Chapter 6
Chapter Six
EVERETT
My kid, in a fight?
We’re barely a month into his career as a sixth grader. When Mom told me the middle school years could be tough, I don’t think this is what she meant. I shake my head. Logan’s not prone to violence. Something’s not adding up here.
Is this the warning sign I’ve been worried about?
It seems to take ages for the tow truck driver to hitch up the Taurus, but finally he’s ready to move. Once he’s on his way, I give the area one last scan, but the mist is now falling in a thick haze, and my assessment doesn’t change. The guy’s long gone.
As I drive up the narrow access road, the river fades from my rearview. Back at the four-way stop at Thrasher’s Corner, I can’t help but scan the wooded lot favored by teenagers for making out and partying, but I’m not surprised it’s empty on a Tuesday morning, but it brings Marin Lambert’s murder case back in vivid detail. We found her white Ford Ranger in this exact lot hours before Search & Rescue found her body up in Lost River Canyon.
I’m beginning to think Marin’s murder is the case I’ll never be able to let go of. Even though DNA evidence from the guy we put away for stalking and kidnapping Ava Greely turned up at the lookout where we believe she was killed, it wasn’t enough to charge him. Too many critical details didn’t add up. In the end, we put Ava’s stalker away for life, but Marin’s murder—and others our task force believes are connected—have yet to be solved.
Not that I haven’t been trying like hell to track her killer down and put him away, before he strikes again. But even with the help of the feds, the case has stalled, and we’re out of leads.
The mist has turned to a steady drizzle by the time I pull up to the middle school. On my short walk to the entrance, I try to prepare myself for whatever Logan’s gotten himself into. Did he start the fight, or was he attacked? The start of school this year hasn’t exactly been easy, but Logan hasn’t reported anything to me that sheds a light on why he would have been fighting.
My older brother Linden got kicked out of high school for his entire senior year because he couldn’t quit picking fights. Dad put him to work during the day and he did a modified homeschool program at night with Mom to get his GED. It was a tense year, and not something I am keen to live through again with my own son.
After I get buzzed inside, I slip into the main office, turning down the volume knob on my radio. Back when I was a student here a million years ago, I never landed in the principal’s office. I have even less of a clue where the nurse is located.
The main secretary is not at her desk, but a woman with dark hair steps from one of the offices behind it, her smile brightening when our eyes lock.
“Hey, Everett.”
Shit. What are the odds? “Uh, hey, Shawna. How’ve you been?”
Shawna gives me a wink. “Amazing, thanks for asking.”
“Great.”
She leans over the counter to grab a stack of papers, then walks toward me, a deviant little gleam in her eye, like she’s about to offer a secret, but thankfully, Ms. Cromwell enters from the hallway. “Thank you for coming, Deputy. ”
Shawna gives me a little wave on her way past.
My relief that I get to miss whatever Shawna was about to say vanishes as I follow Ms. Cromwell down a carpeted hallway to the door labeled PRINCIPAL on a gold placard. While she knocks, I scan the other doors, but none of them say NURSE. Where the hell is Logan?
“Come in,” a man booms from behind the door.
The vice principal opens it, gives me a quick intro, then spins away.
“Thank you for coming,” Principal Franklin says, standing to shake my hand. His small office is crowded with two chairs facing his desk which is piled with papers on one side and a large computer monitor on the other. Stacked on the floor next to it are three large cardboard boxes, the top one opened, revealing cases of candy bars that kids sell as a fundraiser. I’ve bought more than my share over the years from neighbors and my niece, Greta.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I ask to kick things off as I lower into a seat.
“Logan and two other boys were caught fighting,” Principal Franklin says, his expression turning serious.
My first instinct is that Logan got jumped, but Principal Franklin surprises me. “They were walking back from P.E. in the same group. Logan pushed one of the boys, and the second one pushed Logan back, and then there were fists flying. Mr. Crosby, the 6 th grade P.E. teacher, and Mrs. Scott, our 8 th grade P.E. teacher, intervened.”
“You’re sure Logan started it?” I ask.
