Beverly

Chapter 39

39

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

I had never in my life been inside a police station like this.

Sure, I had visited before—Dad had taken me once or twice when I was younger, let me sit at his desk, even bought me a donut like it was some great adventure. Back then, I had felt untouchable. My dad was Officer Price, after all.

But this? This was me, Jamal, Tiffany, Blake, and Nathan sitting in a row of hard plastic chairs under the ugliest fluorescent lighting imaginable. This was a busted lip, bruised knuckles, and a really questionable stain on Tiffany’s shirt that I didn’t want to think about. This was the deep, bone-crushing humiliation of knowing that my dad was currently on duty and probably two seconds away from dragging me home by my ear.

Nathan was still muttering under his breath next to me, half-conscious. He had not shut up since we got here. At first, it had been threats—“ My dad’s gonna sue you, McHayes !” but now he had downgraded to pathetic groaning, rocking slightly like he was debating whether or not to throw up.

Jamal sat on my other side, legs spread wide, muttering to himself like he was mentally drafting the world’s longest rant. Tiffany, despite her disheveled appearance, had somehow fixed her hair in the last twenty minutes and was casually filing her nails like she was at a salon instead of sitting in police custody. She looked so unbothered it was honestly insulting.

Blake, of course, looked miserable.

Slouched in his chair, his head leaning back against the wall, a faint bruise forming along his jawline. His knuckles were scraped, but otherwise, he looked annoyingly good for someone who had just started an all-out brawl at a birthday party.

I was mad at him, but mostly, I was mad at myself. Because Blake was looking anywhere but at me, and I hated it.

The officer behind the desk was typing something into his computer, sighing as if he hated his job, while another one stood by the door, looking so done with all of us.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds like they were just as fed up with this night as I was. The air inside the station smelled like stale coffee and cheap air freshener—one of those weird scents that was supposed to be “ocean breeze” but smelled more like expired gum.

My hand still throbbed from punching Nathan, and the plastic chair I was sitting in was one of those that made your back ache the longer you stayed in it.

But the real problem?

My dad…

Tiffany hummed beside me, looking deeply satisfied despite the split in her nail.

“You proud of yourself?” I muttered.

“I told her to apologize,” she shot back. “She didn’t listen. That’s not my fault.”

Jamal groaned. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You can’t believe this? You hit Nathan too,” I reminded him.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice rising. “After I spent half the night trying to stop this idiot—” he shot a pointed look at Blake “—from taking his head off.”

Blake didn’t even bother opening his eyes. “He deserved it.”

“You both deserve a lecture,” Jamal muttered.

“Yeah?” Blake said dryly. “Guess who’s gonna give it?”

Jamal paused. His face drained a little as the realization hit.

“Oh, no,” Tiffany said. “ No, no, no ?—”

That’s when the door opened.

And there he was. In uniform. Badge shining on his chest. Gun still strapped to his side. He filled the doorway, all tall and imposing, every inch the terrifying authority figure I usually felt safe around—except now, I didn’t feel safe. Now, all I felt was fear.

The entire room turned.

Nathan groaned again, and Dad’s gaze flicked to him for one second before sliding over to Jamal, then Tiffany, then Blake—lingering there for one long, tense moment before finally landing on me.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my racing heart.

“Hey, Dad,” I said weakly.

Silence.

Jamal, because he had a death wish, muttered awkwardly, “So, uh, you come here often?”

Tiffany slapped his arm so hard that it echoed.

Dad inhaled very slowly through his nose. He crossed his arms. The vein in his forehead did the little twitchy thing that only happened when he was on the verge of losing his mind.

“Bring the boy out,” he said, his voice low and commanding, directed at the officer still standing in the doorway.

The officer nodded, grabbed Nathan by the arm, and dragged him out without a word.

Tiffany piped up immediately, “Hey, can I make a phone call? Because my mom is going to?—”

Dad held up a hand, silencing her.

Then, he turned to me.

And that was so much worse.

“Beverly Ann Price.”

I cringed at the sound of my full name. “Yes, sir.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” he said flatly. “Would you like to explain why I got called in during my shift to deal with my own daughter in a police station?”

“Um…” My mouth went dry.

What was I supposed to say? Well, Dad, you see, my ex- boyfriend is a terrible person, Blake has anger issues, Jamal—bless his heart—was just trying to defend my honor, Tiffany may or may not have assaulted someone, and also, there was some pretty blatant racism that just couldn’t be ignored and needed to be handled— Yeah. That sounded ridiculous, even in my head.

That wasn’t going to work.

Dad’s gaze shifted over to Blake, who was still avoiding eye contact. “Blake, are you actually present in this room with us, or should we go ahead and start the conversation without you?”

Blake, to his credit, finally opened his eyes. “Hey, Dad.”

Dad let out the kind of long sigh that parents save for moments when they’re too disappointed to be properly angry.

“I punched Nathan,” I blurted out.

“She punched Nathan,” Tiffany confirmed proudly.

