Dispatched Confessions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 2)

by Talia Maxwell

  Flora waved goodbye and went back to her phones and her students and the normal hum of a school office in the daytime.

  Holly discovered the counseling center and breezed in, flipping her hair over her shoulder and holding her angry face steady. She hoped her tremors weren’t visible; she was strongest when she knew she had the power. And she knew that parents often had the power in situations like these, and so she would exercise that power.

  When she looked up, she saw a man standing at the counter, and she froze.

  She scanned his face, alarmed and confused.

  She knew him

  Shit. She knew that man.

  He stood by the counter as if he were waiting for something, and her eyes scanned to see if they were the only two people in the room.

  She exhaled—they weren’t.

  The counseling secretary was at the copier and she waved an acknowledgment but stayed silent. The man flipped through paperwork and she thought it was someone’s dad, there, like her, to deal with a troublesome child. She offered him a weak smile before sitting down in the tired cloth chairs unchanged since some late 1990s remodel.

  She tried not to stare at the man at the counter.

  The dad was particularly handsome.

  And she had the vague notion that she knew him from somewhere.

  He was tall.

  Tall.

  And he had dark brown eyes and wavy blond hair. He was built like an athlete, lean and muscular at the same time, in control of every part of his body. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and Holly noticed the definition of his bicep underneath the pressed linen; she admired the way the shirt lay against his stomach. Men her age had paunches—she’d just come to accept that as part of her potential dating profile. And they were balding; they’d grown hair in unexpected places. They were aging, like her, she supposed. And they did not have six packs hiding under button-down shirts.

  She’d embraced her extra pounds and weight in the past few years and it didn’t bother her in a date either. But damn. When the beauty of the world walked right in front of her, she had to admire the dedication. That kind of stomach took work. He had an angled jaw and when he turned to her, there was a hint of a dimple.

  And yet, despite her study of him, she knew that she knew him from somewhere else. Maybe he’d been a model and she’d seen his face on the side of a bus.

  Holly instinctively tucked a long string of hair behind her ear.

  She never felt sexy, but she admitted that a certain redheaded secretary on a popular TV show boosted Holly’s visibility and credibility as a sex object in recent years. Her voluptuousness and her perfect red curls often meant people made the connection between her and her cinematic counterpart. Oh, and they both had asshole husbands, meddling moms, and were raising kids alone. The fate of the curvy ginger, it would seem.

  Gym-rat dad would no doubt see her as a dumpy school secretary type and not the hot advertising executive type. So, there was comfort in knowing maybe he wouldn’t notice her staring because as she gathered herself and shoved the fleeting thoughts of men side, at her core, she was angry and lost and focused on her son.

  Her stupid, kindhearted, generous, ridiculous, aggravating, hilarious son.

  She closed her eyes and took a second to center herself: she was here because her fourteen-year-old kid got involved in a feud and not to scope out a new fantasy boyfriend.

  Feeling more mature and less flustered by proximal beauty, Holly opened her eyes and glanced up once again at the man in front of her. He’d shifted his body to look at her directly

  “Mrs. Gamarra?” he said.

  Hot Dad knew her name. Her ex-husband’s name. She nodded, shocked.

  “Holly,” she replied.

  “Hello, I’m Joel Rusk. Alex’s counselor. And from school? It’s good to see you again.”

  Again. From school. In her occupation, that could mean anything.

  Holly instantly blushed.

  Blushing was her curse and cross to bear—she turned red at any occasion: anger, embarrassment, confusion, excitement, sadness. She was a mood ring stuck on one color. And as the heat traveled, and she tried to suppress it, she stumbled over herself to hide the crimson bloom.

  “Oh, hello, I’m…right, Holly Gamarra,” she said and stood, extending her hand. “I didn’t realize…we’ve met?”

  “Hello,” Joel said again. He waited with his eyebrows lifted in expectation. “You don’t remember me.” It was a statement said with amusement and Holly’s breath caught. Fuck no, she didn’t remember him. She would’ve remembered him.

