Marge breathed a grateful sigh when she saw an empty parking spot on the town square, directly in front of the Barton Police Department. She pulled in and cut the engine, then turned to inspect her companion in the passenger seat.
Burton Ashlock sat with his head bowed. He made no move to exit the car.
Marge kept her voice brisk. “Time to see your dad, Burton. He’s waiting.”
Burton lifted his head. Training his eyes on the windshield, he said, “You can tell him.”
Marge’s forehead wrinkled. “No sir. Come along.” She pulled out the handle on her car door, but the boy didn’t follow suit.
Instead, he fixed Marge with a look of entreaty. “You tell Dad. Please. I just can’t.”
A cold wind blew Marge’s door open. With an effort, she pulled it shut. “Burton. You have to tell your father about it.”
“Why? It wasn’t my iPad.” His face was pale, his eyes reddening.
She spoke in a tone that was not unkind. “Because you’re the one that saw the pictures, Burton. I never did.”
He turned away from her. “Mrs. Arnold, I swore. They said I could only look if I wouldn’t tell my dad. I swore to God.”
“Why on earth did you do such a thing?”
“I didn’t believe it. I didn’t think that Taylor would be in internet porn. I wanted to prove they were lying.”
Marge reached over and took the boy’s hand. His fingers were cold, even for a chilly day. Teachers were warned against touching students these days, even to comfort them. But sometimes the rule had to be disregarded.
“Burton, honey. That’s a promise you can’t keep. And shouldn’t keep. The Lord wouldn’t want you to stand by that bargain.”
He dislodged his hand from hers, as if embarrassed by the contact. But he said, his voice cracking, “Are you sure?”
“I guarantee it.” She opened her door and the wind took it again, as if the weather was urging her to hurry. “Now let’s get moving.”
Once inside, the boy moved fast, leaving Marge behind as she limped up the stairs on her trick hip. Ashlock awaited them at the top of the stairway. Taking Marge’s elbow, he led them to the conference room. Marge sank into a chair, with Burton sitting beside her.
Ashlock stood, his face stormy.
“What the dickens is going on?”
Burton seemed to have been struck dumb again, so Marge spoke.
“I asked Burton to text you, Bob. A boy brought a device to school with pictures on it.” She nudged Burton. “Tell him, Burton.”
He spoke in a whisper. “He had an iPad.”
“Who had an iPad?” Ashlock sounded like a cop, not a concerned father. Marge wished he would sit down. He was scaring the boy.
When Burton didn’t answer immediately, Ashlock placed his hands flat upon the tabletop and asked again: “Who had an iPad?”
Marge raised a hand. “Bob, I believe that you should—”
He cut her off without an apology. “Marge, please.”
Burton spoke. “It was Greg. Greg Branson.”
That’s the boy, Marge thought. Now I remember. I’ll be forgetting my own name before you know it.
“What was on the iPad?”
Burton spoke with an effort; his voice cracked again with the vocal transition of puberty. “Pictures of Taylor. In a bed, wearing red underwear. And other pictures of her.”
Ashlock’s face betrayed his disbelief. “Taylor Johnson? Breeon’s Taylor?”
Burton nodded.
“Are you certain, son?”
“I’m positive.” He lowered his head. “I saw them with my own eyes. She asked him—Greg—not to tell anybody. Or show anybody.”
Ashlock raised his chin, and focused his eyes on the side window, which framed the county courthouse across the street. “So when did the Branson boy tell Taylor he’d seen the pictures?”
“He showed them to her in the locker room, after school. That’s why I went along. Because I was worried about what Taylor would do.”
Ashlock’s face softened. Marge rummaged through her purse again, just on the off chance that her errant phone might be lodged in a corner of the bag. “Bob, I need to use a phone—a landline in your office, if that’s all right. I need to report this to Children’s Services.”
He rose, nodding toward the door. “Let’s all head to the office. You can call while I fill out the paperwork.”
“For a police report?” Burton asked, his voice fearful.
“For a search warrant. Burton, you’ll have to swear out an affidavit. You too, Marge.” He checked the time on his wristwatch. “Breeon should still be at the Prosecutor’s Office. I’ll call her first.”
He opened the door and waved them through.