Read Online Keep No Secrets by Julie Compton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Julie Compton
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two instances he told her about?
She stands. She feels tears coming, but she's not sure why. She rifles through a folder on her desk, avoiding their eyes, feigning busyness. "I have to ask you to leave unless you tell me what this is about."
The two whisper together. When Claire looks up, she sees they do not enjoy being partners. Caruthers finally raises a curt hand as if to say: Let me handle this .
"Mrs. Hilliard, please," she says. "I apologize. If you'll just take your seat again, we'll tell you what we can."
When Michael steps into the lobby of the front office, two cops are waiting for him.
Staff and students turn to stare. The cops introduce themselves but their names don't register with Michael.
He follows the men into a small
conference room next to the row of guidance counselors' offices. The room is small, barely large enough to
accommodate the round table and four chairs. As one of the officers fights with a chair to move it away from the door, Michael eyes the side arm at his waist.
When the man finally gets the door closed, his face is flushed.
"Michael, thank you for agreeing to talk to us."
He looks at the other man who's
spoken. He's much taller, with thick eyebrows that remind Michael of a caterpillar. He wants to say I didn't agree to shit , but doesn't. He doesn't say anything.
He knows not to talk, his dad has drilled that into his head for as long as he can remember, but Jack would also expect Michael to be polite.
"First, we want to make it clear that you're not in any trouble. Please don't misunderstand."
Michael simply nods.
"It's about Celestina Del Toro," says the officer who battled the chair.
Suddenly, Michael is incapable of considering what Jack would expect.
"What do you mean?" he asks anxiously.
"Is she okay? She hasn't been at school."
He doesn't add and hasn't answered her phone or responded to any of my text messages since Sunday afternoon .
The officer hesitates. "Yes, she's . . .
she's fine. We need to ask you a few questions, but unfortunately we can't tell you much at this point. There's an ongoing investigation that—"
"You're investigating Celeste?" His eyes dart from one officer to the other.
"No, no, please." The man with the bushy brows raises his palm. "Celestina's not in trouble with the law. And neither are you."
Relieved, Michael falls back into his chair.
"She told us she was with you at a party on Saturday night, and that the two of you had some whiskey afterwards. Is that true?"
Michael lowers his eyes.
"You're not in trouble, remember?
We're not here to bust you for underage drinking, okay?"
"Then why are you asking this?" he mutters.
"She said that you couldn't drive her home, that your father had to. Is that right?"
Michael stares from one officer to the other, trying to understand. "He didn't let us drink, if that's what you mean. He didn't even know until we got to my house. He freaked when he found out."
"Of course. Any father would. Did he drive Celestina home because you were impaired?"
Michael nods but looks away from the two men. Through the window he
watches students cross the campus toward the bus ramp.
"That's good. You were smart not to drive after you'd been drinking. Do you have any idea how long it took him?"
What are they getting at? Is his dad in trouble for covering for Celeste? For not letting her dad know what happened?
"I don't know." He shrugs. "He was just trying to help her."
"What do you mean?" When he doesn't answer, the tall one presses him. "How was he trying to help her?"
Michael glances at the clock on the wall. "I need to get to basketball practice."
"I think we're about done, anyway, don't you think so, Pete?" To Michael, he says, "Thank you for helping us, Mike."
Michael cringes at his use of the familiar name. Only his dad and close friends from school call him Mike. "It'd really help to know how your dad was trying to help Celestina, though. We don't want to point fingers at the wrong
She stands. She feels tears coming, but she's not sure why. She rifles through a folder on her desk, avoiding their eyes, feigning busyness. "I have to ask you to leave unless you tell me what this is about."
The two whisper together. When Claire looks up, she sees they do not enjoy being partners. Caruthers finally raises a curt hand as if to say: Let me handle this .
"Mrs. Hilliard, please," she says. "I apologize. If you'll just take your seat again, we'll tell you what we can."
When Michael steps into the lobby of the front office, two cops are waiting for him.
Staff and students turn to stare. The cops introduce themselves but their names don't register with Michael.
He follows the men into a small
conference room next to the row of guidance counselors' offices. The room is small, barely large enough to
accommodate the round table and four chairs. As one of the officers fights with a chair to move it away from the door, Michael eyes the side arm at his waist.
When the man finally gets the door closed, his face is flushed.
"Michael, thank you for agreeing to talk to us."
He looks at the other man who's
spoken. He's much taller, with thick eyebrows that remind Michael of a caterpillar. He wants to say I didn't agree to shit , but doesn't. He doesn't say anything.
He knows not to talk, his dad has drilled that into his head for as long as he can remember, but Jack would also expect Michael to be polite.
"First, we want to make it clear that you're not in any trouble. Please don't misunderstand."
Michael simply nods.
"It's about Celestina Del Toro," says the officer who battled the chair.
Suddenly, Michael is incapable of considering what Jack would expect.
"What do you mean?" he asks anxiously.
"Is she okay? She hasn't been at school."
He doesn't add and hasn't answered her phone or responded to any of my text messages since Sunday afternoon .
The officer hesitates. "Yes, she's . . .
she's fine. We need to ask you a few questions, but unfortunately we can't tell you much at this point. There's an ongoing investigation that—"
"You're investigating Celeste?" His eyes dart from one officer to the other.
"No, no, please." The man with the bushy brows raises his palm. "Celestina's not in trouble with the law. And neither are you."
Relieved, Michael falls back into his chair.
"She told us she was with you at a party on Saturday night, and that the two of you had some whiskey afterwards. Is that true?"
Michael lowers his eyes.
"You're not in trouble, remember?
We're not here to bust you for underage drinking, okay?"
"Then why are you asking this?" he mutters.
"She said that you couldn't drive her home, that your father had to. Is that right?"
Michael stares from one officer to the other, trying to understand. "He didn't let us drink, if that's what you mean. He didn't even know until we got to my house. He freaked when he found out."
"Of course. Any father would. Did he drive Celestina home because you were impaired?"
Michael nods but looks away from the two men. Through the window he
watches students cross the campus toward the bus ramp.
"That's good. You were smart not to drive after you'd been drinking. Do you have any idea how long it took him?"
What are they getting at? Is his dad in trouble for covering for Celeste? For not letting her dad know what happened?
"I don't know." He shrugs. "He was just trying to help her."
"What do you mean?" When he doesn't answer, the tall one presses him. "How was he trying to help her?"
Michael glances at the clock on the wall. "I need to get to basketball practice."
"I think we're about done, anyway, don't you think so, Pete?" To Michael, he says, "Thank you for helping us, Mike."
Michael cringes at his use of the familiar name. Only his dad and close friends from school call him Mike. "It'd really help to know how your dad was trying to help Celestina, though. We don't want to point fingers at the wrong
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