  She tried to remove the image of the man in front of her and replace him with just his name.

  Joel Rusk.

  She let the name flood over her slowly—Joel Rusk. Joel Rusk. Joel. Rusk. Oh God. God. Oh God. Joel Rusk.

  Joel Rusk. Joel fucking Rusk.

  The man in front of her was beautifully and anachronistically out of place.

  She’d gone to high school with a Joel Rusk: a tall, but gangly soccer player with braces and a penchant for innocent troublemaking.

  He’d once duct-taped a friend to a chair and escorted him back to class on a dolly. That was the only memory wiggling its way to the surface—a fifteen-year-old kid, all arms and legs and hormones, flying through the halls with a squeaky, hormonal laughter in his voice: Joel Rusk.

  Except. She pushed through the cobwebs of time and tried to dust off something that tugged at the corner of her high school memories.

  And then, yes, later, her senior year, right around the time she started dating Francisco, they’d been outdoor school counselors together. High School hadn’t been Holly’s glory days. She’d been a curvy, out-spoken card-carrying member of the speech and debate team while other kids like Joel enjoyed a more traditional high school experience—sports on weeknights and clandestine parties.

  Her favorite thing to do on a Friday night was read her highlighted copy of Pride and Prejudice.

  She’d always pictured Joel Rusk’s favorite thing was accepting dares to go jump naked into a neighbor’s pool.

  The man in front of her was no longer that child.

  She couldn’t believe it and Holly waited to see his teeth.

  Teeth mattered. That was it. She was already sold, but she needed to know.

  She needed white and straight because she thought you could tell a lot about someone by their teeth. Like reading tea leaves or tarot cards, but a more accurate test that could be accomplished in secret.

  “We went to high school together,” Holly finally said and dipped her head in shame. “I’m sorry…it’s been a bit…I didn’t connect the name and—”

  And high school wasn’t the best time for me.

  Joel smiled.

  Perfect teeth.

  A mouth of straight, brushed, flossed and meticulously maintained teeth. And as she realized how beautiful his mouth was, Holly tried not to get excited or lose her focus.

  Joel grew up just fine.

  It was hard to weigh her dueling priorities: she was angry at her son, confused about the circumstances, and the beautiful man in front of her knew who she was.

  Holly couldn’t help but smile at the idea of her old acquaintance growing up to become a hot guidance counselor. It was the type of plot porn videos tried to make happen: hot therapist. Hot teacher. They didn’t exist in real life. Not really. And Holly wondered how often Joel set young girl’s hearts aflutter with misconceptions about the difference between love and attraction. How many girls left his office with Mrs. Rusk scribbled on their notebooks. Some things never changed.

  The guidance counselor for their elementary school was a sixty-year-old woman with IBS who frequently fought with her adult children on speaker-phone. Somehow Holly felt cheated.

  “Do you want to…go to your office to talk?” she said quickly. “About my son.” She twisted her hands in front of her, trying to distract herself with the specifics of the situation. Okay, the hot guy from high school had called
her about her child…who’d been in possession of a weapon?

  Her thoughts of Joel shriveled and she didn’t smile or move.

  “Actually, this meeting has been moved to a conference room. One of our principals will join us, as well as a district representative, the police, and our social worker—”

  “I’m sorry…” Holly put up her hand, overwhelmed. “What? A social worker?”

  “We’re already sort of beyond a threat assessment, but if we—”

  “Threat…to whom?” Holly interrupted and she waffled between being kind or glaring at the man. His attractiveness was still a valid distraction, but her anger eclipsed desire at the idea of Alex being a threat to anyone. That was asinine. Had anyone at the school talked to her son?

  “Actually,” Joel let out a pent-up breath and looked around as if he were about to confess a secret and wanted to ensure they were alone. “Why don’t I explain. Yes, let’s go to my office for a bit. Then we’ll head to the meeting…I do have some things I want to discuss before we get in front of a crowd.”

