by Karen Rose
Still only five-feet-even, Sherri leaned up on her toes so that he didn’t have to bend down so far. She barely caught his whispered reply.
“I can’t fight the Lindens, Sher. You know it as well as I do. Nobody is going to stand up for me. Nobody but you.”
“But some of the teachers might. Coach Marion or Mr. Woods . . .” The soccer coach loved Thomas and their history teacher did, too.
He closed his eyes, shook his head, pivoting against her forehead. “They won’t stand up for me, either.”
“How do you know?”
He drew in an anguished breath. “Because they didn’t,” he snapped, then sighed. “They had a chance on Thursday.”
“They pulled the boys off you,” she murmured. “Then walked with you to the main office.”
Except that Thomas hadn’t been walking, not really. He’d been too hurt, dizzy from the kicks to his head and limping because one of the boys had repeatedly stomped on his knee with a heavy boot. Coach Marion and Mr. Woods had actually been holding him upright.
“They had the chance to tell Dr. Green what happened, but they didn’t.” Thomas shrugged. “Woods started to, but Green called him out into the hall and said something about contract renewal.”
Sherri’s eyes widened. “He threatened Mr. Woods’s job?”
“Yes. I assume he said the same to Coach, because he didn’t speak up for me, either. And they were the best allies I had.” Another defeated shake of his head. “Hell, Miss Jackson could have let you take my bass with you on Friday, but here we are, breaking into the school to get it. I bet Dr. Green threatened her, too.”
It would have sounded paranoid, except that it was true.
Miss Jackson had said as much when she pressed three keys into Sherri’s palm late Friday afternoon. One was to the to the school’s outer door closest to the band room, one to the band room itself, and the third unlocked the instrument cabinet.
I can’t give him the bass myself. But if someone breaks in and takes it? Miss Franklin had shrugged. That would be a real shame. Especially if it happened on Sunday night. Nobody’s here to stop any would-be thieves on Sunday night.
Miss Franklin wanted to help, but she wasn’t willing to defend Thomas, either, and the realization was devastating. “Tommy . . .”
He pressed his finger to her lips. “Nobody’s gonna stand for me, Sher, and that’s just the way it is. I’ll go to the high school near my house. I’ll be okay. I’m more worried about you, staying here without me.”
She wanted to say she’d go with him, that she’d leave this fancy school with its rich white brats and follow him wherever he went. But her father wouldn’t allow it. Her parents wanted her to have a future, to have an easier life than they did, and Ridgewell Academy was her ticket. There had to be an answer for Thomas, but she wasn’t going to figure it out standing here in the school parking lot.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Come on. Let’s get your bass.” It had been his father’s—his real father, not that piece of shit who was his stepfather. Thomas’s real dad had died when Thomas was nine, and the bass was all he had left of him.
The instrument wasn’t worth a lot of money, but it was everything to Thomas. He never left it at school overnight, but the principal hadn’t let him get it Thursday after the incident. Dr. Green hadn’t allowed Sherri to get it for him, either, the ass.
She set off at a half jog toward the rear of the building, well aware that one of Thomas’s strides required two of hers. At least on a normal day. He was still limping and she reached the door before he did, scowling as she unlocked the door and slipped through, holding it for him.
“Dammit, Sherri, go back to the car. I’ll meet you.”
“Nope.” Because she wasn’t sure what they’d find in the instrument closet. Yes, she had keys, but it had been forty-eight hours since she’d seen the bass. She wanted to be there to support Thomas if someone—like Richard Linden and his friends—had gotten there first. If the bass was gone . . . Or broken?
Thomas was going to lose it.
The heavy outer door closed behind Thomas, automatically locking with a click that echoed in the quiet. “Let’s do this,” she said and started jogging toward the band room. She could hear his heavy steps behind her. Normally he moved like a panther, swiftly and silently, but Richard’s friends had done a number on his knee.
Abruptly, Thomas’s footsteps halted. “Sherri,” he hissed. “Wait.”
She slowed and turned. “I’m not going back to the—”
Thomas was limping down one of the corridors and Sherri followed, catching up as he reached the stairwell at its end. “Sherri!” he shouted, panic in his voice.
“I’m here,” she said, a little out of breath. “What’s wrong?” A second later her eyes adjusted to the dim light and . . . she saw. Horrified, she stumbled backward. “Oh my God. Who is it?”
Because the boy under the stairwell wasn’t recognizable. Someone had beaten him until his features were one big bloody mess.
Thomas crawled under the stairwell and pressed his fingers to the boy’s neck. “He’s . . . still alive, but God, Sher. I don’t see how. Looks like he was stabbed.”
“What do we do?”
