Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
HARPER
The holding cell reeks. Piss, sweat, and some sort of industrial disinfectant can’t quite mask the human misery soaked into these concrete walls. I sit on the metal bench with my back straight and my knees tight, trying to look smaller without looking weak.
To my left, a lady with teardrop tattoos under her eyes keeps muttering to herself in Spanish. To my right, a woman who looks barely older than me is shaking like she’s about to come apart at the seams. Withdrawal.
I saw it enough times at Grass Valley.
This is my world, after all.
Let’s be honest. I was gonna end up here one way or another.
Like father, like daughter.
Statistics don’t lie.
I tip my head back against the cinderblock and close my eyes.
I know enough not to say shit without a public defender present, so I kept my mouth shut when they dragged me into that tiny fucking room and questioned me about the weed.
McKenzie’s got more connections than I would’ve ever given her credit for to have gotten her hands on that fucking much at once.
But then, I guess the bitch was motivated.
I don’t know much about legal shit—just the education Grass Alley gave me. How much time you get depends on the amount of weed they pop you with. A joint or two can be explained away to a sympathetic judge.
But as big as those bags were… It had to be close to five pounds.
When they call my name again an hour later, my body’s stiff from the bench, and my throat is dry. The hallway fluorescents knife into my eyes.
The interrogation room is worse—walls painted institutional white in a room barely bigger than a closet.
I sit down at the table, which is bolted down, naturally, and glance at the long mirror along the left wall that’s obviously two-way glass.
The air conditioning is either broken or deliberately set to “swamp,” because within minutes, I’m sweating through my T-shirt.
They bring me water in a paper cup that tastes like it came from a garden hose. I drink it anyway because my mouth feels like I’ve been chewing cotton balls.
Detective Riley—in her forties maybe, gray-streaked hair, one of those adults who pretends they aren’t being condescending while they give you a friendly smile—sits down with her manila folder and a smile that never touches her eyes.
“So, Harper,” she says, all casual. “Want to tell me about what we found in your locker?”
I grip the cup. “I’d like to speak with a lawyer.”
“You’re not under arrest. This is just a conversation.”
Then why did I arrive here in handcuffs? “I’d like to speak with a lawyer.”
She tries everything, starting friendly, moving on to sympathetic. Good kid, bad choice. I understand your stepmother is ill. She says Helen’s name. I lock my face down tight.
“That was over four pounds of marijuana we found in your locker. Do you understand what that means? We’re not talking simple possession here—that’s possession with intent to distribute. A second-degree felony in the state of Texas.”
She leans forward, her voice dropping into that fake-concerned register.
“You’re looking at two to twenty years in state prison, Harper.
Up to ten thousand dollars in fines. And that’s just the criminal consequences.
A felony conviction means no federal student aid.
No college scholarships. Most employers won’t touch you.
You’ll have to check that box for the rest of your life—‘Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’”
She pauses, letting that sink in. “You’re eighteen now, too. That record follows you forever. But if you tell me where you got the product from, maybe I can cut you a deal.”
Lawyer. Lawyer. Lawyer.
Two hours of this. I ask for water. I ask for a lawyer again. For the bathroom. But I don’t say one fucking word about anything else.
By the time they drag me back to holding, my shirt’s soaked through and my hands tremble with adrenaline. But inside?
I feel a flicker of something like pride.
They might manage to pin this on me, but I didn’t do shit wrong.
Here I’ve been, afraid my whole life I’d end up like Darlene.
But I think I’m like my dad after all. In spite of all my certainty to the contrary, I think that motherfucker turned out to be an actual good man in the end.
I’m actually… proud to be his daughter.
Even if the world’s an unfair piece of shit, and Tuckers are doomed to end up behind bars no matter what.
The hours bleed out, slow and grinding. Faces change in the cell but the smell doesn’t. I can’t stop thinking about Caleb. Is he freaking out? Is he blaming himself like he always does? Trying to take the whole weight on his own shoulders?
Not knowing is the worst part. It’s fucking killing me.
It’s late afternoon when they call my name again, but this time, it’s not for another round of questions. A corrections officer I haven’t seen before—stocky, silent, no-nonsense—motions for me to follow. She doesn’t say anything, and I scurry to follow her out of the cell.
This hallway is different.