“Several of the students corroborated, yes.”
“Any idea what it was about?”
Principal Franklin raises an eyebrow.
“Not asking for leniency. It’s just not like Logan.”
“We have a zero-tolerance policy for fighting at Finn River Middle School.” He gives me a scan, as if to make a point of noticing that yeah, I’m a cop. “We handle disputes between students differently than what may be taught at home.”
Okay, we’re done here . I stand. “Got it. Where is he?”
Principal Franklin stands too. “With the nurse.”
“Thanks,” I say, and head for the door.
“He’ll be suspended for the rest of the week, plus Saturday detention.”
A fucking week?
“Understood,” I manage before stepping into the hallway. To the left is a door that’s now slightly ajar, giving me a chance to read the gold placard labeled with NURSE. In three strides I’m tapping my knuckles on the door and peering in. Two surprises hit me at once. The first is Logan with a fat lip and an ice pack across his cheek, and the other is the object of his attention.
Vivian.
She’s so pretty my chest aches.
Today, she’s dressed in dark blue chinos and a striped sweater, her honey-brown hair tied back in that French braid that swishes between her shoulder blades. When she turns to see me standing in the doorway, her storm-gray eyes go still for a fraction of a second. My heart beats so hard into my throat I’m afraid to open my mouth in case it leaps out.
It seems to take her a second to find her words. “Deputy.”
Fuck, was I staring? I refocus on Logan. “Hey, champ. You okay?”
He gives me a quick nod, his lips pressing tight.
Vivian peels off her blue nitrile gloves and throws them away along with the packaging of what looks like antiseptic cream and gauze. “Ice it again when you get home.”
Logan’s soft gaze flicks to her, then away. It’s so fast I almost don’t catch it. “Okay.”
I offer my hand to help him up, and he takes it. Though I get the feeling he doesn’t want to. I pull Logan into a hug. I expect him to resist, but he heaves a sigh into my chest and hugs me back. When I release him, he gives the now-limp ice pack to Vivian then steps past me to grab his backpack .
“I thought you worked at Finn River Pediatrics?” I wince inwardly at my direct tone—I sound like I’m interrogating her. I blame that little dig from the principal about my parenting shortcomings. It has me on edge. Or maybe it’s the kindness Vivian’s showing my son. Or how good she looks today. Or every day.
Fuck! It’s a wonder I can form complete sentences right now.
“I mean, I didn’t expect to see you here,” I manage.
This isn’t much better, but at least I’m not gaping at her like a fish out of water.
Vivian gives me a flat look. “The school nurse position’s been vacant for a while, so a crew of four of us are rotating in until they fill it.”
“Got it.”
One of her eyebrows arches up. “Anything else I can clear up for you?”
Could we start over, maybe work out a few of our aggressions, then you can tell me what’s really going on?
“Um, Dad?” Logan says from behind me. “Can we go?”
I shake my head to crush this ridiculous idea. Aggressions? Would that even work?
“Yeah, bud.” I need to get out of here.
Logan and I walk past the principal’s closed door and the secretary then through the big glass doors. We’re halfway across the parking lot when Logan says, “Sorry, Dad.”
I wrap my arm across his shoulders. It’s not like he’s grown overnight, but if he keeps sprouting, I won’t be able to hug him like this much longer.
“I should have used my words,” he continues.
At my SUV, I unlock the doors, and he slips into the passenger seat.
“You’re going to have to come to the station with me,” I say once I’m behind the wheel.
“I know. I have homework I can do.”
As the kid of a single dad, Logan’s used to having to tag along. I try to avoid it, but until Dad or one of my siblings can pitch in, he’s stuck with me.
I start the engine and cruise to the exit. “You feel like telling me what happened?”
He heaves a full sigh. “We were walking back from the field and Tyson called Naomi fat, and it made her cry, and he wouldn’t stop.” He shrugs, like his reaction was inevitable. “And you always said it’s important to stand up for what you believe in.”
Principal Franklin’s not-so-subtle accusation flashes in my mind. “I have said that, yeah.”
