“Not with Catherine?” Thompson asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I didn’t want to go,” I said.
Thompson watched us for several seconds before he spoke again. “And why is that?”
“Elliott took me home, and I went to bed,” I said.
“You went home?” he asked, pointing at Elliott. “The night of his birthday? After a big win against Yukon? That’s odd.”
“I don’t go to parties,” I said.
“Never?” Detective Thompson asked.
“Never,” I said.
Thompson puffed out a laugh, but then he grew stern. “Did either of you see Presley after Friday night?”
“No,” we both answered in unison.
“What about last night, Youngblood? Tell me about your evening after football practice.”
“I walked around for a while.”
I looked at Elliott. He’d told me he had things to do between football practice and coming to my house. It didn’t occur to me to ask what he’d been doing at the time.
Thompson’s eyes narrowed. “Walked where?”
“Around my neighborhood, waiting for Catherine to settle in.”
“And why’s that?”
“I waited, and when I saw some movement, I threw a few pebbles until she came to the window.”
“You threw rocks at her window?” Thompson repeated, unimpressed. “How romantic.”
“I’m trying,” Elliott said with a small grin.
Mrs. Mason leaned against her file cabinet, pressing her lips together into a hard line. Elliott took most things in stride, but the detective didn’t know that. To him, Elliott could seem flippant—or worse, callous.
“Did Cathy come to the window?” Thompson asked.
“It’s Catherine,” Elliott said, his tone firm. Much too firm for speaking to an adult, especially a detective.
“My apologies,” Thompson said, a spark in his eye. “Continue.”
Elliott sat forward and cleared his throat. “Catherine came to the window, and . . . we talked.”
“That’s it?”
“I might have climbed the side of her house and stolen a kiss,” Elliott said.
“Is that how you scraped your hands?” Thompson asked.
Elliott held up his free hand. “Yep.”
“What about your knuckles?”
“Fight Friday night after the game.”
“Oh?” the detective said.
“We were still feeling invincible after the game. Got into it with the wrestlers. Stupid guy stuff.”
“I heard you beat Cruz Miller senseless. Is that true?”
“I got a little carried away, yeah.”
“Was it over Catherine?” Thompson asked.
“We were both mouthing off. We’re over it.”
“When did you leave Catherine’s house last night?”
Elliott moved around in his chair. Honesty meant risking the detective telling Mama that he’d stayed the night in the Juniper.
“Elliott,” Thompson prodded, “what time did you leave Catherine’s?”
“I can’t remember,” Elliott said finally.
“You two aren’t telling me something. I can tell you now, it’s best just to be honest in the first place. Otherwise, anything you say later will be questioned.” When we didn’t divulge, he sighed. “Do you have any idea what time he left?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t look at the clock. I’m sorry.”
“Tell me, Catherine. Is Elliott a little too possessive for your taste? Maybe a little controlling?”
I swallowed. “No.”
“He just moved here, right? You two look awfully serious.”
“He stays with his aunt in the summers,” I said. “We’ve known each other for several years.” Walking the tightrope between the truth and lies was something I’d done many times, but in this case, Thompson had an agenda, and I wasn’t sure if my half truths were doing more harm than good.
Thompson tapped his wrinkled index finger on Mrs. Mason’s desk, his wedding ring catching the fluorescent light. He cradled his chin with his other hand. I kept my eyes on his thin hand, counting the liver spots, wondering if his wife knew he terrorized high school kids for sport. The way he watched Elliott made me think he was just getting started.
“Anything else?” Elliott asked. “We should get back to class.”
Detective Thompson was quiet for a while, and then he stood up abruptly. “Yes. Catherine, why don’t you head back to class.”
We stood, hand in hand.
“Elliott, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me,” Thompson said.
Elliott took a protective stance in front of me, holding me close. “What? Why?”
“I need to ask you a few more questions. You can decline, but I’d just be back with a warrant. We can question you then.”
