Huck said, “Officer Rodgers, holster your weapon and take this revolver.”
Charlie felt rather than saw a swarm of police officers run past her. The air billowed around them like the cartoon swirls that came out of clouds, nothing more than thin, curved lines that indicated movement.
Then a paramedic was holding tightly to Charlie’s arm. Then someone was shining a flashlight into her eyes, asking if she was hurt, if she was in shock, if she wanted to go to the hospital.
“No,” Mrs. Pinkman said. Another paramedic was checking her for injuries. Her red shirt was soaked with blood. “Please. I’m fine.”
No one was checking on Mr. Pinkman.
No one was checking on the little girl.
Charlie looked down at her hands. The bones inside the tips of her fingers were vibrating. The sensation slowly spread until she felt like she was standing an inch outside of her body, that every breath was a reverberation of another breath that she had previously taken.
Mrs. Pinkman cupped her hand to Charlie’s cheek. She used her thumb to wipe away tears. Pain was etched into the deep wrinkles lining the woman’s face. With anyone else, Charlie would’ve pulled away, but she leaned into Mrs. Pinkman’s warmth.
They had been here before.
Twenty-eight years ago, Mrs. Pinkman was Miss Heller, living with her parents two miles away from the farmhouse. She was the one who’d answered the tentative knock at her door and found thirteen-year-old Charlie standing on the front porch, covered in sweat, streaked with blood, asking if they had any ice cream.
That was what people focused on when they told the story—not that Gamma had been murdered or that Sam had been buried alive, but that Charlie had eaten two bowls of ice cream before she’d told Miss Heller that something bad had happened.
“Charlotte.” Huck grabbed her shoulder. She watched his mouth move as he repeated the name that wasn’t her name anymore. His tie was undone. She saw the red splotches dotting the white bandage around his arm.
“Charlotte.” He shook her again. “You need to call your dad. Now.”
Charlie looked up, looked around. Time had moved on without her. Mrs. Pinkman was gone. The paramedics had disappeared. The only thing that remained the same was the bodies. They were still there, just a few feet away. Mr. Pinkman with his tie over his shoulder. The little girl with her pink jacket that was stained with blood.
“Call him,” Huck said.
Charlie fumbled for the phone in her back pocket. He was right. Rusty would be worried. She needed to let him know that she was okay.
Huck said, “Tell him to bring the newspapers, the chief of police, whoever he can get down here.” He looked away. “I can’t stop them on my own.”
Charlie felt a tightness in her chest, her body telling her that she was trapped inside something dangerous. She followed Huck’s gaze down the hallway.
He wasn’t worried about Charlie.
He was worried about Kelly Wilson.
The teenager was face down on the floor, both arms handcuffed tightly behind her back. She was petite, no more than Charlie’s size, but she was pinned down the same as if she were a violent con. One cop had his knee pressed into her back, another kneeled on her legs and yet another was grinding the sole of his boot into the side of the girl’s face.
These actions alone could be seen through the wide lens of admissible restraint, but that’s not why Huck had told her to call Rusty. Five more cops stood in a circle around the girl. She hadn’t heard them before but she could hear them clearly now. They were screaming, cursing, waving their arms around. Charlie knew some of these men, recognized them from high school or the courtroom or both. The expressions on their faces were all painted in the same shade of rage. They were furious about the deaths, livid about their own feelings of helplessness. This was their town. Their school. They had children who were students here, teachers, friends.
One of the cops punched a locker so hard that the hinge broke on the metal door. Others kept clenching and unclenching their hands. A few walked back and forth across the short length of the hall like animals in a cage. Maybe they were animals. One wrong word could spark a kick, then a punch, then batons would be pulled, guns would be drawn, and they would set upon Kelly Wilson like jackals.
“My girl’s that age,” someone hissed between gritted teeth. “They were in the same class.”
Another fist slammed into another locker.
“Pink coached me up,” someone said.
“He ain’t never gonna coach nobody up never again.”
Yet another locker door was kicked off its hinges.