“For Blake!” I added quickly. “Because Nathan?—”

“Oh, I know what he did. I already heard the whole thing.”

“You did?”

Jamal leaned forward. “To be fair, sir, Nathan deserved it.”

“Jamal,” I hissed.

He raised his hands in defense and chuckled nervously. “What? He did.”

“He was being a racist piece of garbage, Arthur,” Tiffany said, still filing her nails like this was just another Tuesday.

Dad exhaled through his nose. Then he turned back to me. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice softer this time.

I shook my head.

His gaze flicked to Blake.

Blake looked at him, his face blank. “She’s fine.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t my question.”

Blake held his stare. “I’m fine.”

That was obviously a lie. But Dad didn’t push.

“Wait,” Jamal cut in. “So, you already know what happened? All of it? The whole story?”

“Kid, I was here when they brought Nathan in,” Dad said. “You think I didn’t hear him whining about his ‘poor face’ in holding?” He sighed, shaking his head. “Honestly, I’m impressed anyone managed to shut him up long enough to throw a punch.”

I snorted. I couldn’t help it.

Dad shot me a quick glare. “I didn’t need to hear it from him,” he continued. “When your daughter and son are involved in something like this, I don’t just sit back and wait for the gossip to get to me. I make a few calls. I find out what really happened.” His gaze flicked back to Blake, his expression hardening. “I told you, if you ever got in a fight again, you’d regret it.”

Blake shrugged, and Dad scrubbed a hand down his face like he was trying to physically push down his frustration.

“You know what?” he muttered, almost to himself. “I spent all night breaking up bar fights, and now I gotta deal with this ?”

“You don’t have to,” Jamal offered, way too hopeful. “I mean, technically we could?—”

“Sit down,” Dad snapped.

Jamal sat down immediately.

“So,” Dad continued, “your grand solution to all of this was to throw a punch? That was the best you could come up with? I thought I raised you better than that. What happened to using your words? To handling things without resorting to violence?”

“Well, I tried that,” I protested. “But it wasn’t working?—”

“Look,” Tiffany interrupted, folding her arms. “We were all there. We saw exactly what Nathan and his friends were doing, and someone had to stop it. If you want to blame someone, blame him for starting all of this in the first place.”

Dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not blaming anyone, but I want you to understand that violence, no matter the reason, doesn’t solve anything. It only makes things worse. You’re all smart enough to know that this wasn’t the answer.”

Tiffany shifted uncomfortably but didn’t argue. Jamal stared at the floor. Blake’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. And me? I just nodded, because as much as I hated to admit it…he wasn’t wrong.

“Alright,” Dad sighed, his voice a little calmer. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I convinced my lieutenant to let you all go without charges?—”

“Yes!” Tiffany fist-pumped the air.

“— if you clean up the mess you left at Sydney’s house.”

“No,” Tiffany groaned. “No, no, no, no, Arthur, you don’t understand. There’s like…spilled beer, and Doritos dust, and I’m pretty sure someone threw up in the pool.”

“Sounds like your problem,” Dad said dryly.

“Can I just point out that this is technically Blake’s fault?” Jamal muttered under his breath.

“You want me to call your mom?” Dad shot back.

Jamal slumped in his chair. “I’ll clean.”

“Smart choice,” Dad said with a nod of approval. “And Blake? You’re helping me wash the truck tomorrow. No excuses.”

Blake blinked. “What?”

“You want to act like a thug?” Dad said. “Fine. You can spend your Saturday morning scrubbing bird crap off my windshield.”

“I’ve seen your windshield,” Jamal said, a look of genuine horror crossing his face. “That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

Tiffany jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

Jamal cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh… I’ll shut up now.”

Dad’s silence was worse than yelling.

“Let’s go,” he finally muttered, shaking his head like we were all helpless. “You’re embarrassing me in front of my coworkers.”

We stood immediately. No arguments. No hesitation. We had already dodged arrest—we weren’t about to push our luck.

We followed him out, one by one, our shoes squeaking on the tile floor. Jamal kept pace beside Tiffany, who was still very much unbothered by the fact that we had just spent our time sitting in police custody. “This is gonna be a hell of a story,” she said.

Jamal raised his brows. “Yeah? You gonna tell your grandkids how you dragged a girl across a floor by her hair?”

Tiffany smirked. “Damn right, I am. I’m gonna embellish the hell out of it, too. Maybe I’ll say I took down two girls at once.”

Jamal shook his head. “You’re unhinged.”

“Aww, you noticed.”

Jamal chuckled. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly.

Blake walked beside me, his shoulder bumping mine just once. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” I replied, voice low. “You?”

He exhaled a tired breath. “I will be.”

As I stepped outside, the cool night air hit me like a slap, and I realized just how tense my body had been this whole time.

Blake was walking ahead of me now, his shoulders stiff, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

I knew that posture. It meant he was still running through everything in his head. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Dad fell into step beside him.

Blake didn’t look at him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Blake muttered, “Why isn’t Nathan pressing charges?”

