Burning Bridges ✷ Gale Weathers

06. MASKED

✷

Harriet knew she wasn't a genius by any means, but she liked to believe she was a damn good agent, and she had a damn good hunch that the boy sitting before her was Ghostface.

Charlie Walker was a lanky boy with long, stringy hair and a knack for looking unbothered as he sat in the interrogation room. Harriet had dealt with plenty of people like him—calm on the outside, but a flurry of anxious butterflies on the inside. She could tell he was nervous by the way his left eye twitched with each question, his fingers tapping on his jean-clad leg.

"Do you have an alibi for any of the nights we mentioned?" Harriet was seated beside Dewey, who kept a stern look upon his usually-kind face. He was trying his best, but she thought it was slightly amusing.

Charlie huffed and blew a dark strand of hair out of his face. "I told you, I was at home both nights. I don't have a dad and my mom was out of town on a business trip."

"So you were home alone." Harriet's lips thinned. "In my opinion, a rowdy teenager like you shouldn't be left home alone. You weren't out with any friends? Did you perhaps get drunk, maybe did a few drugs?"

Charlie looked bewildered. "What? No. I don't drink or do drugs. I'm a good kid, alright?"

Harriet glanced at the opened folder on the table. He didn't have any offenses on record, but that didn't mean he was a good guy. He could just be really good at hiding his evilness.

It could be that she was reading too much into things, maybe overreacting just a bit—because on paper he looked like an exceptional kid. But he didn't have an alibi for both nights of the murders, and she'd looked everywhere else. He had to be the killer.

"Be honest with us here, Charlie," Dewey spoke, his voice gentle. He was definitely the good cop in this situation. "Did you kill those people? Those cops? If you confess now, we might be able to find a way to get you a lighter sentence."

Harriet held back a smirk. That's what all cops said as a way to get a criminal to confess to their crimes. Not once did their words become true, but it sure did get the truth out of most of them.

Charlie leaned forward, holding eye contact with Harriet instead of Dewey. "I. Did not. Kill anybody."

Dewey's expression was one of defeat. But Harriet wasn't giving up. She couldn't afford to.

"We'll get the truth out of you eventually, Charlie," she said, her tone dark and grisly. "I swear to God, we will."

Charlie didn't bat an eye. He straightened in his chair. "Can I go now?"

Dewey glanced at Harriet. "We can't keep him here, Harriet. He's not on any charges."

She huffed through her nose, gritted her teeth. "Fine. He can go. But he'll be back here soon."

Mark my words, she thought as she watched Charlie exit the room. I am going to find out the truth.

Because she needed to, for the victims, and because she couldn't stand being in this wretched town anymore.

✷

"I heard you brought in Charlie Walker today," Gale said loudly as she strolled into the Sheriff's Department. "Never liked that boy, to be honest. He always rubbed me the wrong way."

Harriet didn't look up from her file. "I doubt he liked you either."

Gale smiled grimly. "Funny. So, find out anything? Off record, of course."

Off record. Harriet didn't bother holding back her snort. Nothing was ever off record with Gale.

"Nothing you'd be interested in," she said.

"Oh c'mon, give me something." Gale pulled up a chair to Harriet's temporary desk and plopped down, mere inches away from the agent. Harriet felt her blood spike with Gale being so close. "Is he a suspect? I mean, he has to be, or else you wouldn't have brought him in here. Did you question him? What did he say?"

Harriet finally looked over at Gale, assessing her while trying not to make it look too obvious. Dark blue pantsuit, heels that bump her up an inch in height, hair curled to perfection, makeup applied delicately. Her eyes were big and blue, maybe even a little hopeful.

Her eyes flicked to Gale's glossed lips for a millisecond.

They looked soft and plump. She immediately rid herself of the thought. She was Gale Weathers. The woman who bullied her, tore her down, ruined her. The woman she hated all the way down to her core. A beautiful but callous woman.

She looked away. "I have nothing to say to you, Gale. You can go look for answers elsewhere."

"I don't understand you," Gale said quietly, a contrast from her normally loud voice. "I'm trying to be nice towards you. Can't you see I'm trying to be nice?"

Harriet shook her head. "You're only being nice to me because you want answers. You want to report whatever you can on television so you can get your five minutes of fame. You want to cram whatever lies into your novel so you can make some cash. Well, guess what? I'm not going to aid you, Gale. Being nice to me now after a decade of tormenting isn't going to get you any brownie points. You haven't changed. I doubt you ever will."

"You think the worst of me, Harriet, and while I don't blame you, you need to give me a chance." Gale held her gaze, intense and blazing, making Harriet's skin grow hot. "I was a stupid kid. I treated everyone horribly, and I really wish I could go back and time and undo all of it, but I can't. All I can do now is learn from my shitty mistakes. I'm sorry. I know I treated you like shit and I'm sorry."

Saying sorry didn't change anything. She wanted to spit in her face, scream at her, kick her in the gut, but what good would that do?

Maybe she was right. She had been a shitty kid who did shitty things, and as much as she despised the thought, what if she wasn't as horrible anymore?

She'd never know unless she gave her a chance.

That sounded impossible. It left a bad taste on her tongue. How could she ever forgive Gale for ruining her? For being the reason she left Woodsboro? She'd practically been forced out. Nobody wanted a lesbian around. Not in this town.

Instead of accepting her apology or even yelling in her face, she asked, "you always showed up to school with bruises. Why?"

She used to pretend that she didn't care. But secretly, she did. Because the bruises were always there, hidden with makeup on her face. Who knew if she had any anywhere else.

Gale froze, clearly taken-aback by the random question. Perhaps nobody had ever questioned her about the bruises before.

"I— "

Before Gale could give an answer, Dewey interrupted their semi-secret conversation. "Hi, ladies."

Harriet's nostrils flared, slightly annoyed with the interruption. But she couldn't stay mad at Dewey for long. He seemed to have no idea he'd butted into the middle of something.

"Hi, Dewey," Gale drawled. Harriet could tell she was relieved to be saved from having to answer the question about her past abuse.

"So. Charlie Walker." Dewey dropped a file onto Harriet's desk. "It turns out he wasn't home alone on the nights of the murders."

Harriet's eyes shot up to his. "What?"

"Nope. He was seen at the drug store on the night of the first murder. Guess what he bought?"

Gale tilted her head, curious. "What?"

"A Ghostface mask."