“A warrant for my arrest?” Elliott asked. Every muscle in his body was tense, as if he couldn’t decide whether to run or attack. “Why?”
Mrs. Mason stood, holding out her hands. “Detective, I know you’re not familiar with Elliott, but I think you’re sensing possessiveness when Elliott is actually just very protective of Catherine. Her father passed away a few summers ago, and she and Elliott have a history together. He cares about her very much.”
Thompson arched a brow. “And Catherine has a history with Presley Brubaker. We’ve established that Elliott is very protective of Catherine . . .”
Mrs. Mason shook her head. “No. You’re twisting things. Elliott would never—”
“Will you come to the station with me, Mr. Youngblood? Or will I be seeing you at football practice with a sweet new pair of silver bracelets?” Thompson asked.
Elliott looked down at me, then back at the detective, exhaling through his nose, his nostrils flaring. His expression was severe. I’d only seen that look on his face once before—the day we met.
“I’ll go,” he said simply.
Detective Thompson’s face lit up, and he patted Elliott on the shoulder. “Well, then, Mrs. Mason. I might not be familiar with Mr. Youngblood now, but we’re going to get to know each other real well this evening.” He gripped Elliott’s arm, but I held on to him.
“Wait! Wait a second,” I said.
“It’s going to be okay.” Elliott kissed my forehead. “Call my aunt.” He fished in his pocket and handed me his car keys.
“I . . . don’t know her number.”
“I do,” Mrs. Mason said. “Request a lawyer, Elliott. Don’t say anything else until one arrives.”
Elliott nodded and then left with Detective Thompson. I followed a respectful distance behind, escorted by Mrs. Mason. I watched out the wall of windows at the front of the school while Thompson opened the back of his navy-blue Crown Victoria. I touched the icy window, watching helplessly until Elliott and Thompson were out of sight.
I turned to Mrs. Mason. “He has nothing to do with this!”
“Come back to my office. We’ll find Leigh’s number. We should call her. Now.”
I nodded, following the counselor back to her office. I sat down in the seat I had just occupied minutes before. My knee bounced, and I dug my thumbnail into my forearm while Mrs. Mason tapped on her computer, then picked up her phone.
“Mrs. Youngblood? Hi, it’s Rebecca Mason. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Presley Brubaker has gone missing, and Detective Thompson from the Oak Creek Police Department has come to collect Elliott for questioning. He just took him to the station less than five minutes ago. Elliott asked that I call you.”
I could hear Leigh panicking through the phone, firing off questions.
“Mrs. Youngblood . . . Leigh . . . I know. I know he’s a good boy. But I think . . . I think you should call an attorney to meet Elliott at the station as soon as possible. Yes. Yes, I’m so sorry. Yes. Goodbye.”
Mrs. Mason hung up the phone and then covered her eyes with one hand.
“Becca,” Mr. Mason said, walking through the door.
> Mrs. Mason looked up, trying her best to keep it together, but when she saw her husband, tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over her cheeks.
Mr. Mason rounded the desk and helped his wife to her feet, holding her tight as she tried not to cry. I fell into Mrs. Mason’s line of sight, and she released her husband, straightening her blazer and skirt.
“Catherine?” She cleared her throat. “Leigh is on the way to the police station. John should be there soon. They’re calling Elliott an attorney. I want you to go to class”—sympathy touched her eyes—“and I want you to try very hard not to worry. If anyone, and I mean anyone, bothers you about this, you come straight to me. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Good. I have an appointment with Tatum, Anna Sue, and Brie in ten minutes. Check in with me after lunch, please.”
I nodded, watching her stride out of her office, determined to hold the school together if needed.
The walk to my locker from the office seemed to take twice as long as usual. I twisted the dial, but when I yanked, the door wouldn’t open. The bell rang, and I tried again, desperate to avoid suspicious eyes and whispers. When I failed again, my bottom lip trembled.
“Let me,” Sam said, yanking straight up on the latch. The lock released, and he pulled my locker open.
