by Riley Scott
“I ask the questions,” Clayton snapped and slapped the table. “You’re in no position to weasel out of this or to think you run the show. In here, I’m boss.”
Trent stiffened, taking the challenge. “Fuck you,” he muttered under his breath. He saw Clayton’s smirk, and he wished again he could hit him. He looked over Clayton’s head to the back wall. “Fine,” he finally managed, slumping back into his chair.
“What was it about Chloe—about lesbians and gays in general—that you didn’t like?”
“What’s to like?” Trent hurled the question. “What is there to like?” When Clayton didn’t answer, he straightened in his chair. “You tell me, Mr. Detective. Do you like the fucking queers?”
Beside him, William nudged him and cleared his throat. He mouthed the word, “Enough.”
“No,” Trent said, directing his attention at William this time. “I’m sick and tired of being told what I can and can’t say. You can get the hell out of this room.”
Though he tried to stop the train, he couldn’t. His hands were shaking as he fought with all his might to keep memories—painful memories—at bay. He forced a deep breath, and narrowed his eyes, silently demanding William listen to his order.
“That’s not advisable,” William said, keeping his tone low but firm. “You and I both know you need someone in your corner right now.”
No one had ever been in his corner, not really, aside from his dad. He shook his head, every ounce of resentment rising within him. “I said get out!”
When William still refused to move, Trent lunged his chair in William’s direction, using the only free part of his body, his feet, to kick it. “Go. I don’t want your help. I don’t want you on my case. I want you to get the hell out. You’re fired. I don’t want a lawyer if you’re only going to sit in here and tell me I can’t distance myself from someone who was so blatantly sick in the head. It wouldn’t help my case at all if people thought I was someone who would hang around with Chloe fucking Stanton and her wild, god-awful lifestyle.”
William pressed his lips together and stood, straightening his suit jacket and shaking his head. “Your mistake, kid,” he muttered as he strode out the door.
“No it’s your mistake, and it’s a big one. I’ll make sure it costs you every penny you have.” Trent hit the table again as the door slammed shut and focused back on Clayton.
“Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer?” Clayton asked, adjusting the tape recorder and sliding it closer to Trent.
“I don’t give a damn if that thing is recording all of this. I don’t need a lawyer. That guy is just a dumb country bumpkin in a suit. My father fucked up in sending him in here to defend me. I don’t need defending anyway. I’m innocent.” He settled his voice back into a calmer tone, trying to choose his words. “So ask me your questions, and I’ll give you my answers without a lawyer in here.”
Trent saw Clayton smirk as he took notes in his notepad. For a second, he wondered if he had made a mistake. But his anger was too strong to ignore. He focused on breathing, slowly and intently, calming his nerves and his anger. When Clayton didn’t fill the silence, his hands shook again, and he fought to keep composure. “Go ahead. Ask your fucking questions.” He kept his words a whisper, but made sure they sizzled off the tongue.
“Okay,” Clayton said with a shrug. “I’m going on record to restate that you have requested to be questioned without a lawyer.”
“Get on with it.”
“How do you know details about Chloe’s personal life?”
“I just know them,” Trent said, straightening his shoulders. “It’s a small town. People talk.”
“Which people?”
“People,” he said, glaring at the tape recorder. “Everyone talks.”
“Okay,” Clayton said, writing on his pad again.
Trent wished he could slap it out of his hands and watch it fall to the floor. He eyed Clayton. The minute he was out of cuffs, he’d beat that prick to a bloody pulp.
“If you didn’t associate with ‘Chloe’s kind of people,’ as you’ve dubbed the gay community in previous interviews, which types of people knew the details of her personal life? It seems to me Chloe didn’t have too many close friends in whom she confided. Did you have another friend who might have been a lesbian who told you this information?”
Clayton was smirking, as if he was enjoying pouring salt into one of Trent’s wounds. And Trent felt the sting, fresh despite the years that had passed. He shuddered. “I already told you. I don’t hang out with, associate with, or even talk with those people.”