“His dad wanted to,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Came storming into the station, all fired up, ready to drag you to court himself.”

Blake’s fingers twitched at his sides.

Dad didn’t miss the shift in his posture, but he kept talking. “So I had a little talk with him. Put everything nice and simple. The attempted assault, the witness statements, the fact that Nathan instigated the whole damn thing.” I could see the faint hint of satisfaction in his expression before he continued. “Told him if he wanted to make a case out of this, he was more than welcome to try. But I made sure to mention that he might want to think twice before digging his own grave.”

Blake nodded once, but I could see it in his face—the way he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, convinced that this wasn’t over.

Dad sighed and shook his head. He leaned in ever so slightly as they reached the car. “As a police officer? I’m pissed at you, Blake.”

Blake’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes darting away as if he couldn’t bring himself to look Dad in the eye.

“As your father?” Dad’s voice softened. “I’m proud of you, Son. You did the right thing.”

For a second, I thought Blake might respond. But he only gave a stiff nod, his jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

I wasn’t sure if it was relief or regret. Maybe both.

I didn’t hear what Dad said after that, but I saw the way Blake’s fingers curled slightly—like he was holding onto those words with everything he had. Like they were something he hadn’t realized he’d needed. And in that moment, I swore his entire body relaxed—just enough for me to see it.

Tiffany elbowed me. “So…think he’ll let us stop for food?”

I turned to look at her, my face devoid of amusement.

“What?” She shrugged. “Trauma makes me hungry.”

Jamal snorted from behind us. “You’re always hungry.”

Tiffany didn’t miss a beat. “That’s called being prepared.”

“Prepared for what?”

“For this exact moment,” she told him. “Where I’ve been through hell and need greasy fries to recover.”

“We’re not getting food, Tiff.”

“I bet I can convince your dad.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

Tiffany raised a single, perfectly manicured brow. “Oh, I can,” she said, already striding ahead and catching up to my dad with an exaggerated limp, as if the weight of her bad decisions had physically injured her. “Mr. Price?” she called sweetly.

“No.”

She blinked, placing a hand on her hip. “I didn’t even ask yet.”

“You were going to ask me to stop for food,” he said flatly, rubbing his temple as if he could already feel a headache forming.

Tiffany scoffed. “You don’t know that.”

“I’ve known you since you were eight, Tiffany. I can hear the manipulation forming before you even open your mouth.”

She stopped mid-step, throwing her hands up in the air. “Unbelievable. I risked my life tonight.”

“For yanking out some girl’s extensions?” I called after her.

“She had it coming!” Tiffany whirled around dramatically. “And I will die on this hill.”

Biting back a laugh, Jamal gestured toward her. “She’s going to die of starvation before she admits she did anything wrong.”

“Then put that on my tombstone,” Tiffany declared, pressing a hand to her chest. “Beverly, write this down: Tiffany Maclay. Lover of fashion. Defender of justice. Died hungry .”

For the first time that night, Blake let out a short, quiet breath that was almost a laugh.

Tiffany beamed. “I knew I could get him to break,” she said smugly, tossing her perfectly curled hair over her shoulder. “It’s called being naturally?—”

“Get in the car.” Dad’s voice cut her off.

Tiffany let out a heavy sigh but obediently climbed in.

Dad started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual.

No one spoke for the first few minutes.

Then Tiffany broke the silence.

“So…” she ventured innocently, “...drive-thru?”

“Tiffany,” Dad warned.

“Okay, okay,” she huffed. “I’ll settle for gas station snacks.”

Jamal shook his head. “Tiff, read the room.”

She crossed her arms. “You know what? I did read the room. The room is full of hungry people who deserve at least a slushie.”

“Christ,” Dad sighed. “I just bailed you out. Can you at least pretend to be remorseful? You’re all a goddamn nightmare.”

Jamal clapped Blake on the back. “Well, you heard the man. We’re his problem now.”

“I am not adopting you, Jamal,” Dad said, shooting him a dry look through the rearview mirror.

“Damn,” Jamal muttered under his breath. “Guess I’ll just have to settle for my actual loving parents who would never let me rot in a holding cell for an hour.”

“Jamal, I let you sit there for twenty minutes.”

“Felt like twenty years, Mr. P.”

“I’m this close,” Dad shot back, pinching his fingers together, “to dumping you all at the nearest bus stop.”

“Wait,” Tiffany said softly, her eyes full of desperation. “Just…just to confirm… The food situation?”

Dad groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Fine.”

She let out a gleeful shriek. “I knew you had a soul, Arthur.”

Blake sat next to me, staring out the window, his face a mask of unreadable silence. I watched the way his fingers flexed, as if his hands still remembered the fight. Before I could second-guess myself, I reached out, slipping my fingers through his.

I swallowed, waiting for him to pull away, to reject the gesture. But he didn’t. Slowly, his fingers curled around mine.

His shadow never stayed long enough to warm my soul, but I held onto it, pretending it was enough.