  They started to walk. Past the counter, past a bulletin board advertising hotlines teens could call for various difficulties.

  “Mr. Rusk—”

  “Alex is a great kid, Mrs. Gamarra.”

  She didn’t correct the misuse of her name because it was pointless, but she hated being called Mrs. and he’d been doing it incessantly. She didn’t belong to Francisco anymore and she didn’t want to be known by his label any longer. She’d never dropped the Gamarra officially because of Alex. It was always about Alex.

  “And,” he continued, “I wish there was some way I could ease how hard this will be.”

  “Yeah,” she said with a nod, a renewal of victory building back up inside her, “Thank you. Yes. I just need to hear his side, but I don’t doubt he screwed up. I mean, I imagine you get parents all the time who don’t think their angels can be capable of stirring up trouble and you know they’re wrong. I’m not that parent. But, still, you don’t know Alex and he’s… incredible. This isn’t a child who could harm—”

  “I called his middle school counselor to see what his background was there,” Joel admitted as he led her to his office, three doors down on the left, lit by three shaded lamps. On the long wall of his office someone had painted an ocean mural. The fish and anemones were so realistic that with the ambient light it was easy to imagine herself underwater. It was calming, which she realized must have been the point.

  She scanned the family pictures on his desk. Aging parents. Students. Him solo on a white beach. No women. Several pictures of himself coaching soccer. So, he’d kept up with the athlete label. He was a high school all-star who flamed out going professional and coached kids instead—or so she could assume. He was a goalie. She stared at a picture of him holding a soccer ball in his goalie gloves, dirt smeared across his tanned face and she forced herself to look away. She was staring at it too long and with too much interest. Or with too much need for distraction. She didn’t know which.

  “And?” Holly prompted, sliding her attention away from the photo. “He was in student council his eighth-grade year. He had a four-point, gpa.” She knew it sounded ridiculous; middle school grades didn’t matter. She felt like she was trying to convince this long-lost stranger that her son was worthy of saving. A large lump stuck in her throat.

  “Mrs. Gamarra—”

  “Holly,” she said, unable to hear it once more. “I’m…divorced. Just Holly is fine. Or Ms.” She never said the D-word as if it were dirty, but she said it now with a sense of purpose and meaning. A declaration: I am not married.

  Joel nodded. She noticed the tiny lift of surprise. Oh, she thought. He didn’t know.

  “Here,” he handed her a piece of paper. “This is the note we confiscated. I think you should just read it.”

  Holly scanned the first few lines and she audibly gasped.

  When she looked up at her old acquaintance, she was worried and afraid for the first time. And Joel, for his part, seemed to understand.

  “And…Holly,” he said, his eyes full of pain, “the gun was in his locker. He wasn’t lying.”

  She wanted to burst into tears. She’d been so cavalier of the letter’s lack of importance that she gasped at the first few lines. It didn’t take long to realize that the handwriting was her son’s—the same scratches she’d read night after night while inspecting homework now spewed forth confusing allegations and there, at the end, the reference to the gun. I have it. Here. And I will use it if I have to. You have brought this upon us. Your actions put us in this situation and so I am going to face it. I hate you. And I’ve brought the gun for you. I hate you. And I’ll help you end this torment because you know why. Only you’ll know why. And I hope you carry it in your heart. People will get hurt because of you. They have been. More will.

  Holly read and reread the entirety of the note. She couldn’t think of any time in the past week that he’d been different or brooding or planning something sinister, and when she handed the note back to Joel, she couldn’t help but feel an ache of loss. No. It was his handwriting, but it was not her child. That wasn’t the child she knew and raised and rocked to sleep and if she didn’t know her own son, what else didn’t she know? I hate you, he’d written to some girl. Hate?

  “I’m in shock,” she whispered.

  Joel looked empathetic.

  “I’m confused and…” she scanned the top part of the letter again. “Who did he write this to?” she asked.

  Joel scooted forward. He was holding a box of tissues.

