Collateral Damage (38 page)

Another yawn. "I can be."

She passes me a cup. I take it, grateful.

"Did they give you an update?"

I shake my head.

No.

"Figures." She sits down beside me, tears open a packet of sugar, then dumps its contents into the cup. "Unless you're family, they're pretty anal about giving away information here. Anyway," she continues. "Daniel stayed the night. I just talked to her. She's fine. They diagnosed her with a concussion. She'll probably have headaches for a while. Some dizziness, maybe. The doctor wrote her a prescription in case it gets too bad, but they don't think she'll experience any serious repercussions. They're sending her home in a few hours."

I nod and take a sip of coffee. It's black and bitter and everything I deserve.

"You can go see her, you know."

Yeah, because that would go over really well.

I stifle an exhausted laugh. "She made it pretty clear yesterday that she doesn't want anything to do with me."

"Then why are you still here?" she asks.

Why am I still here? Because I don't have anywhere else to go. Nowhere else I want to be. Because I love Jaden McEntyre more than I love myself.

"Look. I've known Jaden for a while," Sarah says. "When I was going through...all of that stuff with Daniel and my parents, I thought my life was over. But Jaden was my rock. And she is more than one of my best friends—she's like a sister to me. And Daniel? God. That girl can do no wrong." She heaves a sigh, takes a small sip of her coffee. "What I'm saying is that she's important to all of us. And I know she's important to you, too. Otherwise you wouldn't have done what you did, and you wouldn't still be here right now."

That familiar knot clogs my throat again, clinging to it. I struggle to make it disappear. "I love her, and I couldn't even tell her."

She smiles sadly. "She saw something in you, Parker. She picked you for a reason. And she's gonna come back around. I know her, and when she sets her mind on something, she doesn't stop until it's hers. Yes, she's upset. I'm sure she's confused, and hurting, but now's not the time to disappear. Give her some space, but when this blows over, she'll go looking for you. I guarantee it." She rises, adjusts her purse on her shoulder. "Don't make it hard to find you."

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-F
OUR

"Thank you for coming, Officer Whalen," a member of the committee says.

I sit down in one of the leather chairs in the conference room at the courthouse, across from three men and a woman with smart glasses and a deep frown. She flips through a stack of papers, leans to the man next to her, and whispers something.

"No problem," I reply, straightening my tie.

Chief Anderson takes the seat beside me. He's also wearing a dark suit, and it dawns on me that I have never seen him without his uniform. But he's here today. For me.

He passes me an easy nod, and I marvel at how familiar this all feels—being pulled before a committee in the Hamilton courthouse, donning a too-stiff suit purchased straight off the rack, promising my attorney I won't say a word.

Only this time there is no attorney, and whatever the verdict reached in this room today, I won't begin to forget the reason I was called. When it's all over, it might be erased from my record, but never from my memory. I learned that lesson a long time ago.

"In the investigation in the matter of the death of Vincent De Luca," the woman begins, pushing her papers aside and glancing at me, "we'd like to ask you a few questions. We expect you to answer honestly and to the best of your ability."

An attorney might not have been such a bad idea.

"We've already spoken to a number of those involved and studied the evidence related to this case, but we'd like to give you an opportunity to share your side before we compose the final report and make our recommendations to the board," she continues, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Pure committee head. All business. She glances back at her papers. "Could you please, for the record, state your name? You are being recorded."

Like I'd expect anything less from these people.

I clear my throat, wipe my palms across my pants, shift in my seat—try to get comfortable. "My name is Parker Whalen."

"Your full name, please?"

"Christopher Parker Whalen."

"How long have you worked for the Hamilton Police Department?" she asks.

"About two years."

"Was this your first undercover assignment?"

Chief Anderson leans back in the seat beside me, arms folding.

"No. It was my second."

She's the only one on the panel taking notes. Another woman sits at the far end of the table, typing, transcribing our conversation. I try to ignore the clack clack clacking of the steno machine.

"What, exactly, do you do, Officer? What is the purpose of these assignments?"

"I go undercover in high schools to investigate drug activity."

"Would you consider yourself
successful
at this?" I must imagine the sneer as she says the word.

"I guess it depends on how you define 'success,'" I reply.

If you call getting drug dealers off the streets "successful," then yes. I am. If you call hurting every person you've ever cared about "successful," then yes. I am.

"Did you make an arrest during your first stint as an undercover agent?" she asks.

"Yes. It was an open and shut case. It didn't take long to bring down the supplier. He was a student at the school."

