“CANTRELL.” THE UNIFORMED GUARD SAYS my name uncertainly.
“What?” I ask. I’m sitting on my cot, my back leaning against the cinder-block wall. I’ve spent the last few hours trying to puzzle through everything that’s happened. “Another visitor?” Darla has been here twice, a brave face and red eyes both times. I don’t think I can handle seeing her again today.
“You’re out.” The guard slips a key into the lock on my cell. The door slides open with a soft scratching sound.
“Out of what?” Luck? Time? “What are you talking about?”
“You made bail. Hurry it up. We got a line for this cell.”
“My parents are here?” I can’t help but think it’s some twisted joke thought up by Gonzalez to break me down even further. Like they’re going to let me get all the way to the front door and then tackle me and say they made a mistake.
“No. Some guy who says he’s your uncle.”
I pause for a second. Both Darla and Ben have brothers, but they live in different states, and I don’t think either one of them would have twenty grand to spend on some kid they barely know. Still, I guess anything is possible.
The guard rattles his keys. “You sure don’t seem anxious to leave. You and Clemens here bonding?”
Clemens is the guy in the cell across from me who made the lewd gestures at my lawyer.
“I’m coming,” I mutter.
The guard directs me toward a desk where a woman in uniform pulls out a handful of forms.
“Sign these,” she says crisply. She hands me a pen and turns back to her computer screen, where she’s in the process of buying what looks like a throw pillow shaped like a Doberman.
I scribble my name on a pink form and a yellow form, not even really paying attention to what they say. Something about being treated humanely and having all of my belongings returned to me. The woman picks up her phone and barks something into the receiver about my stuff. Another uniformed officer brings up a clear plastic bag with my wallet, my keys, and the prepaid cell phone I bought in Eagle’s Pass. I’m surprised they’re not keeping the phone as evidence, but I guess they can always subpoena the call records from the service provider.
I shove the stuff in my pocket and turn toward the door. There’s only one guy standing in the lobby, and he sure as hell isn’t my uncle. Not unless my uncle is black.
“Hello, Max,” the man says.
Go figure. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but if we’ve met before, I don’t remember it. “What’s up, Uncle?” I say. “Thanks for springing me.” The late-afternoon sun slams me in the face as I glide past him through the exit. I raise a hand up to block out the abrasive light so that I can make my way down the concrete steps in front of the police station.
A handful of people are waiting for a bus. One by one, they turn around to look at me with blank, cold faces. I wonder if they know about Preston’s death already. Maybe the whole town thinks I’m guilty.
“Need a ride?” my fake uncle asks. He smoothes the lapels of what looks like a very expensive pinstriped suit.
I’m tempted to tell him I’d rather walk, but then my curiosity gets the best of me. “Who are you?” I ask. “And why the hell did you post my bail?”
“Let me give you a ride home, and I’ll explain everything.”
“Sure. Okay.” The bag of stuff buzzes in my hand. I stop at the bottom of the steps and yank out the phone. I have three voicemail messages. My chest feels heavy. I know they’re going to be from Parvati, because she’s the only one that has this number. I shouldn’t listen to them. I should throw this phone in the trash can next to the curb. I line up like I’m going to take a free throw. Phone. Trash. Two points.
But I’m a masochist, so I don’t do it. Instead, I play the messages while Uncle Expensive Suit looks on.
“Max. It’s me. I’m at home. Look, there’s something I have to tell you about Pres. Call me the second you get this.”
Now Parvati has something to tell me? Maybe something about how she screwed Preston every which way from Sunday? In my hurry to delete the message, I stub my toe on the uneven sidewalk and nearly fall flat on my face. A sharp beep signals the beginning of the next message.
“Max. It’s me—”
Delete. Next message.
“Max. I—”
Delete. Somehow, I feel a tiny bit better. I probably can’t avoid her forever, but I don’t have to talk to her when I’m pissed. Forget pissed. I’m wrecked. I’m not even sure if I’ll be able to tell her I know about her and Pres. I keep imagining the inevitable confrontation, but every time I open my mouth to speak, no words come out. How, exactly, do you tell the girl you were crazy about that she’s a lying bitch?
“Messages from Ms. Amos?” Uncle Suit asks.
I nod without thinking. How does he know that?
“Gum?” He holds out a pack of spearmint sugarless.
“Sure.” I haven’t had any water for hours. My mouth feels like crap.
As I unwrap the gum and pop it in my mouth, I motion for him to hang on a second and dial my home number. As the phone rings in my ear, I watch the cars pass both ways in front of the Vista Palisades Police Station and Municipal Jail. The babysitter answers and I hang up. I’ll just go by the shop and let my parents know I’m out.
Uncle Suit gently removes the cell phone from my hand. “We’re in a bit of a hurry,” he says.
“Well then, why did you offer to—” I stop short, just in front of the parking lot. There’s a gray SUV with tinted windows parked in one of the first spots. It looks just like the car from the Ravens’ Cliff parking lot. “Actually, I just remembered somewhere I need to be.” I spin around, but Uncle Suit grabs me.
“There is only one place you need to be,” he says, his voice as smooth as water, like he should be narrating a nature documentary. “And that’s with me.” I feel the blunt tip of a gun poking into my side.