Scratch the Surface

Before I could finish speaking, Mrs. Robinson grabbed hold of me. Admissions like that apparently called for furious hugging.

Detective Turner made sure to shake my hand and thank me, confirming that she would set a time for Creese to come into her office and talk. She would email all of us with the date.

I was locking the doors a few hours later, making sure the only one left open was to the main building, for the adult support groups; those convened later in the evening. When I turned and found ADA McCauley, I guessed, from the way he was looking at me—trying to smile but his face twisting into more of a grimace—that he’d finally put things together. I, of course, had recognized him immediately, which had not helped at all with my patience. Willing myself to look past our shared history, I practiced what I preached to the kids, and judged him on who he was now, not who he’d been then.

Crossing my arms, I waited.

“It’s…uh—” He coughed. “—been a long time.”

I nodded, waiting.

He raked his fingers nervously through his hair. “Mrs. Chow said you’re working on your master’s now, and I wanted you to know we have several unlicensed positions at the DA’s office. I could put in a––”

“I’m good,” I assured him, slipping by and heading for the main building to let Helen and Bailey know I had locked up the outer rooms so they didn’t have to bother after they finished with their last group.

“Shit,” he muttered behind me, hurrying to catch up, stepping in front of me and barring my path so I either had to stop or slam into him. “I just meant that from everything I’ve heard from other police officers, and from my boss, and from Mrs. Chow, you’re an amazing youth counselor, and they can’t wait until you finish up your master’s, so I thought maybe––”

“You thought what? That you’d get rid of a little guilt over roughing me up in high school, calling me names, throwing things at me when you drove by in your car?”

He rubbed his forehead.

“My favorite, though, my all-time favorite,” I sneered, “was you, drunk, at Mila Long’s party, trying to get me to blow you, and then the very next night, you and your friends beating the shit outta me when I was taking out the trash after closing at Kingman’s.”

I had been left bleeding in the parking lot as he and his friends drove away, but still standing, and I’d broken somebody’s nose. I didn’t remember which one of his dick friends it was, but I knew there were things near a dumpster that could be used in a fight. The good news was, after that, Eddie Stromer, who had been a bouncer back when Kingman’s stayed open later, drove me home every night. The bad news was, sometimes he wanted a blowjob as payment, and he was rough with me. But he’d never made me bleed.

“I…shit.”

I nodded, brushed by him, bumping his shoulder hard, and jogged to the office, where Bailey Sanderson was talking to a couple with a young girl standing between them.

“Excuse me.” They all turned to me. “Bail, it’s all locked and good to go. You don’t need to check.”

She took the keys from me, smiled in that matronly way she had down to a science, being the mother of five, and told me to have a good night.

I smiled back, apologized for interrupting, and ducked back out, only to nearly crash into McCauley again. He reached out, probably to keep me from falling, but I corrected sharply so I didn’t have to touch him at all.

“Could you please, for the love of sweet baby Jesus, let me apologize for what I did when I was young and stupid?” he barked at me, emphasizing the young and stupid he must have felt was all the excuse he needed.

“So I have to accept your apology whether I want it or not,” I replied, scowling at him.

“No, that’s not––”

“How ’bout this. Whenever we see each other, either here or in court or at Kingman’s, we’ll both be civil. You’ll be nice, I’ll be nice, and that’ll be that.”

“It was a long time ago,” he explained to me. “I take care of victims now; that’s my job.”

“Good,” I stated. “Take care of Creese Robinson, because he deserves it.”

“I will,” he stressed, taking a step forward when I took one back. “You know I will.”

“I don’t know anything about you but ancient history,” I declared with a shrug. “But we’ll see, won’t we?”

He was shaking his head when I took the steps and headed toward my bike.

Of course, because it was me, halfway home, my bike died. It wasn’t a surprise; it was on death’s door, and honestly, the fact it hadn’t exploded was a blessing. I called Zack, told him that I was walking to his shop, and he sighed in exasperation.