The Bitterroots (Cassie Dewell #4) - C.J. Box Page 0,44

upon by the defense, DNA report or not.

While the prosecution had the awesome power and treasury of the state behind them at trial, the defense had the luxury of second-guessing and questioning every move made by law enforcement and spinning simple errors that occurred in every organization into diabolical conspiracies. Cassie had been on the stand on multiple occasions when defense attorneys questioned her motives, ethics, and competence. It was always demoralizing, and it bothered her to think that she could conceivably play a role in a similar effort.

She didn’t want to be a party to that in this case, especially given the overwhelming evidence against Blake Kleinsasser.

ten

Ben Dewell waited for Erin Reese on a cold concrete bench that had yet to warm from the morning sun outside Bozeman High. He kept a close eye on the double doors for her because he planned to spring up and greet her the moment she came outside.

It was pure fortune that Erin’s free period occurred the same time as his. They’d started meeting outside and walking the two blocks to the Kum & Go convenience store for a morning snack. But it was more than that. He couldn’t wait to see her.

Erin was a new kid to Bozeman and the school, like Ben. And like Ben, she’d arrived with no friends or connections or cliques that immediately welcomed her to join them. Ben had the wrestling team but it was almost as if having no group at all because he was a freshman and he was so lousy at the sport. He wasn’t even sure he’d make the freshman team because his only value, it seemed, was to serve as prey for better wrestlers who needed their confidence built up. The coaches made sure of that. As a result, he was a mass of bruises and sore muscles, and the only other wrestlers he’d really bonded with were as inept as he was and most of them had already quit the team.

That Erin hadn’t found her place yet was more of a puzzle for Ben because she was attractive, quirky, and exotic. She was also flighty and book-smart, and she seemed to be very comfortable in her own skin, unlike him. There was no doubt she was considered weird and seemed to care not at all about what other kids said about her with her odd clothing, floppy hats, and flowing scarves.

He expected to lose her friendship at any time when, inevitably, she fell in with the right crowd. He’d noticed some of the drama and theater nerds hanging together at lunch and he guessed she might fit right in with them.

But so far, it seemed, he was her only friend. And he thanked God for it twenty times a day.

They shared two classes, the study period, and late-night texting together. She seemed to like his company and she laughed at his attempts at humor. She lifted his spirits when he was down and playfully called him “Eeyore” after the gloomy donkey in the Winnie-the-Pooh books. When he complained to her about Isabel, which he often did, she laughed uncontrollably in person or replied with laughing emojis in her text responses.

When she appeared behind the heavy glass in the vestibule— her sheer lavender scarf flowing behind her and giving her away— he felt a trill that shot up both legs into his groin.

And, of course, at that second his mother called.

*

“Ben, is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly. He wanted to get off the phone before Erin saw him talking to his mom.

“But you texted me to call you right away.” She sounded rushed and annoyed.

“Isabel went on strike this morning,” he said.

“What do you mean, on strike?”

“That’s what she said. She said I don’t appreciate her and neither do you. She said she was on strike until further notice.”

“Ben, what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Ben?”

“Why do you automatically blame me? You know she’s a crazy woman.”

“That’s no way to talk about your grandmother, Ben. She means well. So, what happened that she decided to go on strike?”

He sighed. “I wouldn’t eat granola for breakfast. I told her I need protein, like bacon. I’m a wrestler, Mom.”

“And she went on strike over that?”

“That’s what she said. So, you need to come home.”

“I can’t right now,” his mother said. “Look, I’ll call her and try to straighten things out.”

“She’s not answering her phone. That’s part of her strike.”

The conversation was becoming time-consuming and it was getting complicated, he thought. Erin was pushing through the