“Are you mad?” His soft brown eyes tense.
This is one of those critical parenting moments I wish I knew how to handle with instant grace, or for which I had backup. “Couple of things,” I say, pausing at a red light. “Proud of you for recognizing that what was happening to this girl was wrong, and for taking action.”
“But?”
The light turns green, and I accelerate. “What’s something you learned from this?”
“Don’t punch an eighth grader.”
Not exactly the message I was fishing for. “Anything else?”
“Teachers always talk about how we’re supposed to report bullying and stuff, but nothing ever happens, then you get called a snitch. And Naomi’s nice.”
His voice softens at the end, like he’s reliving the experience on the field.
“I agree the process isn’t perfect,” I say.
His cheeks flush.
I hate grilling him, but true teachable moments are rare, and this one is pretty important.
“Is there a teacher you trust?” I ask.
He seems to think this over. “Mr. Gunderson. I guess I could tell him. ”
I turn into the police station then back into the slot next to the sheriff’s rig.
“Or Ms. Vivian,” he says.
The fleeting look of yearning he gave her in the nurse’s office returns to my mind. Is this why he didn’t want Sepp to do his immunization last month? He’s got a secret crush on Vivian?
“Doesn’t sound like she’s there consistently.”
He shrugs. “She said I could email her anytime.”
I try to hide my surprise. “That’s pretty thoughtful.”
Another example of how Vivian willingly extends support and care to my kid yet sprouts horns every time I get near her.
“Some lady kept trying to talk to me while I waited,” Logan says, pulling me back to our conversation. “She said she knows you.”
Shawna. I cringe. “She’s a reading specialist. And sort of an old friend.”
He makes a face. “Like you two…”
“It was a while ago.” And it wasn’t serious, though Shawna had other ideas. She was always trying to get me to “open up” about what happened with Logan’s mom. When I dodged, Shawna threw a fit and said it was a sign I didn’t trust her. When I caught her in a lie about her ex who wasn’t actually her ex, I broke it off, but things went sideways quickly. First, Shawna stole her neighbor’s poodle so I’d arrest her. When I didn’t—I gave the poodle, who bit my hand so hard I had to get stitches—back, Shawna drove her dad’s truck through my front lawn, tearing it to shreds. Luckily, Logan was with Dad on a cookout that weekend, so I could fix it and finally finish the fence project I’d been putting off before he returned home.
Yet today, Shawna acted like she was ready to give us another go.
Hard fucking pass.
After I set up Logan in the conference room, I settle behind my workstation. I need to get started on the paperwork regarding the Taurus. It’ll take our evidence team at least a week to process the vehicle for prints, so any match that would give me an ID will have to wait. But what if I can dig up traffic cam footage of this guy?
I call Glory Holes, hoping to catch Nate before they close.
“Glory Holes, Nate here.”
“Nate, it’s Everett.” I tap my pencil eraser on my desk.
“Hey, what can I do for you?”
“Did you hear about that reckless driver in your parking lot on Saturday?”
He huffs a sigh. “Yeah, Miranda told me. I was in the back when it happened. Did you catch him?”
“Working on it. Do you happen to have footage from around that time?”
“Uh, sure,” he replies followed by the clicking of keyboard keys. “It was like around nine, right?”
“Yes.”
“Got it.” He asks for my email address. After more furious key tapping, his chair gives a loud squeak, like he’s leaning back. “Done.”
I thank him, and I’m about to hang up when he adds, “Vivian’s okay, right?”
“She wasn’t harmed. Is that what you’re asking?”
I wait through a pause. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”
The edge of frustration in his reply hints that there’s more here. "You have something else to say, I’m all ears.”
“I feel guilty.” He releases a tight sigh.
“Why? This guy has nothing to do with Glory Holes. It’s not your fault.”
“Right,” he says, but there’s little conviction in his tone. “Let me know if there’s anything I can to do help.”
I agree and we end the call.
I’m fast-forwarding through the footage to get to nine a.m. when Zach comes in from patrol, heading for his cubicle adjacent to mine.
