I pull out my key fob, but just as I reach my truck, I see something tucked under the windshield wiper.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I yell into the empty parking lot. I rip the paper free—another photo. This time, it’s a print of Hud and me in my front yard, posing for prom pictures, except my face has been scratched out.
Now I’m not just angry. I’m scared. Someone’s following us, and they clearly don't want me in the picture. Literally.
I fire off a new text to Hudson, canceling out my earlier one, then pull up the cop’s number from the brick incident. I tell him I got another photo and note, and that Hudson’s been getting more, too. He tells me they already have Hud’s notes on file and instructs me to bring mine in to add to the evidence when I get the chance.
Which is now.
I jump in the truck and call my mom, asking if she will meet me at the station. I know she has a full schedule ofhouse showings today, and I feel guilty that I’m pulling her away for this shit.
We pull into the station at the same time. I get out, jittery and wired, scanning the lot like I’m being hunted. My head’s on a swivel, half expecting someone to pop out of the shadows with a camera.
“We’ll figure this out, sweetie.” Mom calms me, rubbing a hand up and down my back as we walk into the station.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I don’t need to look to know it’s Hudson. I’m still upset he lied again, so I silence it just as the officer from before walks out from behind the desk.
“Cullen, Mrs. Anderson. Good to see you again.” He welcomes us kindly, then leads us back through a door and into a drab interrogation room that smells vaguely of mildew.
“The detective will be taking over the case now that it’s escalating,” he explains, then turns and leaves us in the cold room.
We sit in silence, and my knee won’t stop bouncing, my nerves buzzing. My phone lights up on the table again, making me jump. My knee smacks the underside of the table with a loudthunk. Well, that stopped the bouncing, at least.
HUD:Where did you go? Is everything okay?
“You should answer him,” Mom encourages.
Ignoring her, I just stare at the screen, teeth clenched.
Why can’t he be honest with me? I don’t know what else I can do to prove my worth.
The door opens, and in walks a middle-aged man with a seventies porn ‘stache and the most cliche outfit I’veever seen. His plaid sport coat’s too big, khakis wrinkled, and I’m pretty sure that’s a coffee stain near the zipper. He looks like a shady detective straight out of some B-movie.
Fantastic.
My hopes sink straight through the floor.
“Sorry to keep you folks waiting. It’s busy when you’re the only detective in this unit,” he boasts, puffing out his chest like a badge of honor. That’s not much to brag about since our town has fewer than fifteen thousand people, and occasional graffiti tag aside, there's no crime.
“I’m Detective Whitfield. I’ll be taking over your case from the boys in blue.” He sticks out a meaty hand, dry as the Sahara, and flashes a yellowed smile.
Mom beats me to it, taking his hand gingerly. “I’m Eliza Anderson, and this is my son, Cullen.”
“Nice to meet ya.” He nods. “Officer Martinez gave me the rundown on what’s happened so far, and I can assure you, we’re going to get to the bottom of this. Our town doesn’t tolerate hate crimes.” He punctuates it with a dramatic fist pound on the table. “When we figure out who’s behind this, they’ll be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
What does he think this is?Law and Order?
“You think this is a hate crime?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry.
“Well, given the nature of the photos and notes, it appears that way. It’s the most logical conclusion.”
“What do Hudson’s notes say?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t share details of that evidence. It was provided by the other party involved. I can tell you that some of the content was sexually explicit, others threatening.”
Mom bristles. “You think it’s a hate crime when the notes are sexually explicit?” She leans forward, eyes sharp. “Sounds more like someone’s obsessed and you're labeling it a hate crimeto serve your own political ambitions. Tell me, if Cullen were in a heterosexual relationship, would this still be considered a hate crime?”
Detective Whitfield blinks. His stunned expression lasts only a moment before he slaps on a greasy smile. “Eliza. May I call you Eliza?”