“I’ll try to stop the bleeding. You call 911.”
“I don’t have any quarters.”
“You don’t need them for 911. Go!” He shrugged out of his coat, wincing in pain because his arm still hurt. She turned to run, but from the corner of her eye she saw him freeze.
“Shit,” he whispered, then looked up to meet her eyes. “It’s Richard.”
“Oh no,” Sherri breathed. “Oh no.”
“No.” Thomas’s jaw tightened. “Go. Call 911. He’s lost a lot of blood. Go!”
She turned at the snapped command, then stopped short when he called her name again. He’d taken off his coat and was now ripping off the sweater she’d given him for Christmas. “What?” she asked as he flung the sweater away and began taking off a long-sleeved T-shirt.
He balled the T-shirt up and pressed it to Richard’s stomach. “Once you’ve called 911, get out of here. I don’t want you involved.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t argue!” he shouted. “Just . . .” His voice broke, and he blinked, sending a tear down his battered cheek. “Just go,” he whispered hoarsely.
And then she understood. When help came, Thomas would be caught in the school. With a dying Richard Linden.
“They’ll blame you.” She choked on the words. Dropping to her knees she grabbed his arm, but he shook her off. “Thomas, come with me. We’ll call 911 and then leave. Together.”
Thomas shook his head and resumed putting pressure on Richard’s stomach. “Somebody has to put pressure on this wound. He’ll die otherwise. He’s not even conscious. I can’t leave him to die.”
She stared at him helplessly. “Tommy . . .”
He met her eyes, his misery unmistakable. “For God’s sake, go! Do not come back. Please.”
She pushed to her feet and backed away, then ran for the pay phone. She’d make the damn call, then she’d go back and sit with him. There was no way she was leaving him to face the blame for something else he had not done.
The pay phone was next to the front office. With trembling hands she dialed 911.
“What is your emergency?” the operator asked.
“We . . .” Sherri drew a deep breath through her nose, tried to slow her rapid pulse. “We need help. There’s a guy—”
The doors flew open and men poured through them. Men in uniforms.
Cops.
Cops? How did cops—
A burly man grabbed her arm and squeezed hard. “Drop the phone!”
“But . . .”
The man clamped his other hand around her wrist, drawing a cry of shocke
d pain from her throat. “I said drop it.”
Her fingers were forced open, releasing the phone, which dangled on the tangled cord. She stared up at the cop, stunned. “But—”
Roughly he spun her around and shoved her against the wall. The next thing she knew, he was snapping cuffs on her wrists.
And she could hear Thomas screaming her name. “Sherri, run!”
She grimaced, her temple pressed the wall so hard that it hurt. It was too late for that now.
Montgomery County Detention Center
Rockville, Maryland
Wednesday, January 14, 1998, 11:15 a.m.
Laying his head on the cold metal table of the interview room, Thomas closed his eyes, too tired to wonder who was behind the mirror and too exhausted to be worried about what this meeting was about. He hadn’t slept in three days, not since they’d brought him to this place.
To jail.
I’m in jail. Words he thought he’d never say. Goddamn Richard. The fucker had died. I ruined my life and he died anyway. Bled out from stab wounds to his gut. Thomas’s first aid had been too little, too late.
Murder. They’d charged him with murder.
He was almost too tired to be terrified. Almost.
He hadn’t seen Sherri since he’d been here. He hadn’t seen anyone. Not even his mother. His mother had written a letter, though. He laughed bitterly. Yep, she’d written him a letter saying she was disappointed in him and how could he kill that nice Richard Linden? And, oh by the way, we will not be paying your bail or for a lawyer.
Thomas was on his own.
The door opened, but he was too exhausted to lift his head. “Thank you,” a man said. “I can take it from here.”
“Fine.” That voice Thomas knew. It was the officer who’d locked him inside this room. Leaving his hands cuffed behind him. “If you need anything, just ask.”
“Wait,” the new man said. “Uncuff him.”
Thomas lifted his head enough to see the man’s dark suit and tie. And his wheelchair. Thomas’s jerked upright, staring.
The man wasn’t old. He was young, actually. Maybe thirty. It was hard to say. His hair was cut short, his suit very expensive-looking. He was studying Thomas clinically.
“Thomas White?” he asked.
Not for much longer. He’d be ditching his stepfather’s last name as soon as possible. He was sure the bastard was the reason his mother had turned her back. Part of him wondered what his stepfather had needed to do to force her to write that letter. Part of him worried about his mom. Part of him was too tired to care.
“Who are you?” Thomas demanded.
“I’m your lawyer,” the man said blandly. He turned to the guard. “Uncuff him. Please.”
