Err on the Side of Violence: Terribly Acronymed Detective Club Series (Book 3)

Chapter Thirteen: Rachel, Sunday

"You need to talk to me, Logan."

She said this to him after he spent her entire visit not talking. Every question she lobbed his way he refused to answer, choosing instead to sit slouched in his plastic chair, swimming in his oversized jail clothes. He didn't say what happened to the clothes he'd worn last night; had the police taken them because he had to wear these clothes in jail, or because his own clothes had evidence on them? Evidence of the homicide in which he was a person of interest? Just the thought of it made her dizzy, and when the Duty Sergeant had informed her of the situation, she'd had to sit down because her legs wouldn't hold her. Her foster child, her responsibility, a boy she cared about even if the feeling wasn't mutual, was behind bars, and her fear for him was fighting for supremacy with her sense of failure. She had to know what he'd done, or what he'd gotten himself into, and he wasn't saying anything.

"We're getting you a lawyer," she said. "Maybe you don't have to tell me what's going on, but if you're going to have any chance at all of getting out of here, you're going to have to tell the lawyer."

"I don't want to get out of here," he muttered.

It was the first thing he'd said since she'd gotten here, and he still hadn't looked her in the eye. She knew teenagers weren't good at eye contact with their elders, but this was more than just his typical insouciance. He was hiding something, and what he'd said just confirmed it. Who would prefer being in jail? Sure, foster life was no picnic, but she thought she and Al had done an all right job of providing for the two of them without requiring too much of them in return.

"I don't understand," she said. "What's going on?"

He shook his head as if shaking off a fly. "Just... promise me you'll look after Emma, okay? She's happy with you, and I don't want her to suffer for what I did."

Rachel shook her head in exasperation. "Logan, come on, don't act like you're going to the chair! We can figure this out if you just open up a little!"

He crossed his arms and stayed silent.

"Look," she said, "is it me? Would you rather not talk to me? I know you don't like me that much but I do take responsibility for you, and I want to help you if you'll let me."

He looked up at her, finally, and his eyes were filled with pain. "That's not true. I like you. You and Al are fine."

"You have a fine way of showing it," she said, wiping a tear from her eye; she couldn't help it. Logan had never expressed any esteem for her or for Al until now, and it knocked her for a loop. She was reminded of when she was younger, and she'd unintentionally said something sweet that had made Mrs. Anderson cry. Children really did do that; they never knew how powerful their words could be to the grown-ups who cared for them. "Look, would you rather I got your mom to talk to you?"

She expected him to scoff at her suggestion, to remark that his mom was useless and less able to help than Rachel was.

"My mom's dead," he muttered instead.

She stared at him, unable to comprehend the words he'd just said. All she was able to get out of her mouth was, "What?"

Before he could say anything in response, or not, the door to the visiting room opened, and a constable escorted a woman in a pant suit to their table. She was about Rachel's age, with a black bob that reminded Rachel of Lauren's hair when she was twelve. It was rather jarring, and Rachel could only stammer a greeting, she was so thrown. It really didn't suit her.

"I'm Melinda Barber, I've been retained by the Ministry," she said, offering her hand.

"Thank you for coming on a Sunday," Rachel said, shaking it.