“No,” says Kinney, waving him away. “I’ll handle this.”
“Look,” I say, “I know it was really stupid, I was really stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking. It will never ever happen again.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, opening the cruiser door. “Now, get in the car.”
SIXTEEN
DA NEVER LIKED the word illegal. Semantics. There was no line between legal and illegal, he’d say, only between free and caught.
And I’m caught at the station, handcuffed to a chair next to Detective Kinney’s desk. My fingertips are stained black from ink, and Kinney’s holding up the page with my prints.
“This right here,” he says, waving the sheet, “isn’t just a piece of paper. This is the difference between a clean record and a rap sheet.”
My eyes hover on the ten black smudges. Then he folds the page and slides it into his desk drawer. “This is your one and only warning,” he says. “I’m not going to book you today, but I want you to think about what would happen if I did. I want you to think about the ripple effect. I want you to take this seriously.”
Relief pours over me as I drag my eyes from the drawer to his face. “I promise you, sir, I take it very seriously.”
The detective sits back in his chair and considers the contents of my pockets on the table in front of him. My cell phone. My house key (he left the one around my neck). Da’s lock pick set. And my Archive list. I hold my breath as he takes up the paper, running his thumb against it as his eyes skim the name—Marissa Farrow. 14.—before he drops it back on the desk, face up. He takes up Da’s lock pick set instead.
“Where did you get this?” he asks.
“It was my grandfather’s.”
“Was he a deviant, too?”
I frown. “He was a private eye.”
“What happened to your hands?”
“Street fight,” I say. “Isn’t that what deviants do?”
“Don’t talk back to me, young lady.”
My head is starting to hurt, and I ask for water. While Kinney’s gone, I consider the drawer with the page of prints, but I’m sitting in the middle of a police station, surrounded by cops and cuffed to the chair, so I’m forced to leave it there.
Kinney comes back with a cup of water and the news that my parents are on their way.
Terrific.
“Be glad they’re coming,” scolds Kinney. “If you were my daughter, I’d leave you in a cell for the night.”
“She goes to Hyde, doesn’t she? Amber?”
“You know her?” he asks, his voice gruff.
I hesitate. The last thing I want is for Amber to hear about this incident, especially since I’ll need her case updates more than ever. “It’s a small school,” I say with a shrug.
“Kinney,” calls one of the other officers. He strides toward us.
“Partial prints are back on the Thomson girl’s necklace,” says the officer.
Thomson. That must be Bethany’s last name.
“And?”
“No match.”
Kinney slams his fist on the desk, nearly upsetting the cup of water. I almost feel bad for him. These are cases he’s never going to close, and I can only hope I catch whoever’s doing this before they strike again.
“And the mother’s boyfriend?” asks Kinney under his breath.
“We rechecked the alibi, but it holds water.”
My gaze drifts down to Kinney’s desk. And that’s when I see the second name writing itself on the Archive paper.
Forrest Riggs. 12.
Kinney’s attention is just drifting back to the table when I rattle my handcuff loudly, hoping he reads my panic as natural teenager-in-trouble panic and not don’t-look-at-that-paper panic.
“Sorry,” I say, “but do you think you could take these off before my parents get here? My mom will have a stroke.”
Kinney considers me a moment, then gets up and wanders off, leaving me chained to the seat.
Ten minutes later, Mom and Dad arrive. Mom takes one look at me cuffed to the chair and nearly loses it, but Dad sends her outside, instructing her to call Colleen. Dad doesn’t even look at me while Kinney explains what happened. They talk like I’m not sitting right there.
“I’m not pressing charges, Mr. Bishop, and I’m not booking her. This time.”
“Oh, I assure you, Detective Kinney, this will be the only time.”
“Make sure of it,” says Kinney, unlocking the cuff and pulling me to my feet, his heavy static only making the headache worse. He hands me back my things, and Dad ushers me away before Kinney can change his mind.
I try to wipe the ink from the fingerprint kit on my skirt. It doesn’t come off.
I feel the eyes on me as soon as I’m through the doors and look up expecting to see Eric watching. Instead, I see Sako. She’s on a bench across the street, and her black eyes follow me beneath their fringe. Her gaze is hard to read, but her mouth is smug, almost cruel.
Maybe Eric’s not the one I should be worried about.
My steps have slowed, and Dad gives me a nudge toward the car. Mom’s in the front seat on the phone, but she ends the call as soon as she sees us. Across the street, Sako gets to her feet, and I clear my throat.
“See Dad?” I say, loud enough for her to hear. “I told you it was all just a misunderstanding.”
“Get in the car,” says Dad.
On the way home, I almost wish I could have another tunnel moment, lose time. Instead, I’m aware of every single second of weighted silence. The only sounds in the car are Mom’s heavy sighing and the tap of my phone as I delete the texts I sent to Jason. I can’t erase the prints from Judge Phillip’s kitchen or Bethany’s necklace, and I can’t unsend the texts or unmake the calls, but I can at least minimize the evidence. I whisper a silent apology as I erase his number.
Dad parks the car, and Mom gets out and slams her door, breaking the quiet for an instant before it resettles, following us up the stairs and into our apartment.
Once inside, it shatters.
Mom bursts into tears, and Dad starts to shout.
“What the hell has gotten into you?”
“Dad, it was an accident—”
“No, it was an accident that you got caught. But you broke into a crime scene. I come home and find your schoolbag here and your bike missing, and then I get a call from the police telling me you’ve been arrested!”
“It doesn’t count as an arrest if they don’t process you. It was just a conversation with—”
“Where is this coming from Mackenzie?” pleads my mother.
“I just thought I might be able to help—”
He throws the lock pick set onto the table. “With those?” he growls. “What are you doing with them?”
“They were Da’s—”
“I know who they belonged to, Mackenzie. He was my father! And I won’t have you ending up like him.”
I pull back. If he’d struck me, it would have hurt less.
“But Da was—”
“You don’t know what he was,” snaps Dad, running his hands through his hair. “Antony Bishop was a flake, and a criminal, and a selfish asshole who cared more about his secrets and his many lives than his family. He cheated and he stole and he lied. He only cared about himself, and I’ll be damned if I see you behaving like him.”