Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Hudson
Cull, our parents, and I are all gathered around an oval table in a shabby conference room that smells like mildew and looks like it hasn’t been used in years.
I’m just grateful that we didn’t have to sit in an interrogation room. Even after all my therapy, I don’t think I’d be able to handle that—especially after the bomb the detective dropped on our phone call.
My knee is restless, little flares of anxiety trying to take root.
I breathe through them and take Cullen’s hand, the warmth of his skin calming my nerves.
He hasn’t said much since we were ushered in here and told the detective would be with us soon.
His knee is bouncing as restlessly as mine, but his face looks a little ashen, maybe a tinge green.
“You okay?” I ask him, just loud enough not to be heard over our parents' conversation.
He looks at me like he was just lost in thought, his eyes blinking back into the present. “Oh, yeah. Fine.”
My eyes narrow. The moment the detective said they arrested Mason, Cull got quiet and distant. He’s stuck in his mind somewhere, and that’s not like him. He explodes, he argues, he fixes. He doesn’t disappear like this.
There is a swift knock on the closed door, then it opens, Detective Whitfield coming through it with a wide smile and a folder in hand. “It’s good to see everyone,” he greets, going straight to Cullen’s dad first, a meaty hand held out for a handshake. “Ben, so good to see you again.”
Dr. Anderson shakes his hand, his face pinched. “Detective, you may call me Dr. Anderson.”
I almost chuckle. Cullen’s dad isn’t one to throw his title around, but it’s clear he doesn’t hold much regard for Detective Whitfield either.
“Oh, uh, yes. Dr. Anderson. My apologies.” Detective Whitfield’s ears redden as he clears his throat. He continues around the table, shaking hands and formally greeting everyone before finally sitting at the head of the table, all eyes on him.
“I’m sure you are all wondering about the events that led to Mason Keller’s arrest. I have the Hackford's permission to share these details with you, seeing as we believe the perpetrator is a link between these two cases.”
My hand digs into Cullen’s, and he returns the same fierce hold.
“Amy Hackford was going through some of Ella’s personal belongings when she came across a notebook,” he continues. “It appeared to be a list of… clients.”
“Clients?” My dad asks, confused.
I’m confused too. I never knew she was selling, only that she bought them from other students for herself.
“Yes. It appears Miss Hackford had a side hustle. She kept records of who sold her pills and who she redistributed them to. The last name on the list was Mason Keller, dated the day Ella passed away.”
“You think Mason murdered her?” My voice sounds distant even to my own ears.
“After we found out about her client list, we had the coroner look through his findings again. Upon closer look, there were the beginnings of some bruising on her face, an indicator that someone may have pressed a hand over her mouth—presumably to force her to swallow the pills.”
Bile floods my throat. Cull puts his hand on the back of my neck and squeezes, the pressure grounding me just enough to keep it together.
“We arrested him at his residence, but he was so blitzed out of his mind, he couldn’t even tell us his name. He’s in the drunk tank, sobering up. In all my years as an officer, I’ve never seen someone so out of it.”
We all take a moment to absorb this information, but I’m confused.
This should feel like relief.
It doesn’t.
Maybe it’s just information overload and I can’t process anything at the moment.
“And what does this have to do with Hudson and Cullen’s case?” Mom asks, tears falling off her chin.
“Well, the evidence points to Mason and it makes the most sense.”
“But you don’t have concrete proof?” Mom pushes. “You’ve already questioned him and let him go.”
“We have all we need now. And with a murder charge pending, we can keep him detained. You shouldn’t have to worry anymore.” He smiles wide, his yellow teeth on full display.
“Now, we have some clerical things to attend to.” He pulls a stack of papers from the file he brought in and hands them to Cull. “These need both of your signatures.”
Cull takes the pen his mom hands him and signs, then slides the page to me. I hesitate, reading the charges: Assault, stalking, destruction of property. Cullen nudges me and hands me the pen, nodding towards the line that needs my signature.
That nagging feeling comes back, that something isn’t right with this situation.
I look at the detective who is conversing with our dads. “Detective Whitfield?” He looks over at me expectantly. “What do you think Mason’s motive was to attack Ella?”
He just shrugs. “Who knows with these junkies, but he has a nasty infection on his arm—looks to be some sort of defense wound. We think Ella may have struck him with something. When he’s sober enough, he’ll be questioned.” Then he goes back to his conversation.
“What’s going on?” Cull asks. There's sweat on his brow, and he still looks like he could blow chunks at any moment.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I just have this feeling…”
“What kind of feeling?”
