I don’t care.
“Line up,” I repeat, pulling out my badge and holding it up so every kid in the room can see it. “Now.”
They shuffle into something resembling a line. It’s less than two dozen boys, ages ranging from maybe fourteen to seventeen, all dressed in variations of hoodies and joggers and sneakers that probably cost more than Lottie’s diaper budget, and that’s really saying something. A few of them are still holding their phones, still recording as if they need it as evidence to protect themselves.
“Name,” I say to the first kid. He’s tall with an athletic build, probably a basketball player.
“Joey Morrison.” He rattles off his phone number without being asked. Smart kid.
I pull out my notebook and write it down. “ID.”
He produces a student ID from Honey Hollow High. The photo matches. I move on.
The next few go smoothly. Names, numbers, IDs. Most of them are telling the truth—I can tell from their body language, the way they make eye contact, the lack of hesitation.
Then I get to a shorter kid with a baseball cap pulled low. He’s grinning before I even ask.
“Name?”
“Hugh Jass.”
The room explodes.
Boys are literally doubled over, slapping each other, howling with laughter like this is the funniest thing they’ve heard all year. One kid falls off the couch. Another one is laughing so hard, no sound is coming out, and I’m half afraid he’s going to have a medical episode.
Hugh Jass.
I don’t even blink. “Providing false information to law enforcement is aclass B misdemeanor. That’s up to ninety days in jail and a thousand-dollar fine.” I look directly at Baseball Cap. “So, I’ll ask again. Name?”
His grin falters. “Jake. Jake Patterson.”
“Phone number.”
He gives it. I write it down.
I work my way through the rest of the line. More names, more numbers, more student IDs. The small kid with the long dark hair who opened the door earlier is Daryl’s son, Tyler. He looks miserable, embarrassed, like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.
Good. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.
When I’m done, I survey the room as twenty faces stare back at me. Some defiant, some scared, most trying to figure out if they’re actually in trouble or if this is still just a story they’ll tell atschool tomorrow.
“All right.” I close my notebook. “Let’s make this easy on everyone and save a lot of time. Who threw the rock?”
Silence.
Complete, total silence.
Well, not complete. There’s still music playing from somewhere—some rap song with a bass line that could crack foundations, the lyrics something about cooking in the kitchen with the pots and pans or some nonsense. But none of the boys are talking.
They’re all looking at each other. Waiting to see who breaks first. Some unspoken teenage code of silence that says snitches get stitches or whatever they’re calling it these days.
I wait. Let the silence stretch. It’s an old interrogation technique—people hate silence, they’ll fill it eventually.
But these aren’t seasoned criminals. These are teenage boys who think loyalty means protecting the idiot who nearly killed someone.
“Nobody?” I look at each face individually. “Nobody wants to tell me who thought throwing a rock at a moving vehicle was a good idea?”
More silence.
