40. Hotaru
“So you never actually saw Mr. Phillips hit Mr. Judge with the rock?” The cop’s head cants as though he’s found some chink in my armor.
The only chink in my armor lies in the hospital bed two doors down from where I stand. My skin itches to be by his side, like a rash for which he is the only cure.
“Kyle Orenson and Erin Britt did. They’ll verify the events.” I roll my shoulders and try not to stare at the door.
“If you didn’t see Mr. Phillips hit Mr. Judge with the rock, how did you know he’s the one who attacked him?”
I let my eyes roll from the door, which of course I’m still staring at, to the moron questioning me. I brace my hands on my hips and huff. It’s long and antagonizing. “The same way you can tell I’m annoyed with you asking questions that I’ve already answered. Power of observation.”
He opens his mouth to retort, but I cut him off.
“Arlo was on the ground with blood on his head. Phillip stood over him with a big-ass rock in his hands, and those hands were extended over his head, ready to strike, and the rock had blood all over it. The same rock he proceeded to hit me with.”
“I don’t appreciate your attitude.”
“Not many people do,” I say with little inflection. I’m not trying to rile this guy. I’m just trying to get back to mine. “Why are they taking so long?” I point toward the door. “He needs to rest, and they have the light on. It makes his head hurt. You know, the one that’s cracked.”
“Why did you attack Mr. Phillips?” The guy taps his pen on a flimsy notepad, ignoring my questions and mounting irritation.
“To save my best friend’s life.”
When I close my eyes, I can still see that piece of shit standing over Arlo.
Only his touch steels the chill of fear in my veins. And he’s giving it to me. They’re small touches.
The lacing of our fingers. The grazing of my temple. The smooth strum of his fingers through my hair.
Though small, they are everything.
“You messed up that kid’s face.”
My gaze snaps to the cop. “He’s not a kid. He’s bigger than you, and he’s a menace, bullying everyone smaller than he is. Arlo put him in his place without lifting a finger, and he couldn’t take it. Like most bullies, he’s a coward.”
“And this Miles kid can corroborate your story?”
I relax my hand by my side and manage to keep from dragging one over my face, but barely. “Miles Reymon. R. E. Y. M. O. N. It’s not a story. It’s a chain of events.”
“All right, Kido,” he says my name like a bullshit Brit. I am not a kid, and I’m not a kiddo, but I don’t bother correcting him. He doesn’t matter.
Only Arlo does.
“Are we done here?” I take a step toward the room.
“We’re done, but he’s not.” His grip snags my shoulder.
I stop cold and turn my head very slowly, looking down at him. My eyes convey every ounce of get-your-fucking-hand-off-me-if you-want-to-keep-it.
He clears his throat and lifts his hand from my arm. “You’ll have to wait until they’re done to go back in.”
I nod and continue my walk to the door.
The cop stays on the far side of the hallway. His gaze flits to me, then down at his notes several times. I let mine stay steadily on him. After another moment, he grabs his phone from his pocket and pretends to do something important with it. Another minute more and he holds it up to his ear.
“I have to make a call.” He heads for the elevator.
He presses the button, dancing from one foot to the other, as though begging it to come faster. The second it arrives, before the door is fully opened, he shoots through it and stabs at the buttons. He slinks into the back of the car, not saying anything to the so-called person on the line.
When the elevator door shuts, I open Arlo’s.
The voices in the room die down. One male and one female detective. My eyes find Arlo. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, and he’s squinting against the harsh light.
I flip the switch, and the room dims, nowhere near dark enough for him, but it’s enough for now.
“Hey!” the female detective rasps. Dean, I think.
“His doctor said fluorescents can trigger a migraine, which wouldn’t help anyone right now. Especially Arlo,” I inform them.
“Where’s Wentzel?” she snaps.
She’s asking about the detective who questioned me. He didn’t introduce himself this time, but I remember him from last year…when Arlo’s uncle went missing. This woman, though, I don’t know her. I don’t much like her either.
“He finished with me ten minutes ago.” A lie. I hike a finger toward the door as I step fully into the room. “He left pretty quickly to take a call.” I shrug. “Looked important.”
Both officers’ gazes flick to each other’s. Their brows hike.
The guy shifts from his lean on the wall. “I think we have everything we need.”
“Great,” I chime. “The nurse is on her way to check his vitals and administer his medicine.”
The woman’s lips purse. She looks at her notes, and then at her colleague, and then at Arlo. She nods and stands. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Judge.”
“Yes, Detective Inspector Dean.” Arlo sounds tired and smaller than he was only an hour ago.
They collect their notebooks and head out.
The second the door closes, I head for the bathroom and grab a rag. I soak it under the cold water, wring it until it’s damp, and head for the bed. “I’m going to lay you back, okay?”
“Sure.” His eyes are closed, and his face is turned away from me—not fully, but enough that it twists my guts.
“Cool rag,” I warn. Something I hadn’t felt the need to do when I placed it on his head yesterday or the night before.
He sinks back into the mattress. I lay the cloth over his forehead, smoothing his hair back with my fingers, not because I have to, but because I cannot pass up the opportunity.
Arlo’s shoulders don’t fully release their tension. Heaviness weighs on his heart.
I close the bathroom door and make my way to the chair DI Dean moved from his bedside. I readjust it, close, and sit.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“I think it’s the crack in my skull.” The corners of his mouth tip up in a weak effort to play off his discomfort.
“Don’t tell me Phillip knocked a sense of humor into you.”
“I’ve had a sense of humor,” he says with absolutely no inflection.
“Yeah, like my dead grandmother had a sense of style.”
A soft chuckle leaves his throat. He winces. “Don’t make me laugh.”
We’re quiet for a while, but I can see the strain in his every breath. “Please, let me in.”
He swallows. “That detective Dean, after grilling me about the incident, questioned me about my uncle again.”
“She looks like she’s trying to make a name for herself.” I suck on my front teeth to keep from gnashing them.
Arlo stays quiet.
“It’s all going to be okay. One incident has nothing to do with the other.” I’m careful what I say about his uncle’s case, even when we’re behind closed doors, locked in tight. It’s just no use in talking about something that can’t be changed. Something that could destroy us completely.
“It’s all going to be okay,” I reassure.
“Yeah.” His mouth says one thing while he tugs the covers to his chest and tucks in on himself.
I feel like I’m losing him all over again.
I lean forward. “Look at me, Arlo.”
His stunning, sad eyes find me, and I would do anything, give anything, endure anything to see them happy again.
“Get some rest. I’ll be right here. Tomorrow, we’ll get to go home.”
He searches my face and offers me a sweet smile. “Lay your head by me?”
“Absolutely.” I scoot the chair closer and lie my upper half on the edge of the bed and my head near his.
“I’m scared.” His eyes close. His face contorts with a pain that has little to do with his injuries. “I’m scared I fucked it all up so much. I broke us. I don’t want to lose you.”
“We both did some breaking. But we’ll mend. Right now, we’re stronger than ever. You will never lose me, Arlo. No matter what, you never will.”