Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 100294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
“What?” Madeline gets a panicked expression.
“That’s my and Grant’s room.” In fact, where is his ass? He’s always up in my face, but he hadn’t made it to the assembly. An officer steps out of the room, my brother behind him. He’s holding a bag that has red tape on the top of it. That’s when I see what’s inside it.
The glint of plastic and metal. Coach Murphy’s school ID. The one she wore on a lanyard every day. The one we found in the boathouse.
Grant follows the officer out, stone-faced. Unreadable. That’s my MO, not Grant’s. Georgia lets out a small gasp.
“Grant?” Madeline steps forward, but I put my hand on her arm, keeping her close.
“This is bullshit,” Grant says, his tone flat. He looks at me but gives nothing away. He’s not fighting because fighting means explaining. Explaining means telling them we were all at the boathouse that night. We saw a dead body and said nothing. It means exposing all of us. So either he cares about us enough to get arrested or he’s guilty and did it right in front of our faces.
They cuff him. Grant doesn’t resist, doesn’t struggle. He just looks at me one more time, a silent message passing between us—keep her safe.
Then they haul him away.
Madeline grabs my arm, her fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Luke, they just—they can’t—he didn’t—”
“I know,” I say, watching them lead Grant down the hallway, keeping Madeline tucked against my side.
“Luke.” Bennett’s voice cuts through the chaos. He’s walking toward us with two officers flanking him, and his face is that careful blank mask he uses when he’s about to do something he hates. “We need to talk. All three of you.”
Madeline stiffens. “We didn’t do anything.”
“I know,” Bennett says, and I catch the slight softening when he looks at her, the acknowledgment that she’s Paislee’s sister. “But you’ve been spending time with Grant. The police have questions.”
They lead us to Bennett’s office, not the interrogation room, which is something, but the message is clear. We’re not free to leave.
Inside are two cops. One cop, a woman with hard eyes and a notebook, is standing by the bookshelf. The other is Sheriff Brinks, someone I have a love-hate relationship with. He loves to fuck with me, and I hate his fucking ass.
“Grant wouldn’t kill Coach Murphy.” I say it before anyone because it’s fucking ridiculous. “He’s nice.” Good description, Luke. I’m really selling this.
“Your friend Grant,” the woman says. “He’s got a record.”
“What?” Georgia’s voice cracks.
The cop flips open her notebook. “He has anger issues.”
I think of Grant’s hands and how controlled he usually is. How he never loses his temper, never raises his voice. He’s the calmest guy I know.
“That doesn’t mean he killed anyone,” I say. If that were the case, I would have a pile of bodies around here.
“We have footage from the security camera.” Sheriff Brinks steps forward with a tablet in hand. The fuck? If they have footage, they should be asking a whole lot of other shit.
Sheriff Brinks shows us the iPad.
It’s grainy, black and white, timestamped 4:17 a.m. The night after we saw the body. A figure walks up to the boathouse door and goes inside. Stays for twelve minutes, then comes back out.
The figure is wearing a hoodie, head down, but when he turns—just for a second—the camera catches his face.
Grant. Even with how shitty the footage is, there’s no denying it’s him.
Oh fuck. Grant, what have you done? Why the hell did he go back there?
“That’s not—” I start.
“That’s Grant Harrison entering what we believe to be the crime scene at four in the morning.”
Madeline goes pale. “Where is that?” She acts, playing dumb.
“It’s the boathouse on the Monroe property,” Sheriff Brinks tells her.
Madeline’s brows pull together. “That time stamp and date. That’s the same night; a ton of us were there. There was a giant party. Where is the rest of the footage? There has to be more.”
“It’s a motion-activated camera,” the woman says.
“Yeah, and? People were everywhere. It should have shown more.”
“This is all they said showed up that night, so the party must not have ventured that far down.” He closes out the iPad. Or they hadn’t handed it over. Caleb. I’m going to be all over your ass when I get out of here. That’s his family’s home, which means he provided them with the footage.
“Maybe he forgot something,” Georgia whispers, her voice barely audible.
“Or maybe he was cleaning up evidence he missed the first time,” Sheriff Brinks says, not sounding annoyed.
I shake my head. “No. Grant wouldn’t—he’s not—he’s the most controlled guy I know. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t—”
“Then explain this.” The female cop slides a photo across Bennett’s desk.
It’s Paul. Or rather, Paul’s face. I pick it up. “Are you saying Grant did this?”