"Stop asking me that," I snap.
His shoulders sag. "The police chief must have his reasons. We have to trust they know what they’re doing.”
"But I know he’s innocent!" I glare at him. "And if you were really my friend, you’d believe me."
His eyes darken. "I am your friend, Kat. That’s why I’m trying to stop you from getting wrapped up in all this."
I shake my head. "No. You think you know the truth, but you don’t. I can’t let Ichabod take the fall for this."
We stand there for a moment, the tension thick between us. Eventually, he mutters, "Fine. Do whatever you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you."
Without another word, he turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of the street.
I storm away in the opposite direction, my boots striking against the paving stones with sharp, angry steps. He doesn’t get it. None of them do. But how am I supposed to explainhowI know Ichabod is innocent? And why is everyone so quick to believe the worst about him?
I round the corner and find myself on the narrow street where Ichabod lives, my breath still coming in furious bursts. The sight in front of me stops me dead in my tracks.
There’s a dark police car parked outside Ichabod’s flat. The back door of the vehicle is open, and standing beside it are two uniformed officers. Between them is Ichabod, hands cuffed behind his back.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I take a shaky step forward, but I don’t know what to do.
Ichabod’s face is pale, his dark eyes heavy with fear and resignation. As the officers guide him towards the back of thecar, he looks around and his gaze finds mine. He shakes his head slightly.
The two officers move him into the backseat, closing the door with a finality that makes my stomach drop. As the car pulls away, I stand frozen, my fingers clenched into fists at my sides.
This can’t be happening.
18
Ihave to do something. I know Ichabod is innocent. The thought settles deep in my chest, heavy with injustice. I can’t let him be accused of these crimes while the real killer, the Horseman, roams free around Sleepy Hollow.
Without thinking, I start walking, following the direction of the police car towards the station. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I get there. I don’t really have a plan, but I have to try. There must be someone I can talk to. To plead his case.
Luckily the town is small, and the police station is only a short walk. The building is squat, an old stone structure with flickering lanterns casting weak pools of light onto the street. I don’t pause when I get there. I push through the heavy door and step inside. The front desk sergeant, a man with a thick beard, glances up from his paperwork.
“I need to speak with someone,” I say, my voice sounding more sure than I feel. “About Ichabod Crane.”
He shuffles some papers together. “Are you a relative?” He sounds almost bored.
I hesitate. “No, but…”
“Then I’m afraid we can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you,” he says, turning to deposit the papers in a tray behind his chair.
I grip the edge of the wooden counter. “But I saw him being arrested. And you’ve got it wrong, he didn’t do it.”
The sergeant sighs, picking up yet another stack of paperwork and continuing his filing. “Miss, I can see that you’re upset, but we have our procedures.”
“If I could just talk to Ichabod? Just for five minutes?”
The sergeant finally stops shuffling his papers and looks directly at me, sighing again. “No, miss. I can’t let you talk to the main suspect in an ongoing case either.”
Frustration bubbles in my stomach and I take a deep, steadying breath. My mind races. What if I try a different tack? When Brom had told me about the Headless Horseman legend, it was because I had been holding the town history book. Some people must believe it’s real, for it to be written down, published and sold. What if this officer is one of those people? Maybe if I tell him the truth, maybe he’ll listen. I can only try.
I steel myself. “Look. I know Ichabod is innocent. Because, what’s behind the killings — it’s the Headless Horseman. He’s real, and he’s back.”
The desk sergeant had been filling in some kind of form, but now the pen stills in his hand. He lifts his gaze slowly, studying my face.
