Detective Preisano directed us down the hallway to a different, private room. The same shitty chairs lined each side of a long table. The walls were a pale, industrial green. The only view to the outside world was a small, square window in the door. When the door clunked closed, it felt like we’d been sealed into a bunker.
“What’s this about?” Pop asked as we sat down.
Detective Preisano settled into the seat across from us. He took his time putting out his leather portfolio and then slid a piece of paper across the table to Pop.
“This is a juvenile-interrogation form, Mr. Barrett. Basically states your son’s right to remain silent, to an attorney, and so on. You can stop the questioning at any time, if you wish.”
Pop glanced quickly over the paper. “If he’s not under arrest, why is he being questioned?”
“Your friend brought up some new information. I want to give you a chance to tell your side of the story.”
I put my elbows on the table, turned to Pop. Satisfied, he signed the form, looked at me, and put out his hand, gesturing to go ahead and talk.
“So then,” Detective Preisano said, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head, “why the banged-up face?”
“It just happened.”
He leaned forward, pulling a pen from the clasp in the center of his portfolio, and opened up to a yellow-lined pad with scribbles on it. Pop shifted in his chair.
“Well, your friend, the one who looks as bad as you . . .” he said, consulting the scribbles. “Luke, is it?”
I nodded.
“He told an interesting story about tonight. You sure you don’t have anything to say to me?”
My insides jolted, like that full-body muscle jerk you sometimes get right before falling asleep. For all I knew, Luke could have told the police about the necklace. I doubted it though. That would brew up a shit storm involving Spiro, Lenny, and the rest of their food chain that none of us would ever be prepared to deal with. Luke might have wanted to stir the pot but not deep enough to do the time for all the stuff we had pulled. This was his way of saying checkmate.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I answered.
“Grayson,” Pop prodded, leaning on the table next to me.
“He claims he was there because you owed him something, and when you couldn’t produce it, you offered up”—he ran his pen down the notepad and stopped, tapping the tip at a certain spot—“the Marshall amps instead. And when he didn’t want those, things turned violent.”
“That’s a lie,” I said, the words pouring out before I could even think.
“Which part?”
“All of it,” I answered.
The detective laughed, but there was frustration beneath it.
There because I owed him something? The story began to concoct itself in my head. I didn’t want to lie, but I was desperate. And if Luke wanted to mess with me, I’d get him right back. All I wanted to do was deflect as much of this away from Wren as possible.
“Taking the amps was his idea, not mine,” I said.
Detective Preisano leaned forward, chin up, ready to take what I had to offer.
“I owed Luke a term paper. Two actually,” I said, turning to Pop. His reaction was just what I needed. His head fell back, eyes closed. He ran a hand across his face before looking at me again, shaking his head.
“Term papers?” Detective Preisano’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Am I missing something?”
“Luke is ranked third at Saint Gabe’s and has his eyes on Princeton or Penn. He needs to maintain a certain GPA and needed a little help. He paid me. I’ll admit that, and I thought about doing it, but I decided against it after getting in so much trouble last year.”
“What kind of trouble?” he asked, writing something down.
“I was expelled from Saint Gabe’s, sir. I had a pretty extensive term-paper business there for a while, but I got sloppy, got caught.”
“Grayson,” Pop said, “the school dealt with this the way they saw fit. It’s over.”
“I know,” I said. “Luke asked me for help and offered me the money up front. But I reneged, even though I did spend the money. I do owe him that. He said he’d take the amps and sell them to make up for the loss, but I really think it was just a threat. I threw the first punch.”
Detective Preisano’s face remained cool, but I could see in his eyes that I’d just diffused whatever bomb Luke had dropped. He nodded.
“Must be some damn good term papers.”
“I was the best, sir,” I answered. “But it’s not worth getting expelled again. I didn’t think it was worth it for Luke either.”
“What I’m still not getting is why you were at the Camelot?”
I looked down, closed my eyes.
“Wren Caswell is my girlfriend,” I said, keeping my face lowered. “We were there to, um . . .” I hesitated, not knowing if what I was about to say would help, hurt, or make Wren hate me forever, but I was pretty sure it would get the heat off all of our backs. “. . . be alone.”
Detective Preisano’s eyebrows raised in understanding. Pop let out a long, slow breath next to me.
“Are we finished here? He’s not being held, correct?”
“You’re free to go,” Detective Preisano said, standing up. He held out his hand to me. No fear. I shook it, giving him a small nod before Pop led me out of the room.
The air in the hallway was cooler and a relief after being held up for so long. I wasn’t even sure how much time had passed, but it suddenly felt like hours. On our way out of headquarters, we ran into Mr. Dobson.
Decked out in a dark, tailored suit and traveling in a cloud of scent that was a mix of spicy cologne and a hint of alcohol, he looked like he’d been called away from a dinner date. His eyes gleamed when he saw us, a slow grin crossing his face.
“Grayson,” he said, embracing me, then backing up to gawk at my injuries.
He looked at Pop. “Hell, Blake, what trouble have our sons gotten into now?” He gave Pop’s hand a hearty pump. He didn’t seem to notice that Pop was not amused.
“It’s been too long; we should all get together. Tell Tiff that Izzy said to call her,” he said, waving us off as he continued into the station. Neither of us had said a word to him.
“Asshole,” my father hissed. Truth was he didn’t know the half of it. Mr. Dobson seemed like a happy drunk, but Luke had told me otherwise. For a moment I felt bad for Luke, for what he was about to face when his father walked into the room or, later, when he got him home.
Tiffany was parked out front, sitting in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes. I’d never been so happy to see her. Pop settled down into the front seat. I slid into the backseat, ignoring Tiff’s plea to put on my seat belt, and promptly passed out across the length of it, thinking of Wren.
TWENTY-FIVE
WREN
I WAITED ON THE BENCH OUTSIDE OF MY MOTHer’s office while she spoke to the glass guy about the damages. Without a party going on, the Camelot showed its age. Sir Gus was a sorry, dusty knight with nothing to preside over. The wood paneling and burgundy curtains—which usually added a homey, secluded air—made me feel like I was sitting in a dated medieval-theme-park ride. Even the portrait of my great-grandfather looked a little corny in the plain light, without the glow from the fireplace. The place truly was a relic from another time. And soon a wrecking ball would dash right through it. The thought was thoroughly depressing.
A half hour had passed since the police cars had left, and I was still burning with anger at the way my father had dismissed me so forcefully from the scene—even more embarrassing was that he’d done it in front of Grayson. I couldn’t imagine what Gray was going through at the police station, but whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good. I was tortured enough just anticipating my own private, Dad-led interrogation.