This is bullshit, but the detective works the room like a total pro—just enough ass-kissing to the older officers so they feel like they’re special and just enough condescension to the younger officers so they have something to work for.
Honestly, I’m kind of grateful for the break. I still don’t know what to say to him. I need the pay. I need to fix things for my mom, but I don’t know how I can live with myself if I tell Carson everything Wick told me.
When we finally make it to the detective’s office, Carson unlocks the door and drops heavily into his desk chair. “Shut that behind you, okay?”
I nod, taking the chair opposite him. I focus on Carson’s forehead so I don’t have to meet his eyes.
“You like our new arrangement? Your mother was happy to sign the consent forms for us to speak privately. Remember to thank her.”
I force my jaw to relax. “Where is she?”
“Holding cell. She’s sobering up. You’ll get her back.”
I pause. There’s something about the way Carson says I’ll get my mother back that makes me realize the detective thinks she’s in his power. He can give her to me. Or take her away.
“So,” Carson begins, steepling his fingers. “What’s new?”
“Nothing yet. Bender has my program. He’s working on his end. They want to move fast though; we should have a follow-up meeting soon.”
“Good. Keep me posted on that. I have plans.”
“Such as?”
Carson hesitates. He doesn’t trust me. After all, I’m a narc, but I’m also Ben’s little cousin, a “good kid,” and Carson is a sucker for people who fit under that label. I’m betting on that and, when the detective relaxes, I know I have him.
“I’m going to catch them in the act,” Carson says. “All of them. You tell me when the next meeting is and I’ll make sure my team hauls away Bender, Wick, and anyone else who’s helping them. We’ll take the computers, their contacts, everything. It’ll be like they never existed.”
Like Wick never existed. I exhale through my nose until my head stops ringing. “Good idea. I’ll keep you posted.”
“I expect it.”
“And when can I expect my mother’s release?”
“Tonight. It’ll take me a minute to smooth over everything.”
I nod, skimming my eyes over the office, the computer, Carson’s desk. There’s a folded newspaper on one corner. Tessa Waye’s smiling yearbook picture just beneath the headline.
I bump my chin toward it. “You must have your hands full with the Tessa Waye thing.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame. Lovely girl. Nice family.” Carson touches his fingers to Tessa’s picture and the gesture is almost . . . tender.
The detective’s eyes flick to mine. “You heard anything about it?”
“No. Just what the teachers told us.” I pause, Wick’s confession at the back of my mind and under my tongue. “Did you have any progress on who got into her Facebook account?”
Carson studies me. “Sort of. There have been some very new developments—pictures that were uploaded to the page and then disappeared.”
“Yeah?”
“Someone named Michael Starling did uploads from the Peachtree City library computers. We’re looking into it, of course.”
“What kind of pictures were put on Tessa’s Facebook?”
“Not sure. It was taken down—the whole page was deleted—but enough people corroborated that it was there. Photo of a little girl apparently. We’re working on recovering it.”
I nod. If Wick was behind the first Facebook message, could she be behind this one as well? And, even more worrisome, how long until Wick traces this Starling guy back to the library’s IP address? Would she go after him? She’d need the names from the library’s computer sign-in sheet.
“I want specifics, Griff. I know Wick’s not there for a tea party. What’s her role?”
I swallow, force myself to meet Carson’s eyes. I’ve lied a lot through the years—landlords, teachers, my mom’s bosses—I’m good at it . . . so why am I suddenly sweating?
Because it’s her and because it’s me. Before, when it came to Wick, I was just stupid. I said the wrong stuff. I made the worst jokes. Now, when it comes to Wick, I see myself. I see how much she’s straining against who she’s expected to be, and I get that. I know the scars expectations leave. I know how it feels like drowning, but it’s worse because you never die. You just rot.
“She’s not involved,” I say at last. “Worst you can get on her . . .” I pretend to think, even going as far as scrunching my face and looking off into the distance. Adults fall for this every time. It’s one of the advantages of looking like a choirboy. “The worst you can get on her is that she considers Joe Bender family.”