I quickly switched out my books and slammed the door, twisting the dial again.
“Maddy went home,” Sam said. “Can I walk you?” He looked around. “I should walk you.”
I glanced over my shoulder, cowering under the accusatory glares of other students passing by. Word had already spread. “Thank you.”
Sam kept me close, walking me across the commons to B Hall. The students glared at me and Sam, and I worried he would become a target, too.
When we reached my world lit class, Sam waved to me and went on to his class. I slipped behind my desk, unable to miss Mrs. McKinstry pausing to look at me before taking roll.
I closed my eyes, holding Elliott’s keys tight in my hand. Just a few more hours, and I could go to him. Just a few more hours, and—
“Catherine!” Mrs. McKinstry said.
I looked down, feeling warm liquid pool in my palm and drip down my wrist. Elliott’s keys had punctured my hand.
Mrs. McKinstry grabbed a paper towel and rushed over, forcing me to open my hand. She dabbed my palm, the white paper soaking up the crimson.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” she asked, surprised. “What on earth do you have to be sorry about? Just . . . go to the nurse. She’ll get you cleaned up.”
I gathered my things and rushed out, relieved that I didn’t have to suffer through an entire class with twenty-five pairs of eyes on the back of my head.
The nurse’s office was across from administration, just around the corner and ten feet down from my locker. I stopped at 347, unable to take another step. Feeling Elliott’s keys wadded with the paper towel, I turned on my heel, running toward the double doors that led to the parking lot.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Catherine
My worn, black Converses looked painfully juvenile next to Leigh’s snakeskin stilettos. She sat with perfect posture, waiting in one of the ten or so unpadded metal chairs that lined the main hall of the Oak Creek Police Department.
The walls were a dirty tan, the matching baseboards scuffed with black and splattered with coffee and unknown stains. I counted seven doors breaking up the monotony of the walls that bordered the hallway, most of their top halves taken up by Plexiglas windows that were covered by cheap miniblinds.
The fluorescent lights buzzed above our heads, a reminder that the sunlight from the front windows only reached to the end of the hall.
Occasionally an officer or two would pass us, each one watching with wary eyes, as if we were part of some intricate plan to help Elliott escape.
“I don’t have to tell you that it’s not a good idea to drive Elliott’s vehicle without a license,” Leigh said, keeping her voice low.
I cowered. “Yes. It won’t happen again.”
“Well,” she said, wiping her palms on her slacks, “I’m sure Elliott doesn’t mind, but next time, call me. I’ll come.”
I didn’t bother arguing that Leigh should have come straight to the police station instead of detouring to give me a ride. Leigh was in no mood for backtalk.
“John!” Leigh said, standing.
“I got here as quick as I could. Is he still in there?”
Leigh nodded, her bottom lip trembling.
“Has Kent made it?”
“Yes, he’s been in there for about half an hour. Elliott’s been in there twice as long. I’m not sure what’s happening. They won’t let me see him.”
“Did you call Kay?”
Leigh rubbed her forehead. “She’s on her way.”
John hugged her and then reached for me. I stood, letting him pull me in for a hug.
“It’s going to be okay, girls. We know Elliott had nothing to do with this.”
“Has she been found?” I asked.
John sighed and shook his head. He sat in the chair to my right, Leigh to my left, turning me into a Youngblood sandwich and offering some of the safety I felt when Elliott was close. John turned to his phone, typing arrest process into the search engine bar.
“John,” Leigh said, reaching over me to tap her husband’s knee.
She gestured to the right, and we turned to see Presley’s parents leaving one of the offices, the miniblinds swaying back and forth.
Mrs. Brubaker was dabbing the skin beneath her eyes with a wadded tissue, Presley’s dad guiding his wife with his arm around her shoulders. They stopped, seeing us sitting in the hallway. Mrs. Brubaker sniffed, staring at us in disbelief.
