Sheriff Henderson’s head flinches backs, and he pulls a notepad from his jacket pocket. “Our records indicate you didn’t call the station until two.” His gray eyes narrow. “What took you so long?”
Your low-budget, sorry-excuse-for-a-station, that’s what. I bite down growing irritation. “We tried calling right away, but no one answered.”
The sheriff’s face softens. “Sorry about that. We’ve been having trouble with the phone line. I’ve got someone working on it. You didn’t think to stop by in person?”
Gideon looks to me, worry lines etched in his forehead. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He turns back to Sheriff Henderson. “That was my fault, sir. I thought maybe Cass was confused. I should’ve listened to her sooner.” An unspoken implication shadows his words: I would’ve listened if you’d been honest with me. “We went to Melody’s house to check on her first. She wasn’t home, and then Cass fell off her bike.” He motions to the bandage on my head. “And then Cass—”
“Noticed Melody had posted on Instagram,” I cut in before Gideon can mention the sawmill. The sheriff will want to know why I went up there, and I can’t explain it without mentioning Brandon or the notebook. “So I figured I’d misheard. Gideon got me home to treat my head.”
Beside me, Gideon stares with some mixture of confusion and horror.
“Hmm.” Sheriff Henderson’s forehead creases. “We’re looking into the Instagram account.” He stands up, jangling a set of keys and squinting at me. “Cassidy, how’s your head now?”
It feels like someone threw a brick at my skull. “It’s great.”
“Good. I want you to show me where you heard this go down.”
* * *
Sheriff Henderson parks a few houses down from mine, and we lead him to the log. I point out the spot, recounting what I heard in full detail. Gideon shoots me a furrowed look when we get closer to the log, but I can’t read it or even focus. I need another dose of ibuprofen for this raging headache.
After hearing us out, Sheriff Henderson stares down at his notepad for an uncomfortable moment. Then he motions for us to stay back as he approaches the log, clomping a perimeter around it. I wait in feverish agitation for him to spot the empty raspberry wine cooler. Brandon’s prints could be pulled off of it.
But he keeps walking until he’s made it full circle.
My heart swerves in my chest, and I rush closer. “Isn’t there—”
But the sheriff puts up his hand. “Whoa, whoa. Easy there. I need you to stay back.” It hits me with the force of a sledgehammer.
He came back. Brandon came back and cleaned up, just like he did at the sawmill. Even those marks in the dirt have been meticulously swept away.
Sheriff Henderson’s eyes flick to Gideon. “So, you went straight from here to Melody’s house?”
“Yes.” Gideon’s face falls. “I mean, no.”
“Well, which is it?”
“We had to go back to the house for our bikes,” I say.
“Right.” He frowns. “So now,” he says, scribbling more notes, “why weren’t the two of you in school?”
My stomach drops to the moss-laden ground.
“We’re seniors, sir,” Gideon pipes up. “It’s pretty common to skip a class now and then.”
Sheriff Henderson doesn’t look up from his notes. “Doesn’t make it any less unlawful.” The word unlawful slashes through the sounds of rushing water.
Gideon rubs at his face and I try to calm him with a look. It’s my fault this has gotten so out of hand. I’m the one who asked to ditch school. The one whose secrets may have kept us from helping Melody in time. “I wasn’t feeling well,” I say. “Gideon offered to help me get home.”
“But then you started feeling well enough to come out here.” It’s not a question, and the sheriff doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns back to the log.
“Should we be talking to you without our parents?” I ask timidly. “Or a lawyer?” All the hours spent watching true-crime shows are failing me now that I’m the one being interrogated.
Sheriff Henderson turns to me, lowering the pen and paper to his sides. That warm smile slides onto his face again. “You two are just witnesses. You’re not in my custody, and you’re not in any trouble. Right now, I’m trying to find out if a girl is in danger. It’s up to you, whether or not you want to help.”
A guilty weight pushes on my shoulders for even asking. “We do, sir,” says Gideon. “Of course, we do.”
The sheriff goes back to his notepad. “Good. You said you recognized Melody’s voice, but couldn’t hear the other voice very well. Any guesses as to who it could’ve been? Does Melody have a boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
“We don’t know her that well, Sheriff,” I say. “She graduated last year, so we only see her at the diner now. We don’t know if she’s seeing someone.”
“So, no idea as to who the person could’ve been?”
The name Brandon Alvarez sits on my tongue like a rotten bite of fruit. I want to spit it out. But I force myself to swallow it down. “We couldn’t hear very well.”
“Mm-hmm.” Sheriff Henderson jots down more notes. “If you couldn’t hear well, what made you assume your friend was being hurt?” He looks up, his eyes resting on me.
“She’s not my—” Idiot. I take a slow breath, racking my brain for something. I know she was being hurt because everything happened the way I wrote it down in that notebook. Because Brandon came out here and followed my instructions, line by line. Up until the point where something went wrong. But I can’t tell Sheriff Henderson that. “She screamed for help,” I say, the memory resting in my throat. “And then it got quiet.”
Gideon nudges a beetle-infested log with his shoe. “We saw Seth Greer and Melody arguing that morning, Sheriff. Not sure if that’s helpful.”
Sheriff Henderson’s lips flatten as he scribbles some more. “Mm-hmm. Cassidy, where exactly were you when you heard Melody?” His gaze draws circles around us.
My heart thrashes against my ribs. I don’t want to show this helmet-headed beast the hobbit house.
But it’s too late. Gideon’s body brushes past mine. Before I can protest, he’s at the tree-lined barricade, giving up our shared secret.
Sheriff Henderson follows, sloshing straight through a puddle glowing with damselflies. He stops to squint at the pine trees. “How do you get through?”