31. Hold Them Down
HOLD THEM DOWN
Coach wanted to stay with me, but Harris insisted that I needed my privacy—despite me never asking for it—and that she return to the pep rally.
I thought maybe he would stay with me, but Principal Harris said he needed to make a phone call and left the room.
All that’s left is a deafening silence. I don’t even hear the usual chatter of the front office.
My throat right now is raw, and I want to ask one of the secretaries if I can get something to drink, but I also don’t want to move.
My head throbs and I can feel blood drying to a crust on the side of my head.
At least from my vantage point, I could see the police cruisers pull up in front of the building ten minutes ago, and all I’m doing now is waiting for them.
Is this normal? Are the police going to be taking over the offices?
I don’t get the time to really think about it or to even reach the door itself when I hear several pairs of footsteps coming down the main hallway. Principal Harris reenters the front office, and the tightness in my chest eases as I return to my seat, seeing the police chief enter next.
Facing forward in my chair, I’m left once again to look at Harris’s desk and the wall of books behind it, but their owner returns to the room a few seconds later.
I’m not sure if it’s from the blood on the side of my face or just the situation in general, but he has been palpably uncomfortable since I walked in here.
Still unable to meet my eyes, he at least decides to finally address me. “Do you have your phone with you?”
It seems like an odd thing to ask, all things considered, but I nevertheless shake my head, instantly regretting it. Pain shoots through my right eye so sharply that I expect it to burst out of the socket.
Harris just nods, grabs a folder off his desk, and promptly exits the room again .
Seriously? I’m past thinking I need medical attention, now entering into the realm of certainty, because the pressure in my head keeps building, and my vision alternates between blurring and seeing doubles.
I twist in my seat, not even sure what I’m about to say, but I see another silhouette in the doorway and relax.
All I want is for the police to come in here, get my statement, and let me go to the hospital.
Chief Jeffrey Nohl had made a handful of appearances at fundraisers held at the country club, so it’s the only reason I recognize him…
But I’m not greeted by Nohl’s stocky build, balding head, and oversized glasses.
The man who steps into the room is at least six-three, with a muscular physique and handsome, chiseled features that make him look like a blonde Superman.
But he’s about the farthest thing from it, unless he’s the evil, Bizarro version.
Because he’s Roland Easton.
Trent’s father.
What the hell?
All I can do is watch in disbelief as he closes the door behind him. Through the blind slats, I see the police chief and Principal Harris make their way to the very front of the main office, as far out of earshot as they can get from us.
No.
No, no, no, no!
I can’t run out of here with him blocking the door. There isn’t another exit, and even if there was, I’d be lucky to make it five feet without passing out or throwing up. The only thing left I can do is scream, but the second my lips so much as part, Mr. Easton holds up his hand.
“Relax, I’m only here to have a quick word with you is all.” He says this so calmly that you’d think he was only stopping by to drop off a permission form or something.
And now I want to scream for a whole other reason.
Because I know what’s coming. It’s the very reason why Principal Harris made sure I didn’t have my phone on me. It’s the very reason why it seems my parents haven’t been called or why the other officers who pulled up to the school haven’t been brought back here yet.
Mr. Easton goes over to the desk, grabs a pen, and taps it against the side of his head in the same place where I have blood gathered on mine. “Nasty business there, tripping in the shower. You really should learn to be more careful.”
I anticipate him to be like his son, looming and sneering and in my face, but if not for the three-piece suit, he projects a good old boy’s air, more akin to an affable football coach. Everything about him is easygoing, blasé.
It only raises my hackles further.
Mr. Easton scribbles something on a piece of paper and slides it in front of me. “For your troubles.”
As expected, he’s written a dollar sign and an obscene amount of zeros. Still, I don’t say anything. I don’t dare to move or even breathe too loudly. An invisible clamp has settled around my chest, the building panic fastening it tighter and tighter.
His eyes drop to my hand clutching the arm of the chair, my knuckles white.
But that isn’t what catches his attention.
It’s the reddish stain on my otherwise milky skin.