  “A girl named Claire. Holly, I can’t lie to you. Alex will be expelled. And he won’t be coming home tonight either…”

  “Expulsion,” she said.

  “He brought a gun to school. No room to argue. That’s not just a school policy, Holly. That gun isn’t registered…means he stole it…he’s headed to jail.”

  “Jail,” Holly gasped. “Jail.” She wasn’t even asking the question. Her voice had fallen flat and she swallowed.

  “I’ve been talking with our School Resource Officer and there can be a case for minimum security one or two nights, but…Holly…Alex broke the law.”

  “Okay, but,” she started, gearing up for a defense. Joel didn’t let her continue. She rolled her eyes—please. This was her son; he wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone.

  “You have a lot of rights as a parent. They have to put the hearing request in writing…you have time to get a lawyer…” he started to say.

  “I have a lawyer.” She spun and tried to process. Should she have called her lawyer to come with her? “I have a lawyer and I’ll call him immediately.”

  “And you can have access to any records and any witnesses…”

  “Witnesses,” she repeated. The dizziness increased and Holly took a deep breath and held it tightly in her chest until her body forced her to breathe. She did it again, unworried about how it looked. After a final exhale, she said, “Look, Mr. Rusk, Joel, I am really overwhelmed.” She laughed a bit to hide how totally shocked she was. What she’d wanted to say was: I’m going to die on the floor of your office because my son is going to jail and I can’t believe I knew you in high school and now you’re gorgeous and there is no way my son is going to jail. Or something bombastic like that and ill-advised.

  A knock on the door interrupted them and a man in uniform motioned for Joel to step inside the hall. Holly trusted and loved the police—her time working dispatch introduced her to some of the best officers in the area. But the sight of the man now, his eyes scanning Holly—assessing her—made her feel a bit uneasy. Her stomach lurched when she recognized the look immediately: she loved the police, but in that moment, the police did not love her.

  Joel apologized and he stood up and followed the officer out into the hallway. Their baritone voices carried back to her in dulcet tones, but she couldn’t extract any phrases.

  When Joel came back inside, he opened the door wide.

  “Ms.
Gamarra,” he said, she noticed, “this is Officer Wilde, our SRO, and hey…it would help this process if we also had a discussion about other weapons at the house…”

  “Other weapons? What’s the first weapon? I’m sorry… that gun didn’t come from my home. There is no firearm at my house,” Holly said shortly and she stood, eager to get out of the tiny office as quickly as possible. It was hard not to issue a condescending laugh. No. No. That was absurd. Then she sat again and stood and sat.

  She buried her head in her arms and took a deep breath. There wasn’t a gun in her house and why was this necessary? “I mean…I’m sorry. Can you hold on?”

  Holly moved to grab her phone and typed in Bri—to pull up Brian, her lawyer, and waited as the ringing started. The SRO sensing the situation drew back and she could hear him not-so-subtly whisper a code into his radio. It beeped back at him a response from dispatch.

  Something cold and eerie settled on her. It was anxiousness, yes, but it was so much more than that. She felt her own nostalgia for her time at dispatch, her impressiveness at her job, the job she couldn’t do anymore, flooding over here. All of her instincts clicked on to high alert.

  Brian came on the line. She ran through the basics. Alex was detained at school and was in possession of a stolen firearm.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Joel listened, respectfully, out in the hallway. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, his jaw working, his mouth tight.

  “Explain to me how he got a gun, Brian. You think it’s the gun? You think…”

  “Yes, if there is a gun and if it was his at the start of the day. Don’t say anything until I get there. Okay? Come on, have you talked to him yet? This is Alex we’re talking about here, Holly. I bet the kid will have a story,” Brian said on the other end of the line. “Have you talked to him yet?” he asked again.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “And I don’t want to talk about how and why and all that. I want to keep the questions on where he’s going, what the charges are, and I need you to get with him right away. Make sure he doesn’t talk to them before he talks to me. Come on, he’s a Gamarra, tell me you’ve taught him that much? He should know his rights.”