“You—” Charlie’s voice cracked before she could finish. This was dangerous. Too dangerous. “Stop,” she said, then begged, “Please stop.”
They either didn’t hear her or didn’t care.
“Charlotte,” Huck said. “Don’t get into this. Just—”
“Fucking bitch.” The cop with his knee jammed into Kelly’s back yanked a fistful of the girl’s hair. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you kill ’em?”
“Stop,” Charlie said. Huck’s hand went to her arm, but she stood up anyway. “Stop,” she repeated.
No one was listening. Her voice was too timid because every muscle in her body was telling her not to insert herself into this buzz saw of masculine fury. It was like trying to stop dogs from fighting, except the dogs had loaded guns.
“Hey,” Charlie said, fear making her choke on the word. “Take her to the station. Put her in lock-up.”
Jonah Vickery, an asshole jock she knew from high school, snapped out his metal baton.
“Jonah.” Charlie’s knees were so weak that she had to lean against the wall to keep from sliding to the floor. “You need to Mirandize her and—”
“Charlotte.” Huck motioned for her to sit back down on the floor. “Don’t get into this. Call your dad. He can stop this.”
He was right. Cops were afraid of her father. They knew about his lawsuits, his public platform. Charlie tried to press the home button on the phone. Her fingers were too thick. Sweat had turned the dried blood into a thick paste.
“Hurry,” Huck said. “They’re going to end up killing her.”
Charlie watched a foot swing into Kelly’s side hard enough to make the girl’s hips leave the ground.
Another metal baton snapped out.
Charlie finally managed to press the home button. A photo of Huck’s dog filled the screen. She didn’t ask Huck for the code. It was too late to call Rusty. He wouldn’t make it to the school in time. She tapped the camera icon, knowing it bypassed the lock screen. Two swipes later, the video was recording. She zoomed in on the girl’s face. “Kelly Wilson. Look at me. Can you breathe?”
Kelly blinked. Her head looked like it was the size of a doll’s compared to the black police-issue boot that was pressing into the side of her face.
Charl
ie said, “Kelly, look into the camera.”
“God dammit,” Huck cursed. “I said to—”
“You guys need to stop this.” Charlie dragged her shoulder against the lockers as she walked closer to the lion’s den. “Take her to the station. Photograph her. Fingerprint her. Don’t let this blow back on—”
“She’s filming us,” one of the cops said. Greg Brenner. Another asshole jock. “Put it down, Quinn.”
“She’s a sixteen-year-old girl.” Charlie kept recording. “I’ll ride with her in the back of the car. You can arrest her and—”
“Make her stop,” Jonah said. He was the one with his foot pressed against the face of a teenage girl. “She’s worse than her fucking father.”
“Give her a bowl of ice cream,” Al Larrisy suggested.
Charlie said, “Jonah, get your boot off her head.” She trained the camera onto each man’s face. “There’s a right way to do this. You all know that. Don’t be the reason this case gets tossed.”
Jonah pressed his foot down so hard that Kelly’s jaw was forced open. Blood dribbled out where her braces had cut into her cheek. He said, “You see that dead baby over there?” He pointed up the hallway. “You see where her neck got blowed off?”
“What do you think?” Charlie asked, because she had the little girl’s blood all over her hands.
“I think you care more about a fucking murderer than you do about two innocent victims.”
“That’s enough.” Greg tried to grab the phone. “Turn it off.”
Charlie turned away so she could keep filming. “Put us both in the car,” she said. “Take us to the station and—”
“Give me that.” Greg reached for the phone again.
Charlie tried to feint away, but Greg was too fast. He snatched the phone out of her hand and threw it to the ground.
Charlie leaned down to retrieve it.
“Leave it,” he ordered.
Charlie kept reaching for the phone.
Without warning, the point of Greg’s elbow cracked against the bridge of her nose. Her head snapped back, banging into the locker. The pain was like a bomb had gone off inside of her face. Charlie’s mouth opened. She coughed out blood.