“You're not allowed to question a minor without the presence of a parent or guardian,” I drawl, glad for once that I truly don't know where Danny's body is or what the boys did with him. Less to lie about, less to hide. Not that I'd tell either way. I'd rather jump off a bridge. “I don't see a parent or guardian in this office.”
“Well, now, Bernadette,” Constantine says, scooting a bit closer to me and trying to smile in that patronizing way that adults often use on teenagers, like we don't have functioning brains in our skulls. “This isn't actually an official investigation just yet. We're just trying to understand why Danny didn't come home after the Halloween party last week.”
I yawn and wish I had balls to scratch, just to add a little extra rudeness to my disdain. Fuck it, I don't need balls. I scratch my crotch anyway, and smile when Constantine gives me a strange look.
“Sorry, crabs,” I explain, which is a total bullshit lie, but I'll admit that it's hilarious to see the detective's face scrunch up in disgust. “Must be all those trains I let the boys run on me.”
“I'm sorry, what?” Constantine asks, his innocent face twisted into an expression of confusion.
“Ms. Blackbird,” Ms. Keating warns, but she can't know if I'm lying or not either. Now everyone's uncomfortable.
“By boys, do you mean Havoc?” Constantine asks, his interest in the conversation piquing slightly. I stare at the stubble on his face. There isn't a single hair out of place, like he's carefully shaved the edges and plucked any stray strands. This tells me immediately that he cares a lot about his appearance.
“As a detective, aren't you supposed to, like, shave your face?” I quip, but clearly, he's used to dealing with much bigger fish than me. He just keeps smiling which pisses me off to no end. How dare he sit on the edge of Ms. Keating's desk like that, all casual and young and plucked to perfection. A good guy. Well, putting rapists and murderers in prison and then letting them go to recommit their offenses doesn't make him seem like a good guy to me. My foster brother, Eric Kushner, was accused—but not convicted—of rape three times before he tried to come after me.
Keyword here being tried.
“Ms. Blackbird,” Constantine continues, undeterred by my tactics. “Nobody's in trouble here, no crime has been committed.” I smile at that, but the detective pays me no mind. The easiest way for me to get caught here would be to play nice. Nobody at Prescott High ever plays nice with the cops. “But we know how these Halloween parties go, the sorts of pranks kids play on each other.”
“Kids?” I echo, raising a brow, but the detective ignores me. I bet he practiced this speech in the mirror this morning, too, right before his wife handed him a coffee while wearing her Betty Crocker inspired apron.
“We just want to find Danny and bring him home safely, that's all.” Constantine—who knows what his first name is—ratchets his smile up a notch. “His parents are really worried about him, Bernadette.” Oh, so we're on a first-name basis now? I resist the urge to scowl, keeping my own smile firmly in place.
“Wait? His parents? You mean the Ensbrooks?” I laugh without meaning to. “Those white trash losers don't give a shit about their son. I'm surprised they even called in to report him missing. They spend ninety-nine percent of their time shooting up, and the rest lying in comatose heaps. They're heroin junkies, Constantine.”
He just stares back at me, still smiling, not a single crack showing in his perfect façade. I decide I hate him already. Maybe I'm not being fair. Maybe, because the Thing is such a monster, and I've had such poor experiences with the police in the past, I'm not giving Detective Constantine a fair shake.
Also, I don't give a crap.
“It was actually Ms. Keating here who called in to report him missing. Come on, Bernadette, where is he? Locked in a shed somewhere near the party?”
“I don't know where Danny Ensbrook is,” I quip with a roll of my eyes. “He's a waste of life. Why the hell would I keep tabs on someone like him?”
“Maybe because your gang is in a war with his?” Constantine asks, and Ms. Keating steps in to separate us. She needn't have bothered. I'm not intimidated by this ass-fuck.
“Alright, that's enough, detective. You asked your question,