I look Cull in the eyes. “Something about this doesn’t sit right.”
Cullen forces a smile. “They arrested the scum, baby. Maybe it just doesn’t feel real yet after everything that has happened. And it’s a lot to take in to learn that Ella was…”
He doesn’t finish that sentence, but he doesn’t have to.
I look back down at the paper.
Maybe he’s right. I put the pen on the line and sign my name, sealing the fate of my supposed stalker and Ella’s murderer.
But why does it feel wrong?
Cullen
Hud and I leave the conference room with Detective Whitfield right behind us. He steps around us, clapping a hand on each of our shoulders. “I’m sure you boys are happy to have this behind you.” His hand is heavy, clammy heat seeping through my t-shirt.
I really hate this guy.
“Detective, are we able to talk to Mason at all?” My head snaps to Hud. He looks confused, like he’s trying to figure out if the moon landing was real or not.
“Ah, no. That’s against policy, kid.” His thumbs hook through the belt loops of his wrinkled khakis as he rocks up on the balls of his feet.
“How’s the brain?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject.
My jaw locks so hard it aches. Across from me, the asshole keeps talking, oblivious to the way my hands curl into fists at my sides.
“Uh, it’s great… thanks.” Hud links his pinky with mine and tugs. It’s his attempt to keep me chill, but I’m hanging on by the thinnest thread.
“Good to hear. Don’t need ya taking any more flying lessons off bridges.” The detective chuckles like he made the funniest joke on the planet.
My vision tunnels.
I lunge.
“You motherfucker!”
Hudson just barely gets his arm wrapped around my midsection, stopping me from pummeling this piece of shit.
My yell catches our parents’ attention, and they come rushing over from the entrance where they had gathered to wait for us.
Detective Whitfield shuffles back, his hands out like that would stop me from planting my fist in his greasy face.
A couple of cops catch the commotion and run over, hands on their weapons.
“Cullen, what the hell, son?” Dad’s eyes are wide and… disappointed. That should bother me, but all I can focus on is the fucker cowering by the wall.
“Don’t you ever fucking speak to Hudson like that again. What kind of cop makes fun of someone’s suicide attempt, huh?” I’m fighting like hell to reach him, but Mr. Eric comes over and takes Hudson’s place holding me, my dad’s hands shoving my shoulders back.
“Cullen, stop.” Hudson gets in my face, his hand coming up to swipe at my eyes.
I didn’t even realize I was crying.
“Arrest him,” Detective Whitfield snarls.
Shit.
My dad whirls on him, his expression a stony mask. “I’d reconsider that if I were you.”
“He just attempted to assault me!”
“Did my son actually put his hands on you?” Dad is staring him down, pulled up to his full six-three height. He towers over the detective by miles, and it’s fun to watch the rat shrink back in his presence.
“Well, no. But—”
“Then we are done here.” Dad grabs me by the bicep and hauls me from the police station, his grip just shy of bruising.
Once outside, he lets go and steps up to me. I’m only an inch or so shorter than him, but his anger and height make him feel like a giant.
And I’m the bug he’s about to squash.
“That’s it,” he growls. “This has gone on long enough. Your mom and I have tried to be patient, tried to extend a little grace, but enough is enough. I’m setting up an appointment with Maria for PTSD and anger management.”
I laugh, the sound dark to my own ears. “I don’t need anger management.”
PTSD might be accurate, though.
I push the thought to the back of my brain.
“You almost decked a fucking detective!” he yells, flinging his arm out towards the police station.
“Did you hear what he said to Hudson?” I scream back, my voice cracking. My entire body is vibrating, my heart thudding to the point of pain.
Dad shakes his head, his jaw set tight. “Get in the car. We will finish this at home.” He stomps off to where his car is parked on the curb, slamming the door after he slides into the driver’s seat. He cranks up and idles, waiting for me to follow.
Mom comes over and lays her hands on my shoulders. “No part of what just happened is acceptable, no matter what was said.” She kisses my cheek, then climbs into the passenger seat.
Mrs. Nora slides up next to me, her hand gentle on my cheek as she turns my face towards hers.
“I will always be grateful for how you protect and stand up for Hudson, but getting yourself into trouble is only going to hurt him.” Her voice is soft, but her next words feel like a bomb going off.
“Don’t you think we’ve all hurt enough?”
Guilt and shame collide, turning my stomach, but the anger is still raging in my veins. I don’t know how to shut it down, and every second it burns, I feel less like myself.
My dad was right that day in the hospital parking lot.
I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.
I’m not sure I care.