Page 12 of Whistle

Rush shot up from the counter he was leaning against. “Why not Lost Hills?”

“I was there first. For a few days. Got transferred here.”

“Why?”

“No bail,” Bodhi answered. Then, “Punched a cop.”

“Time’s up!” a deep voice told him.

“Okay.” Bodhi agreed.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Rush said, the words pained.

Hope injected a little personality into the otherwise morose voice. “Really?”

Rush grunted. “No promises.”

And then the line disconnected, the beeping sound on the other end filling the silent kitchen as we stood there staring at the phone still clutched in my hand.

After a moment, Rush took the phone and ended the call, dropping the device into the pocket of his gym shorts.

“What was that all about?” I questioned.

“You heard the call,” Rush rebutted.

I gave him a what did you just say to me look, and he exhaled, rubbing his palm down his face.

“Bodhi Lawson,” he said. “You met him when he showed up at the pool last semester, tossing out insults and causing trouble.”

I remembered. I remembered more about it than I should.

“He’s the brother of that girl you knew who died, right?”

His face twisted in disgust that I would dare ask him to go through this again, but I didn’t give a damn. I’d get my whistle and force it out of him.

“They were twins.” He elaborated. “My best friends. I thought of them like family…” Rush swallowed.

“And then the sister got murdered and the cops blamed you.”

“Brynne. Her name was Brynne,” he told me. “And yeah, she died. I got blamed.”

“But you didn’t do it,” I put in, hoping he realized I knew he didn’t do it and I never really believed he did. I wouldn’t have given him a chance here at Westbrook if I had.

Even so, I busted his balls about dating my daughter. A father has that right.

Don’t make me get my whistle. I’ll use it on you too.

Rush snorted. “No one believed me. Not even my best friend.” He shifted and looked up at me. “I called him from jail. He wouldn’t take the call.”

“And now he’s calling you from the same place.”

Rush made a rude sound. Then, “I wasn’t at Two Towers. My lawyer got me out on bail before I was transferred.” Clearing his throat, he added, “That place is the world’s second-largest jail. It’s in LA. Maximum security and holds mental health inmates. It’s crowded and rough.” To himself, he said, “Probably why he called so late. It can take hours to get a phone call there, and even longer to get one to go through.”

Worry sliced through me at the grim picture he painted. I tried to convince myself the bratty blond my swimmers dubbed Malibu Barbie had enough ire to survive in a place like that. But I was having trouble reconciling the kid I met with the one I’d just heard on the phone.

The sound of Jason’s swallow was audible in the shadowed kitchen. “He doesn’t belong in that place.”

I know.

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