It’s where Trent had grabbed me, and I suspect a number of other similar marks stain my body, all of which will form into bruises over the next day or so.
There’s no way in hell anybody with half a brain could look at the extent—and more specifically, the placement —of my injuries and believe they came from me simply tripping in the shower.
The back of my neck aches from where Trent had been gripping me, the distinct bruising from his thumb and finger likely discernible.
Either Mr. Easton can read minds, or this is far from his first rodeo, and I’m not sure which thought is more unsettling.
“There’s two ways this can go. First, you simply slipped in the shower.
Second, my son snuck into the locker room for some alone time with his girlfriend, only to find you going after Ms. Hawthorne, forcing Trent to do what was necessary to get you away from her. ”
He can’t be serious.
But the easy smile that accompanies the declaration confirms that, yes, those are his two options.
No.
No one would think I, of all people, would try attacking someone else, much less an Untouchable.
Mr. Easton clasps his hands together in front of himself, looking all the more like that affable football coach, so at odds with his words.
“Let’s be honest here, sweetheart. We both know there’s no shortage of women who would throw themselves at Trent if given the chance.
So, what version of this do you think people will believe?
That my son was fucking the most popular girl in school and you lost your shit, or that he tried raping some random, gangly little misfit?
All anyone needs is to see Sienna and you to make up their minds.
Not to mention, you don’t have so much as a friend here, let alone a witness.
I’m sure if the police ask Olivia, her version of events will far better match what Trent and Sienna have to say. ”
He slides the piece of paper to the very edge of the desk, tapping his finger against the written payment once more. When I don’t spare it so much as a glance, he smirks.
“Hate to break it to you, but those bumps and bruises don’t make you a big fish in this pond. You’re swimming with sharks, sweetheart, making you a hindrance at best. We don’t play to win. We annihilate. Just ask your last congressman.”
My blood may as well be laced with nitroglycerin, because that statement chills me to my core.
Our last congressman was Jase’s dad, the same man who was sentenced to five years in prison for campaign violations and fraud amassing in the millions. He pleaded not guilty, but nobody believed him…
I don’t exactly have a good poker face, so Mr. Easton has no problem reading my expression.
“What’s that old phrase? ‘Show me the man, I’ll show you the crime.
’” He drums his fingers against the check again, and every last tap may as well be a hammer to a nail.
“If you’re willing to play nice, you’ll find I’m quite accommodating.
Get on my bad side, girl, and you’ll find yourself in the same boat as Michael Rivers.
” He smirks at this. “Or perhaps Charlotte Hinckley is more appropriate. I’m sure you’re aware of that case. ”
He doesn’t wait for my response.
Every human being in this hemisphere has heard of her. The “harlot” who seduced a married senator and then tried to blackmail him with a “false rape allegation.”
The floor beneath me tilts further and further, and I don’t think it’s just from the impact to my head.
All too casually, Mr. Easton reaches over and plucks a peppermint candy out of the bowl on the principal’s desk.
“Dear old Charlotte graduated at the top of her class, was a renowned beauty queen with a massive social media following, and looks like a goddamn Barbie doll. Her only mistake was ever believing Walker when he told her he had separated from his wife. Everything else she claimed was spot-on. And yet, she’s been reduced to nothing more than a scarlet letter and a late-night punchline. How well do you think you’ll fair?”
He doesn’t need me to answer, and the unspoken resolve tells me everything I already know.
Mr. Easton is very well aware of what his son is.
A monster. A monster wearing a handsome mask that blends well into society so long as someone comes to clean up his messes.
But Mr. Easton isn’t just here to tidy up. He facilitates Trent’s actions. He welcomes them.
I dare to say as much, earning me the most bone-chilling smile that even my most vivid nightmares couldn’t conjure.
Because it’s the most honest expression he’s offered me since entering the room. “A word from the wise. Take what you can get and be grateful it didn’t turn out worse. Who knows what skeletons we’ll find in your closet otherwise.”
Whether I put them there or not.