"Thank you." She sets the paper aside and moves a new one to the top. "We're going to shift our attention now to the incident that took place in the parking lot of Bedford High School involving the deceased, Vincent De Luca of Trenton, defendants Anthony Perri, Blake Hanson, and Brandon Garrels, and the victim, Jaden McEntyre, all of Bedford." She clears her throat before continuing. "Tell us, Officer Whalen, what was your relationship to Miss McEntyre, the victim in this incident?"

My spine stiffens at the sound of her name. It's bad enough I see her every time I close my eyes—blood streaming down her face, tears in her eyes. It's bad enough that her cries punctuate my dreams—pulling me out of a dead sleep and into a cold sweat, screaming into my pillow. It's bad enough that I have to relive that afternoon in my head—over and over again—but to make me talk about it? To hear these things? To hear her name? To confirm everything we shared out loud?

It's torture.

"She was my partner for a project in our English class."

"But not just a partner."

"Is that a question?" I ask.

"Did your relationship with Miss McEntyre extend outside of this English project, Officer?" she asks.

"You already know the answer, so why are you asking?"

"We'd like to hear it from you. For the record."

The room is quiet—silent, save the air conditioning unit at the window—all eyes on me.

"Yes. We had a relationship outside of school. We met a few times to work on the project. I fell for her, she fell for me. We skipped school together the day after she found out she didn't get into Harvard. She was upset, and I wasn't thinking. It was a mistake. I knew it was wrong—that it couldn't happen again. I ended everything the next day."

The woman's dark eyes remain fixed on me, an extra beat passing before she adjusts her glasses and continues. "On the day of the incident, a student by the name of Blake Hanson was arrested under the suspicion that he, too, was connected to Mr. De Luca. What was his relationship with Miss McEntyre?"

"He was her boyfriend. They had been dating for…about a year, I guess. I don't know the details. I saw him at one of Vince's parties. Before that night, I had no idea he was connected to Vince."

"What about Anthony Perri? What was his connection to the deceased?"

"Tony and Vince knew each other pretty well. Vince was Tony's dealer," I explain. "At first I thought Tony might've been supplying the rest of the basketball team, but my locker searches turned up nothing. Plus, Brandon asked me if I could put in a good word for him."

"Meaning?"

"He wanted me to let Vince know he was cool—he wanted in, too. This led me to believe Tony was just a customer."

"Was the idea that Mr. Garrels needed a connection to the deceased in order to obtain illegal narcotics perpetuated by Mr. De Luca?"

"I don't know," I admit. "Vince seemed selective. He didn't supply to just anyone."

"Thank you. Can you describe your relationship with Blake Hanson?"

The air conditioner shuts off. The room grows warmer instantly. Chief Anderson rises, makes his way to a table in the corner of the room and fills a plastic cup with water from a pitcher.

"I didn't have a relationship with Blake Hanson. I told you—I was looking at Vince. I had no idea Tony was the link to Bedford, or that Blake was involved in any way."

"Then can you describe your
encounters
with Blake Hanson?" she asks.

The Chief returns and sets the cup of water on the table, slides it closer. The water wasn't for him. It was for me.

"There were three separate incidents. He crashed a study session Jaden and I were having in the library one afternoon. We ran into each other at one of Vince's parties. And then, the day after Jaden and I skipped, we had an altercation in the parking lot."

"Describe what you mean by 'altercation.'"

"He cornered me at Jaden's car. He was pissed because he knew Jade and I had been together the day before. We got into a fight."

"Who started the fight?"

"It doesn't really matter. I'd say he did. He'd say I did. We both swung."

Papers are shuffled. The stenographer clack clack clacks. I sneak a quick glance at the time on my cell phone.

"Officer Whalen, on the day of the incident, did you have any idea there were students in the parking lot?" the woman asks.

"No. In fact, that's why I picked the time I did. I knew students would be gone. I knew it wouldn't look suspicious if I asked Vince to meet me there. I conferred with the principal, who agreed to have everyone off campus and all doors to the building locked."

"What did you do when you realized that Jaden McEntyre was still at the school, sitting in her car?"

My thoughts move in fits and starts, memories pushing their way to the surface.

That lone white Civic.

It's Jaden.

I wipe my palms across my khakis.

Vince screams in my ear:
"Open the door!"

"I immediately called it off," I say, reaching for the water. "I decided I wasn't going through with the arrest. I tried to get her out of the parking lot."