Clayton raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat, jotting a few things down on the notepad again. Trent wanted to crane his neck to see what was being written down, but he didn’t want to let on that he was curious.
“Aside from the night of your encounter at McCool’s, when was the last time you remember talking to Chloe Stanton?”
“I already told you. I didn’t make a habit of talking to her. Hell, I didn’t even make a habit of being in the same place as she was. It’s not my fault that whore happened to be in the same damn bar where I was getting drinks that night. She’s a lush from what I’ve heard, so she frequents the place. Me and my buddies usually go elsewhere. We go to classier places, places outside of town. But we wound up there, and she was there too. It is what it is.” He shook his head and spat in the corner of the room, grinning at the disgust in Clayton’s face.
“So you can’t remember the last conversation you had with her prior to that night?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“And how well would you say you knew Amelia Brandt?”
Trent narrowed his eyes. “Where is this going?”
“You need to answer the question,” Clayton said, leaning back in his chair, casually tapping his pen against the notepad.
Trent let out a sigh and shook his head. “She serves shitty coffee, and I’d been in her shop a time or two. We’re not friends by any stretch. I don’t spend my time with a lot of the people around here.”
Clayton’s eyebrow shot up and Trent wanted to strangle him. “Why then did you throw out her name as someone who would know something?”
“What? Did she know something?” He scowled. “Maybe she did this.”
“Maybe.” Clayton shrugged, never diverting eye contact. Trent didn’t look away or show weakness. “Maybe you shouldn’t go around throwing out accusations, though. And maybe, you can shed some insight onto how you knew details about who Chloe hung around with. But you’ve also stated you don’t associate with lesbians.”
Lesbians. The word hung in the air and threatened to slice through every shred of self-control Trent had left.
“Why do you hate lesbians?” Clayton asked, his expression amused.
Trent slapped the table and delighted when he saw Clayton flinch. “I’m done talking to you, you son of a bitch!” He frowned and shook his head. “I’m done with you.”
“Okay,” Clayton shrugged and stood. “Have it your way.” He walked out without another word, and Trent sat dumfounded. He stared at the doorway. It had never been that easy.
“We’re done in here!” He called out, hoping the dumb kid who escorted him to and from his cell would come in and let him go back. He looked around at the gray walls and spat again in the corner. This place was a dump, and from the looks of the leak-stained ceiling tiles, it was about to fall down. Closing his eyes, he wished for that moment—a glorious moment when this place collapsed and everyone around here went to hell right along with it.
He tried to take deep breaths, but his anger made his heart race more quickly. The sound of the door opening jolted him from his thoughts. He jerked his head upright and glared at the entrance.
In the entryway stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with gray hair and a soft face. He looked like someone’s grandpa, Trent thought, trying to wrap his mind around the sudden shift.
“Who are you?” Trent said, keeping his voice flat. If he
’d learned anything during his stint here, it was that you didn’t discount someone right away. You needed friends in this place, and there were surely enough enemies.
“My name is Joe,” he said, taking the seat that Clayton had occupied only moments before.
“What do you want, Joe?” Trent narrowed his eyes, watching the guy’s every movement.
Joe shrugged his shoulders and set his hands on the table. Trent examined the man. There was no sign of that irritating pen and pad that Clayton always carried, tapped, and scribbled on. It was just this guy and the same damn tape recorder in the middle of the table.
“I just want to talk to you,” Joe said quietly. “For starters, they told me tomorrow is your birthday. So happy birthday. Other than that, I just want to talk. I know you’ve had a rough day, what with losing your lawyer and having Clayton in here ruffling your feathers. I just want to see how you’re doing.”
Trent leaned back in his chair. “So this is a house call? Checking to see if the sheets are too scratchy and the food is too bland?” He scoffed. “That’s bullshit. Why are you really here?”
