Guilty

Chapter 3

After.

Stop.

His voice is softer now as if he were expecting to hear the truth under my breath. "What 'wasn't supposed to end this way'?"

Romano never missed a beat, but neither will I.  My eyes are still wet; I am scraping tears off my face like they'll leave a permanent stain."I'm sorry. It's just really difficult to talk about all this stuff going on in King. Samara Galen's suicide was terrible for my school. It was a self-harm trigger to a lot of kids. It was exhausting. I..." I wipe another tear and decide that weeping may be a dependable arrow to follow. "I would like to leave now."

Makes me look guilty as hell, but I have the right.

Romano glares at me, still trying to find the streaks in my expression that reveal I'm not that sensitive—I'm a murderer, for God's sake.

I find myself reaching for my right wrist, where my bracelet used to be.  The bare skin still feels strange, even now.

His voice turns stern again, competitive. "Fine." He kicks out from under his chair and it rolls backward, slapping the grey wall and I hope I didn't flinch as obviously as Tyler.  He hisses in my ear, "I gave you your chance. The moment I can get a warrant, I will get your fingerprints and you'll be done with this game of yours. Welcome to my chess board."

When his face jerks away from mine, I catch my breath.

"Go home and sleep, Hayden. It's going to be a long week," he vows over his shoulder as he strides out of the interrogation room and the sheriff follows.
Outside in the dull waiting room of the vacant police station, my father sits alone cross-legged, his long nose buried elegantly in a Super Lawyers magazine as he waits for Tyler and me.

Before I can complete three steps into the windowless room, he stands and swipes his reading glasses off his face then gives Tyler a nod without a word, cueing him out into the parking lot. I can tell he came here straight from work--he is still wearing his routine court attire: a broad, official-looking tan coat over an ironed button down shirt and a matching tie. He's like Tyler in that he's intimidatingly tall, but he and I share most of the same features: hair warmer than blond, light eyes, and a narrow face.

"Hi Dad." 

Dad. I taste bile. It feels weird to call him or my mother by their parental titles now. It's like neither of them want me to anymore. They can't even bring themselves to supervise the questioning, they have to ask my brother to do it for them. My mother's a family lawyer, but my father is one of the best defense attorneys in Central Maryland. A legend in the criminal end of Baltimore. And I, of all two-hundred fifteen-year-olds in my class who are probably never going to have phone numbers of a different area code, the one with the lawyer parents and brother going to medical school, am the one being investigated for a murder. The irony would humiliate me too.

My father gives me a quick inspection from head to toe. "Good," he declares. "Let's go home. I'm sure your mother is wondering what took you so long."  He begins a rapid pace out of the police station and I attempt to match that speed, figuring that I'm thankful I don't have to ride with Tyler and explain myself.

I've hit the goddamned wall.  Donezo.  A freaking criminal. Goin' downtown.

"Dad, I want you to know that I--"

"You refused any beverages they offered you, correct? Coffee? Water?" He marches out into the inky parking lot in the breezy July night. He doesn't bother holding the door for me as he reviews his daily reminder since June. "They can easily swab your DNA off the cup. It's so simple for them to get a sample without a warrant for your arrest. Before you know it, there's a piece of you at the crime scene. It's tough to wiggle out of that one. The police are legal liars."