“Am I being released?” I ask, voice rough from disuse.
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking like she didn’t hear me. Or doesn’t care.
At the end of the hall, a middle-aged woman waits behind a plexiglass shield. Her badge says Gonzalez. She looks like someone’s favorite aunt—warm eyes, silver-streaked hair pulled into a bun that’s halfway unraveling.
She slides a plastic bag across the counter. Inside: my phone and wallet.
“You’re free to go, honey,” she says gently, like I’m not standing here in yesterday’s clothes and someone else’s nightmare.
I blink at the bag. “Wait—what? Free to go? Did someone pay my bail or something?”
She leans forward, scanning the hallway before lowering her voice. “I’m real sorry about your daddy, sweetheart.”
I freeze. “My... what?”
“Your father. Silas Tucker.” Her voice softens, thickens. “I know your stepmama, you know. Helen Graham? We went to high school together. Sweet girl. Everyone tried to warn her about a man like Silas, but love makes fools of us all.”
My pulse starts to thrum. “I don’t—what are you talking about? What happened to him?”
She sighs, folding her hands like she’s bracing herself.
“He confessed to stashing the… well, you know what, in your locker. When men like him fall in with those motorcycle gangs, they never really get free of it, do they? He said he thought he was being tailed by a cop after a product pick up, so he stashed it in your locker temporarily.”
The floor drops out from under me.
“No,” I say automatically. “That’s not—he wasn’t—he wasn’t even near—”
“They’ve got footage,” she says gently. “Blurry, but they caught a man of his height in a hoodie, heading into the school a couple of days ago. And with his history? It’s enough. Third strike. He’s not coming home, honey.”
I grip the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles ache. My ears are ringing.
“He wasn’t there,” I whisper. “Was there footage of him putting it in the locker?”
“No cameras in the school. It’s a privacy thing. The parents fought for it a few years ago.” Her smile wobbles. “Sometimes, the people we love make choices we can’t understand.”
But I do understand. McKenzie all but confessed.
Which means Silas is lying.
He took the fall for me.
A man who spent half his life inside, who worked tooth and nail to claw out a second chance—to stay clean, to love Helen, to finally be present and be the Dad I always needed him to be, to both me and Caleb, and hell, lately I’ve even seen him reaching out to Z—just gave it all up.
For me.
“The confession,” I manage. “Can I see it?”
The woman shakes her head, slow and apologetic. “It’s evidence. But I heard it was thorough. He knew your locker combination and outlined his whole timeline. Had the means and motive. The product was stamped with the logo of the motorcycle club he used to work for.”
She pats my hand like she’s doing me a kindness. “I know it’s a lot, baby. But maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. You’re young. Smart. You’ve got a future. Go to college. Start fresh.”
Start fresh.
Like my dad didn’t just volunteer to go to prison in my place.
Like I didn’t fall in love with my stepbrother.
Like my life could ever be the same.
I sign the papers with hands that barely feel like mine.
Outside, the sun is too bright. The sky, too blue. The world, too normal for what just happened. Cars pass. Horns blare. Somewhere, someone is laughing.
And I’ve never felt further from it all.
I pull out my phone. Dial Caleb.
It beeps and doesn’t even go to voicemail. His voicemail box must be full. Dammit.
I try again.
And again.
Still nothing.
I’ve got about a million texts from Z.
Z: shit we just heard
Z: Are you okay?
Z: Silas is coming to get u
Z: he wont let me come
Z: R u out yet?
Z: I dont have a ride to come get u
Z: Helens mad about the Caleb N u vid
Z: can u get a ride home? Lk Uber back
Z: Harp? Dying waiting here
Z: Harp??????
My stomach sinks at the thought of Helen being mad at me. Does Dad know, too? Did he know before he came to take the fall for me? And did it anyway?
But Helen… my guts churn as I thumb over to order the rideshare, then text Z that I’m on my way home. My phone pings with a bunch more texts with questions from him, but once I verify they’re all from him and not from Caleb or Helen, I put my phone in my pocket.
Ten minutes later, the Uber shows up.
The ride passes in fragments. Like I’ve stepped sideways out of reality. It’s the same houses I’ve been driving past for months. The same trees. But something fundamental has shifted.
And it’s not just the world.
It’s me.