“The sheets are scratchy?” Joe nodded and let out a sigh. “I’m sure they are, and I’m sorry to hear that. Unfortunately we deal with what we have according to the budget. But aside from your accommodations here, I’d like to focus a little bit more on how you feel the questioning process has been.”
“It’s been fucked up,” Trent said. He laid his palms out on the table. “The people they have around here…” He looked and didn’t see a badge on Joe’s shirt. He knew he was taking a chance, but he didn’t care. Even if this guy was one of them, he could hear the truth. “These people they have around here—hell you might be one of them—they suck. They run around like fucking buffoons. They don’t know anything, and they’re barking up the wrong tree looking for answers. Sitting me in here every week or so to ask me the same damn questions, hoping for different answers, won’t do anyone good. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be stuck in this hellhole while they’re letting whoever actually did this run free. I want out of here, and I want out of here now.” His words came out like an angry hiss, and he sat breathing heavily through a set jaw, making intense eye contact to drive his point home.
“Trent,” Joe spoke slowly, “you don’t have to get upset right now. I’m just here to help. I want to get it on the record that you don’t want to talk with Clayton anymore. Is that the case?”
“Like I have any choices in here,” Trent shook his head and hit the table again. “I’m chained to this damn chair and forced to listen to that bastard recount things I said that he thinks have meaning but they don’t. They have no meaning and neither does any of this.”
Joe sighed and leaned forward. “I understand your frustrations.”
Trent scooted his chair back as far as the cuffs would allow. “Is this some kind of ‘good cop, bad cop’ thing y’all are doing? Do y’all really do that? Are you a fucking cop too?”
Joe smiled. “I’m one of the good guys,” he said, leaning forward. “I want to help get to the bottom of this case. You’re innocent until proven guilty, so you do need to speak to someone. It doesn’t have to be Clayton.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now,” Trent hissed, recoiling as he considered talking to yet another cop. “I want my space.”
Joe shrugged. “I can give you that. I have a couple of questions first.”
“Do I have a choice?” Trent spat into the corner of the room again. Joe didn’t even flinch. He cocked his head to the side. “What is it?” he asked.
“We do need to know some things,” Joe said, shrugging. “Murder cases are multi-faceted, and there are little details that don’t always add up. It’s usually in the details. So I need to talk to you a little about Chloe Stanton.”
“I don’t know anything about her.” He tensed up, leaning as far back as his cuffs would allow.
Joe propped his elbows up on the table and smiled. “You don’t have to know everything. I’m just asking. Why don’t you start with what you did know about her?”
Trent looked side to side. As much as his heart was racing, he made sure to keep a calm expression. No matter what happened or what he said, they twisted it. “She worked on a ranch,” he said flatly.
“Very astute observation, Mr. Westwick,” Joe said with a laugh. “Sorry. Have to find humor where you can some days, am I right?” Trent narrowed his eyes and watched as Joe leaned back and crossed his left ankle over his right knee. “Do you like laughing, Trent?”
“There’s not much to laugh about these days, in this place.”
“Sure there is. Tell me a joke.”
“It’s a joke that I’m in here. A l—” He bit his tongue and frowned. “Lesbian,” he forced the word out finally. “A lesbian was murdered, and for some reason, they think I did it, all because I believe in God.”
“Why is that word so hard to say for you?” Joe asked.
Trent glared. “I’m done. I’m done talking to all of you. Get out!”
“I’m going to give you some space,” Joe agreed too quickly. “I’m also going to get you some water. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
As he walked out the door, Trent tried to steel his emotions. The door was already shut, but he wanted to be left alone.
“I don’t want you to come back. Stay the fuck away. Stay the fuck out. Leave me alone!” He was shouting to himself in a room the size of a fucking shoebox, and he knew he needed to get his shit together. But he wasn’t sure what to think. No one in this place really wanted what was best for him. Even his own father had been too much of a coward to truly take a stand. He was there for him, sure, verbally at least. And monetarily. But that wasn’t enough. He needed “someone in his corner,” as Joe had said. But it wasn’t Joe. Hell, it wasn’t anyone in here. Just like he always did, he’d wait for that someone, and more than likely never find them. Gritting his teeth, he let out a low growl of frustration.
