Miss Franklin had said as much when she pressed three keys into Sherri’s palm late Friday afternoon. One was to the school’s outer door closest to the band room, one to the band room itself, and the third unlocked the instrument cabinet.
I can’t give him the bass myself. But if someone breaks in and takes it? Miss Franklin had shrugged. That would be a real shame. Especially if it happened on Sunday night. Nobody’s here to stop any would-be thieves on Sunday night.
Miss Franklin wanted to help, but she wasn’t willing to defend Thomas either, and the realization was devastating.
‘Tommy . . .’
He pressed his finger to Sherri’s lips. ‘Nobody’s gonna stand up for me, Sher, and that’s just the way it is. I’ll go to the high school near my house. I’ll be okay. I’m more worried about you, staying here without me.’
She wanted to say she’d go with him, that she’d leave this fancy school with its rich white brats and follow him wherever he went. But her father wouldn’t allow it. Her parents wanted her to have a future, and Ridgewell Academy was her ticket to an easier life. There had to be an answer for Thomas, but she wasn’t going to figure it out standing here in the school parking lot.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. ‘Come on. Let’s get your bass.’ It had been his father’s – his real father, not that piece of shit who was his stepfather. His real dad had died when Thomas was five, and the bass was all he had left of him.
The instrument wasn’t worth a lot of money, but it was everything to Thomas. He never left it at school overnight, but the principal hadn’t let him get it Thursday after the incident. Dr Green hadn’t allowed Sherri to get it for him either, the ass.
She set off at a half jog toward the rear of the building, well aware that one of Thomas’s strides required two of hers. At least on a normal day. He was still limping and she reached the door before he did, scowling as she unlocked it and slipped through, holding it for him.
‘Dammit, Sherri, go back to the car. I’ll meet you there.’
‘Nope.’ Because she wasn’t sure what they’d find in the instrument closet. Yes, she had the keys, but it had been forty-eight hours since she’d seen the bass. She wanted to be there to support Thomas if someone – like Richard Linden and his friends – had gotten there first. If the bass was gone . . . or, even worse, broken?
Thomas was going to lose it.
The heavy outer door closed behind them, automatically locking with a click that echoed in the quiet. ‘Let’s do this,’ Sherri said, and started jogging toward the band room. She could hear Thomas’s heavy steps behind her. Normally he moved like a panther, swiftly and silently, but Richard’s friends had done a number on his knee.
Abruptly, his footsteps halted. ‘Sherri,’ he hissed. ‘Wait.’
She slowed and turned. ‘I’m not going back to the . . .’
Thomas was limping down one of the side corridors, and Sherri followed, catching up as he reached the stairwell at its end. ‘Sherri!’ he shouted, panic in his voice.
‘I’m here,’ she said, a little out of breath. ‘What’s wrong?’ A second later, her eyes adjusted to the dim light . . . and she saw. Horrified, she stumbled backward. ‘Oh my God. Who is it?’
Because the boy on the floor wasn’t recognizable. Someone had beaten him until his features were one big bloody mess.
Thomas crawled under the stairwell and pressed his fingers to the boy’s neck. ‘He’s . . . still alive, but God, Sher. I don’t see how. Looks like he was stabbed.’
‘What do we do?’
‘I’ll try to stop the bleeding. You call 911.’
‘I don’t have any quarters.’
‘You don’t need them for 911. Go!’ He shrugged out of his coat, wincing in pain because his arm still hurt. She turned to run, but from the corner of her eye she saw him freeze.
‘Shit,’ he whispered, then looked up to meet her eyes. ‘It’s Richard.’
‘Oh no,’ Sherri breathed. ‘Oh no.’
Thomas’s jaw tightened. ‘Go. Call 911. He’s lost a lot of blood. Go!’
She turned at the snapped command, then stopped short when he called her name again. He’d taken off his coat and was now ripping off the sweater she’d given him for Christmas. ‘What?’ she asked as he flung the sweater away and began taking off a long-sleeved T-shirt.
He balled the T-shirt up and pressed it to Richard’s stomach. ‘Once you’ve called 911, get out of here. I don’t want you involved.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t argue!’ he shouted. ‘Just . . .’ His voice broke, and he blinked, sending a tear down his battered cheek. ‘Just go,’ he whispered hoarsely.
And then she understood. When help came, Thomas would be caught in the school. With a dying Richard Linden.
‘They’ll blame you.’ She choked on the words. Dropping to her knees, she grabbed his arm, but he shook her off. ‘Thomas, come with me. We’ll call 911 and then leave. Together.’
Thomas shook his head and resumed putting pressure on Richard’s stomach. ‘Somebody has to stop the bleeding. He’ll die otherwise. He’s not even conscious. I can’t leave him to die.’
She stared at him helplessly. ‘Tommy . . .’
He met her eyes, his misery unmistakable. ‘For God’s sake, go! Do not come back. Please.’
She pushed to her feet and backed away, then ran for the payphone. She’d make the damn call, then she’d go back and sit with him. There was no way she was leaving him to face the blame for something else he had not done.
The payphone was next to the front office. With trembling hands she dialed 911.
‘What is your emergency?’ the operator asked.
‘We . . .’ Sherri drew a deep breath through her nose, tried to slow her rapid pulse. ‘We need help. There’s a guy—’
The doors flew open and men poured through them. Men in uniforms.
Cops.
Cops? How did cops—
A burly man grabbed her arm and squeezed hard. ‘Drop the phone!’
‘But . . .’
The man clamped his other hand around her wrist, drawing a cry of shocked pain from her throat. ‘I said drop it.’
Her fingers were forced open, releasing the phone, which hung on the tangled cord. She stared up at the cop, stunned. Roughly he spun her around and shoved her against the wall. The next thing she knew, he was snapping cuffs on her wrists.
Behind her, she could hear Thomas screaming her name. ‘Sherri, run!’
She grimaced, her temple pressed against the wall so hard that it hurt. It was too late for that now.
Montgomery County Detention Center, Rockville, Maryland,
Wednesday 13 January, 11.15 A.M.
Laying his head on the cold metal of the interview room table, Thomas closed his eyes, too tired to wonder who was behind the mirror and too exhausted to be worried about what this meeting was about. He hadn’t slept in three days, not since they’d brought him to this place.
To jail.
I’m in jail. Words he’d thought he’d never say. Goddamn Richard. The fucker had died. I ruined my life and he died anyway. Bled out from stab wounds to his gut. Thomas’s first aid had been too little, too late.
Murder. They’d charged him with murder.
He was almost too tired to be terrified. Almost.
He hadn’t seen Sherri since he’d been here. He hadn’t seen anyone. Not even his mother. His mom had written a letter, though. He laughed bitterly. Yep, she’d written him a letter, saying she was disappointed in him and how could he kill that nice Richard Linden? And oh, by the way, we will not be paying your bail or for a lawyer.
Thomas was on his own.
The door opened, but he was too exhausted to lift his head. ‘Thank you,’ a man said. ‘I can take it from here.’
‘Fine.’ That voice Thomas knew. It was the guard who’d locked him inside this room. Leaving his hands cuffed behind him. ‘If you need anything, just ask.’
‘Wait,’ the new man said. ‘Uncuff him.’
Thomas lifted his head enough to see the man’s dark suit and tie. And his wheelchair. Thomas jerked upright, staring.
The man wasn’t old. He was young, actually. Maybe thirty. It was hard to say. His hair was cut short, his suit expensive-looking. He was studying Thomas clinically.