberdeen. She wouldn’t go on record, but she mentioned bruising on your arms and legs.” His gaze works to penetrate my shell. “Bruises that weren’t consistent with the accident. Old bruises.”
“My medical records are confidential.” My voice wavers, but I try to keep it steady. We learned that in civics last year. It was something I remembered clearly.
“Smart girl. You’re right. Without a warrant I can’t get those records. And maybe she shouldn’t have told me what she did. But it would be okay if you told me where the bruises came from.” His voice is coaxing but sure—he’s a guy who’s used to getting what he wants because of the way he looks, like Trip.
I keep my mouth shut, exercising my right to remain silent. He waits.
“Detective Weeks, we have that license info for you.” The dispatcher’s voice crackles over his radio. I don’t miss the word “detective” in his title. He ignores the voice and turns the radio all the way down. He crosses his arms, looks at me, and waits.
I scrape my fingernail against the rough edge of my stoneand wonder how long in a police car constitutes unlawful imprisonment. We studied that in civics, too. But the pressure of his silence and the pounding of the scar on the back of my head are killing me. “Mild cerebral palsy.” The canned answer comes out easy enough.
“What?” He leans forward, eager.
“I have mild cerebral palsy. My brother and I were born eight weeks early and deprived of oxygen at birth. Me, just a minute or two, him for much longer. He’s in a wheelchair. I don’t read so well, and I don’t have the best balance so I fall a lot. Thus the bruises.” I level my eyes at him and work to keep all emotion out of my face and out of my voice. “If my license is cleared, I need to go. I’m supposed to be picking up my dad right now.”
“Actually I want to—”
Something hits the window. I jump. Detective Weeks reaches for his gun. Outside the patrol car is Dad—standing in the pouring rain and pounding on the window. He’s soaking wet, and he looks pissed.
Detective Weeks calmly moves his hand from his gun, opens the door, and steps out to meet Dad. He shuts the door behind him so I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dad look this mad.
Tight-lipped all the way home, Dad doesn’t mention my being late, or the ticket that Detective Weeks still dared to give me. I don’t think he knows I ditched school—at least he doesn’t mention it. We’re sitting in the driveway before he says anything. Then he turns to me. “Is that the first time that cop has talked to you?”
“Yes, sir.” I sit up straight. Dad is in full sergeant-major mode.
His hands grip the steering wheel. “If he ever does anything like that again, I want you to let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If he wants to question you, with the proper paperwork and down at the station, then we’ll cooperate. But I don’t approve of his methods.”
“Yes, sir.” I say it again, because I don’t know what else to say.
He sighs and turns off the truck. “Did you get the groceries?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because you’re grounded from driving for the rest of the month.”
I sit in the car for a minute and watch Dad walk inside. I can’t get the image of him toe-to-toe with Detective Weeks, yelling at him, defending me, out of my head. I wonder if things might have been different if Dad had been around.
Chapter
9
Something feels off when I walk into school the next day. Clair takes my forged excuse note— Allie needed some time off yesterday. Please excuse her absence —without her usual sad smile and without comment.
When I walk down the hall the whispers are back—not that they ever completely left. But the sympathetic looks and half smiles are gone. I feel accusations all around
“I also talked to a nurse at the ER in Aberdeen. She wouldn’t go on record, but she mentioned bruising on your arms and legs.” His gaze works to penetrate my shell. “Bruises that weren’t consistent with the accident. Old bruises.”
“My medical records are confidential.” My voice wavers, but I try to keep it steady. We learned that in civics last year. It was something I remembered clearly.
“Smart girl. You’re right. Without a warrant I can’t get those records. And maybe she shouldn’t have told me what she did. But it would be okay if you told me where the bruises came from.” His voice is coaxing but sure—he’s a guy who’s used to getting what he wants because of the way he looks, like Trip.
I keep my mouth shut, exercising my right to remain silent. He waits.
“Detective Weeks, we have that license info for you.” The dispatcher’s voice crackles over his radio. I don’t miss the word “detective” in his title. He ignores the voice and turns the radio all the way down. He crosses his arms, looks at me, and waits.
I scrape my fingernail against the rough edge of my stoneand wonder how long in a police car constitutes unlawful imprisonment. We studied that in civics, too. But the pressure of his silence and the pounding of the scar on the back of my head are killing me. “Mild cerebral palsy.” The canned answer comes out easy enough.
“What?” He leans forward, eager.
“I have mild cerebral palsy. My brother and I were born eight weeks early and deprived of oxygen at birth. Me, just a minute or two, him for much longer. He’s in a wheelchair. I don’t read so well, and I don’t have the best balance so I fall a lot. Thus the bruises.” I level my eyes at him and work to keep all emotion out of my face and out of my voice. “If my license is cleared, I need to go. I’m supposed to be picking up my dad right now.”
“Actually I want to—”
Something hits the window. I jump. Detective Weeks reaches for his gun. Outside the patrol car is Dad—standing in the pouring rain and pounding on the window. He’s soaking wet, and he looks pissed.
Detective Weeks calmly moves his hand from his gun, opens the door, and steps out to meet Dad. He shuts the door behind him so I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dad look this mad.
Tight-lipped all the way home, Dad doesn’t mention my being late, or the ticket that Detective Weeks still dared to give me. I don’t think he knows I ditched school—at least he doesn’t mention it. We’re sitting in the driveway before he says anything. Then he turns to me. “Is that the first time that cop has talked to you?”
“Yes, sir.” I sit up straight. Dad is in full sergeant-major mode.
His hands grip the steering wheel. “If he ever does anything like that again, I want you to let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If he wants to question you, with the proper paperwork and down at the station, then we’ll cooperate. But I don’t approve of his methods.”
“Yes, sir.” I say it again, because I don’t know what else to say.
He sighs and turns off the truck. “Did you get the groceries?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because you’re grounded from driving for the rest of the month.”
I sit in the car for a minute and watch Dad walk inside. I can’t get the image of him toe-to-toe with Detective Weeks, yelling at him, defending me, out of my head. I wonder if things might have been different if Dad had been around.
Chapter
9
Something feels off when I walk into school the next day. Clair takes my forged excuse note— Allie needed some time off yesterday. Please excuse her absence —without her usual sad smile and without comment.
When I walk down the hall the whispers are back—not that they ever completely left. But the sympathetic looks and half smiles are gone. I feel accusations all around
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