“Uh,” the officer said, holding up her arm to motion for the Brubakers to continue, “this way.”
After several seconds, the officer finally convinced the couple to proceed.
“It’s going to be okay, honey,” John said.
He was talking to his wife, but she hadn’t said anything, so I was surprised when she responded as if she had.
“Don’t tell me it’s going to be okay. Of all the kids in that school, it’s Elliott who was brought back to the police station?”
“Leigh . . . ,” John warned.
“We both know if he was my sister’s son instead of yours, he wouldn’t be here.”
John stared at the door across from him, his eyebrows pulling in a fraction of an inch. “Elliott’s a good boy.”
“Yes, he is, which is why he shouldn’t be here.”
“Catherine?” John asked, turning to me. “What happened at school?”
I took in a breath. I couldn’t tell them Elliott was taken into custody because of his behavior at the school. John and Leigh would want to know why he was being so protective of me. But a part of me wondered why Elliott wasn’t more surprised to hear about Presley. I knew he didn’t care for her, but as laid-back as Elliott was, even he should have been shocked to hear about Presley’s disappearance.
“Well . . . ,” I began. I didn’t want to lie. “The detective questioned him. They don’t know where he walked after he left my house. I think that’s why they’re suspicious.” I wanted to tell Leigh he’d spent the night, but I didn’t want to have to get into why. I considered letting her just assume he’d stayed there to do what most teenagers did, but I couldn’t say it.
Leigh fidgeted. “Last night? We were out. When we got home, I assumed he was in bed.”
“Leigh, don’t say that again,” John said. “The answer is, Elliott came straight home.”
“Dear God,” Leigh whispered. “This looks bad, doesn’t it? We haven’t been on a date in three years, and the first time we go, we needed to be our nephew’s alibi.”
Alibi? The word was familiar but foreign.
The double doors at the end of the hall opened, and
Elliott walked out with a man in a gray suit. Elliott looked flushed, his eyes reflecting the stress and anger that had built up over the past three hours.
Leigh stood and threw her arms around Elliott. He stood there without emotion until his gaze fell on me.
“Are you all right?” Leigh asked, pulling away to look him over. “Did they hurt you? Kent? Is he okay?” she asked.
Kent straightened his tie. “He’s not officially a suspect yet, but he will be if they find a body. They certainly think he has something to do with her disappearance.” He looked to me. “Are you Catherine?”
“Leave her alone, Kent,” Elliott warned. He was shaking with anger.
“Let’s go outside,” Kent said.
Elliott helped me with my coat and then curved his arm around my shoulders, guiding me to the station parking lot. We walked until we reached Leigh’s sedan.
Kent zipped up his coat, looking around at the various cars in the lot. His breath was visible, puffing out and then disappearing into the night air.
“Tell us,” John said. “Are they charging him with something?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Elliott said, his cheeks beet-red.
“I know!” John growled. “Let me talk, damn it!”
“They haven’t found Presley,” Kent said. “It seems she disappeared without a trace. With no witnesses or a body, there are no charges to make.”
I leaned against the car, thinking about the way Kent said body. I imagined Presley lying lifeless in a ditch somewhere, her alabaster skin covered in dead grass and smudged with dirt.
“You okay?” Elliott asked.
“I’m just . . . dizzy.”
“I should get her home,” Elliott said.
“We’re all going home,” John said.
“That’s a good idea,” Kent said, aggravated. He jingled the keys in his suit pocket before pulling them out. “Detective Thompson is out for blood. He thinks something isn’t right with Elliott and Catherine. He said he has a hunch,” he scoffed. “It is my professional advice that you take Elliott straight home. He shouldn’t be walking around in the dark anymore. You know, just in case anyone else goes missing.”
“This is serious, Kent,” Leigh snapped.
“Oh, I know. And it’s not over until that girl is found. And even then, it still might not be over. His anger isn’t helping, Leigh. Make sure he gets a handle on that.”
All the Little Lights Page 26