Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake #5) - Rachel Caine Page 0,101

breath and blinks them away and says, “Bring him home safe, Sam.”

The detective stops at the police cruiser and has a word with the uniformed officer standing there; he opens the door and gestures Connor out. The handcuffs are removed. I put my arm around him, and we follow the detective to his cruiser, and when I turn around to see Gwen, she’s standing with her arms around Lanny. It looks like they’re holding each other back this time.

Maybe that’s good for both of them. God, I hope we’re not making a massive mistake here. She’s put a staggering amount of trust in me.

Now I need to live up to that.

“This is complete bullshit.”

I say it bluntly to the detective who enters the room. We’ve been waiting only a few minutes, and I’m a little surprised; generally, the tactic is to keep people on edge, let the silence and time work on them. Not now. It makes me worry.

“Probably is,” the detective agrees blandly, sliding into the chair on the other side of the table. Connor’s no longer in handcuffs, and so far I’ve been able to keep myself from getting into some, so I suppose that’s a win. “For the recording, this is Detective Aaron Holland, speaking with Connor Proctor and his legal guardian Sam Cade. Mr. Cade, Mr. Proctor, I know this ain’t the best of times for you, and I apologize for that, and for keeping you waiting. Wanted to be absolutely sure I had all the facts before I came in here. Now, Mr. Cade . . . you’re Connor’s adoptive father, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And his mom is Gwen Proctor.”

“Yes. Where’s the warrant?”

“What warrant, Mr. Cade?”

“The arrest warrant. Do you have one?”

“Mr. Cade—”

“Because if you don’t, we’re not saying one damn thing more.”

“That’s totally understandable,” Holland agrees, with every sign of real sympathy. He fakes it well. “I can’t even imagine the stress of comin’ up like you did, Connor, with your family history. Plus moving, having people threatening your life all the time. And last year, getting abducted like that. Dealing with all that at such a tender age, that can’t be easy at all.”

Connor just shrugs slightly. He’s not meeting the detective’s steady gaze. He scratches a thumbnail on the smooth surface of the table like he’s found a spot.

“You know why you’re here?” Holland asks. His voice is profoundly gentle.

Connor says, “Because someone faked a message post.”

“Connor, don’t answer him.”

Holland looks at me, then back to the boy. “So you’re saying you didn’t make that post, then?”

“I’m calling a lawyer,” I say, and take out my phone. “I don’t like any of this. He’s not answering questions. Connor, be quiet—you don’t need to say anything at all.” I have a criminal lawyer in my contacts; we’ve needed her before, and I know she’ll show up fast. I don’t know what Gwen would do, but the last thing I want is for Connor to make a deadly mistake. “Connor, he’s not on your side.”

“But I didn’t do it,” Connor says.

“Then you’ve got no reason not to talk to me,” Holland says.

“No.” I say it flatly, and put a hand on Connor’s shoulder when he tries to respond. “We’re done. You want to prove that he did it, go ahead and try to do that without the help of a fifteen-year-old. That’s your job.”

Holland sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Let me just lay my cards on the table, all right? Then you can decide what you want to do.”

“Pass. Because legally, you get to cheat at cards.” I hit the contact number and get an answering service. “Yeah, I’m going to need Ms. Moore down here for Connor Proctor at KPD Central. He’s not under arrest, but he’s going to need representation.” I give my callback number and hang up. Holland has a hangdog, disappointed look. I don’t care. “Go ahead. Lay it out if you still want to.”

He shakes his head, sighs, and gives Connor a look that clearly says he wishes I hadn’t done that. I care even less. “Okay,” Holland says. “Well, as you know, we have an internet post under Connor’s name in which he threatens to go on a killing spree—”

“I didn’t post that!” Connor says. I put a hand on his shoulder, and he subsides, but I can feel how tense he is.

“He knows you didn’t,” I say. “Don’t you, Detective? And he also knows about the vandals at our house. And the flyers. Kind