He cocks his head to the conference room. “Logan have a half day today or something?” he asks.
“Uh, no. He was in a fight at school.”
Zach winces. “He okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, William went through a rough period his sophomore year.” He shakes his head, like he’s reliving hard memories. “He got into some pretty serious fights.”
I cross my arms. Zach’s younger brother, William was the star quarterback for the Finn River Falcons, helping them to win two state championships before getting a full ride scholarship to play for the University of Oregon.
“How’d you get him to stop?” I ask.
Zach cocks his head, like he’s thinking this over. “Some of it was Sofie’s guidance. She’s just so patient, and she helped him unpack some of the shit he’d been carrying, helped him see he had choices. Then there was me putting the fear of God into him that if he didn’t quit using his fists to solve his conflicts, he’d lose football.”
“That sounds rough.”
“Honestly, there were days I wasn’t sure we were going to be okay. He had so much pent-up anger about what happened to our family. He’d held it all inside for so long. Helping him learn to make choices when it came to channeling it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
My worry about this fight being a sign that Logan’s past is surfacing tightens the knot in my chest.
“Glad you got through it,” I say, my tone heavy.
He nods at my computer screen. “What are you working on?”
“That stolen Taurus I pursued might be the same one from Glory Holes last Saturday.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Happy hunting.”
When he disappears behind the cubicle divider, I return to fast-forwarding through the footage. I fly through the early morning when Nate arrives to open, followed by Miranda. The film is silent, and only in black and white, but it’s relatively detailed. The parking lot fills up a few minutes before six and a steady stream of cars and customers speed by the camera on the corner of the building as the light changes with the sun’s movement. I don’t see a maroon Taurus wagon. At nine, I slow the video to 1.5 speed and just catch the tail end of my arrival.
At nine fifteen, Vivian’s Kia cruises into the lot. She helps Mateo out, and with their hands clasped, they pause at the back of their car to check both ways before crossing to the entrance. Even though it’s my job to catch bad guys, it feels weird watching her like this, like I’m invading her privacy.
Vivian resisted pursuing any kind of legal action against this driver, but it could be connected to the stolen vehicle case I caught this morning, so I have a duty to investigate.
I get a feeling she’d object though. Strongly.
Just as Vivian and Mateo disappear from the camera’s view, a Taurus station wagon creeps in and disappears. That end of the parking lot has no exit, so either he’s parking, or maybe turning around. He stays out of sight, almost like he knew the camera was there.
I stop the film and go back, slowing it down. I compare the license plates.
They’re the same.
Leaning back, I coax a full breath in and out of my lungs, willing the pieces to fall into place. How are these two incidents related? Do I have some homeless nutjob zigzagging all over my county for shits and giggles? A tweaker high off his gourd? Or is Vivian at the heart of it?
In the frozen image on my screen, the driver’s wearing a baseball cap with the brim shading his face. He’s male, Caucasian, and I would guess between mid-twenties and maybe forty. Not very specific but anything helps.
I play the video but no one with a baseball cap enters the donut shop. He could have pulled into the parking lot to make a call or for any number of reasons. Or he could be there because he followed Vivian.
My stomach knots.
On the screen, Vivian steps outside, her focus on Mateo. The incident unfolds just like I remember. A maroon car flies from the right, Vivian yanks Mateo into her arms, dropping the bag of donut holes and her tea to the pavement, and the vehicle disappears.
I stare at that last frame, where I have a hand on Mateo’s back with my eyes locked on Vivian. She’s looking up at me, frustration in her eyes.
In that moment, I thought her fire was directed at me. But now I’m not so sure.
This incident on its own wouldn’t necessarily signify Vivian’s in trouble. But when I consider the way she fled the minute I stepped through the door…
Why is my hand on Mateo’s back?
I tell myself it’s instinct. I’m a parent, too, after all.
Only I can’t remember doing something like that in other emergencies, and I’ve responded to plenty of calls involving kids.
Nate’s question replays in my mind. Vivian’s okay, right?
Truthfully, I don’t know.
And I’m considering breaking all my rules to find out.