Why do you hate lesbians?
Clayton’s question bounced around in his head, clattering and making him feel crazier than he already did. They’d been through this multiple times, and he’d held the memories at bay while sitting in these interrogation rooms. Today, though, they wouldn’t stop. Playing through his mind, as it had hundreds of times since that night, he heard the screams, saw the scuffle, felt his rage. But this time, it wasn’t Chloe’s face in his mind. It was his mother’s. His memories faded back to childhood.
“Go to bed baby,” her voice cooed through his near sleep daze. “When you wake up, we’ll celebrate your birthday. Eight years is a big deal.”
He smiled, reaching for her hand. But before he could connect, the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen rang through the air.
“I have to go,” she said, leaning down to give him a kiss on the head.
Throughout the night, sounds rang through the air. Angry shouts, obscenities, more breaking glass, his mother’s pleas for his father to be quiet.
The word “lesbian” thrown about like a curse. Her pleas for his father to stop, the sound of blows being thrown, her cries in the night.
He covered his head with pillows and tried to think about his birthday, but it was of no use. He wanted to ask what a lesbian was, but figured it wasn’t safe. He closed his eyes tight, thinking maybe it would make more sense tomorrow. When he heard the front door slam, his mother’s words echoed in his mind. “I have to go.”
Trent shook his head violently. If it hadn’t been for her stepping out, things would have been better. That’s what his father had always said. Same with Chloe. If she hadn’t been a deviant, things would have been better. They both deserved whatever happened to them. Only problem was, he had no idea what had happened to his mother. Nineteen years to the day she’d walked out. That was a long damn time not to know where she was, or if she gave a single fuck about how he was. A hot tear slid down his cheek and he grit his teeth harder, until they hurt.
He heard the door open again and saw Clayton standing in the doorway.
“I said I was done with you.” Trent let out a low growl. “I said I was done with that other guy, too. I’m fucking done with this entire thing.”
Clayton held his hands up. “Look, I was just informed by Joe that I was a little hard on you,” he said. He shrugged and took his seat again. “Personally, I think you’re a punk, and you deserve it. You string us along, we push harder. But I was told to loosen up.”
“Oh, so you’re just a puppet? Someone has their hands shoved up your ass, and you do what they say?”
“Watch it,” Clayton shot back, his tone a clear attempt to remind Trent of his place. But this wasn’t his place, and Clayton needed to be reminded of his place.
“I will not.” Trent glared at him. “I will not be told what to do any longer. You don’t know what life is like here. You don’t know me, and you don’t know who you’re messing with.”
“I know damn well,” Clayton said, placing his palms on the table. “But we’re not in here to talk about me. In fact, I’m in here to apologize. I asked you why you hated lesbians. I never asked if you hated them. Do you?”
Trent pounded the table. “Fucking stop!” he shouted, no longer able to blur the image of his mother’s face from his memory.
“I can’t stop.” Clayton’s tone was even, too even and too calm. Trent’s heart pounded, drowning out any other sound. He could tell Clayton was still talking, but he couldn’t hear any more of what he had to say.
I have to go.
Hate lesbians.
I have to go.
Bits and pieces of the phrases he had heard reverberated in his thoughts. Closing his eyes, he slammed his fists down on the table again. “Go,” he said, his voice thicker than it had been. “Just go.”
He leaned back and tried to take a deep breath when he heard the door click again. He blinked. Clayton was gone, but the door opened and Joe stepped back inside.
“Trent.” Joe’s voice was smooth and calm. Trent wanted to scream. How could they be so calm? And why did they care so much about scum being destroyed? He was talking still, and Trent tried to listen. “My buddy Clayton is a little trigger-happy. I’m going to try to talk to you like the upstanding guy you are. You’re a gentleman, and so am I. Can we talk like gentlemen?”