The way he said please wasn’t polite. It was . . . imperious. Commanding.
“If you’re sure,” the guard said with a shrug.
“I’m sure,” the lawyer said.
Thomas gritted his teeth when the guard jerked his arms under the guise of unlocking the cuffs. “One move from you, kid . . . ,” the guard growled in warning.
Rubbing his sore wrists, Thomas glared at the guard and said nothing.
“That’ll be all,” the lawyer said, waiting until the door closed behind the guard to roll his eyes. “All right, then, Mr. White. Let’s start—”
“Thomas,” Thomas interrupted. “Not White. Just Thomas.”
“I can do that. For now, anyway.” The lawyer rolled his wheelchair to the table, appraising Thomas with too keen an eye. “Have you been eating?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. I don’t have to ask if you’ve been sleeping. You’ve got bags under your eyes.”
Like you care. This guy, with his expensive suit and lord-of-the-manor attitude. “Who are you?” Thomas asked again, more rudely this time.
The man pulled a silver business card case from his breast pocket and gave one of the cards to Thomas. “My name is James Maslow.”
The card was sturdy and not cheap at all. Maslow and Woods, Attorneys at Law. James Maslow.
No way I can afford this guy. “I have a lawyer already.”
“I know. The public defender. If you choose to stay with him, I’ll honor your wishes. Your history teacher and my business partner are brothers. Your teacher asked me to speak with you, as a favor. I reviewed your case and thought he might be right.”
Mr. Woods talked to this lawyer? For me? Why? “Right about what?”
“That you’re innocent.”
Thomas’s lungs expelled air in a rush. “You believe me?” he asked, his voice small and trembling, because no one else had.
Maslow nodded once. “Yes.”
“Why?” Thomas’s voice broke on the single word.
Maslow’s smile was gentle. “For starters, because your teacher told me what really happened the day you defended that young girl from Richard Linden’s advances.”
“Mr. Woods will lose his job,” Thomas whispered, remembering the principal’s barely veiled threat that day. Had that been only six days ago? Really?
“He’ll risk it,” Maslow said and there was a spark of pride in his eyes. “Mr. Woods has written a letter to the school board on your behalf.”
“Wow.” Thomas cleared his throat. “That’s . . . really nice of him.”
“Well, he’s a really nice guy. I think you probably are, too.”
Thomas lifted his chin, stared Maslow in the eye. “I didn’t kill Richard Linden.”
“I believe you, but the prosecutor thinks he has a case. He wants me to tell you that he’s offering man-one. Eight to ten years.”
Thomas came to his feet, shoving the chair backward. “What? Eight to ten years?”
Maslow patted the table. “Sit down, Thomas, before the guard comes back.”
Thomas sat down, his body shaking. Tears burned his eyes. “But I didn’t do it.”
“I know,” Maslow said soothingly. “But I’m bound to tell you whatever they offer. Let’s discuss your case and then you can decide what you want to do about representation.”
He rubbed his eyes roughly, clearing the moisture away. “I can’t pay you. I can’t even make bail.”
“Don’t worry about my fees. If you agree, I’ll be taking your case pro bono. That means for free.”
Thomas frowned. “I know what it means,” he snapped. “I got 780 on my verbal.” Not that his SAT scores mattered anymore. No college would take him now. Nor was it this guy’s fault. He drew a breath. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m . . . tired.”
“You look it,” Maslow said sympathetically. “You’ve also made bail.”
Thomas’s mouth fell open. “What? My mother . . . ? Where did she get the money?”
“It wasn’t your mother. I’m sorry about that.”
His stomach pitched. Not my mom. “She really has cut me off, then.”
Maslow’s brows crunched in a disapproving frown. “I’m afraid so.”
“That’s why I don’t want to be White. Her husband changed my name when he married her. I want to change it back. Take my real father’s name back.”
“What name was that?”
“Thorne. I want to be Thomas Thorne.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning, #1 international bestselling author Karen Rose earned her degree in chemical engineering from the University of Maryland. For a number of years, she worked in the engineering field, earning two patents, but she began writing novels when scenes started to fill her mind and her characters would not be silenced. Since Karen’s debut suspense novel, Don’t Tell, was released in July 2003, she has written twenty novels, and they have been translated into twenty-three languages. She is the author of the Baltimore novels and the Cincinnati novels, which have placed her on the New York Times, the Sunday Times (UK), and Germany’s d
er Spiegel bestseller lists. A former high school teacher, Karen lives in Florida with her family, her cat, and her dogs, Loki and Freya. Visit her online at karenrosebooks.com, facebook.com/karenrosebooks, and twitter.com/KarenRoseBooks.
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