Page 97 of Brazen Criminals

I did it!

We’re doing it.

I inch back at a painful 3 mph over the speed limit, glancing at my rear-view mirror every half mile, just in case.

I cackle the entire way home.

Chapter 47

Clara

RJhelpedmeunlockTrips’ phone. Now my finger is hovering over the call button for “Asshole Progenitor,” which Jansen promises is Trips’ dad’s cell phone number, and I don’t want to make the call.

Jansen just got back; the plan is in place.

The breadcrumbs for the medical payments point to a trust fund Bryce’s grandma set up to pay for his college. How RJ knew about that account? No idea.

The new police sketch is live in the police computers; the new original is in the evidence locker. I just have to hope that Officer Reed has an average level of visual acumen and can’t tell the difference.

The only step remaining is to convince Trips’ dad to help us get Trips out of jail. Then we can start the ball rolling at Bryce. I’m aiming for a cannonball to take out his legs, metaphorically, of course. Although, I wouldn’t mind it literally either, at this point.

Alone in the backyard, I stare at the phone. I don’t want the guys to distract me—I know I’m going to need my A game. Trips has enough trouble dealing with the man, and he grew up with the guy. I shake out my arms, do a few burpees, and hit the call button before I can psych myself out.

It rings twice. “Archie, why are you calling so late? Don’t tell me you’re in trouble again.” Mr. Westerhouse the Second has more of a purr than a growl to his voice, a velvet tone that I’m certain helped in the courtroom.

“Hello, Mr. Westerhouse. This is Trips, er, Archie’s roommate, Clara.”

A sigh and some rustling come across the line. “Why are you calling me from Archie’s phone?” A ping of anger underlies his tone.

“He’s in jail, and he asked me to call you.”

“Let me stop you there, young lady. I’m done bailing out my son. A brief stay in jail will hammer home the benefits being my son affords him. I won’t help this time, no matter the terms of the negotiation.”

My hands shake. I was ready to counter almost anything, but I never expected Mr. Westerhouse wouldn’t even offer a trade. “What if he didn’t do it?” I croak, scrambling.

The laughter that crackles across the line sounds exactly like Trips, and it throws me. “I don’t know if I should be impressed by my son or disheartened by you, roommate Clara. My son is not a good man. He is in no way innocent. I don’t even need to know what he did—if the police picked him up for it, I’m certain he’s guilty, and stupid to boot. You think he ‘didn’t do it?’ Prove it to the cops. I’m done. If he doesn’t want the privileges I’ve given him, well, I’ll stop offering them.”

“B-but…Mr. Westerhouse,” I stammer.

“I wish you luck, Archie’s roommate Clara.” And he’s gone.

I stand there, staring at the phone. Really? The man won’t help his son?

My cheeks burn. I was so certain this would work. But why would I be sure? What experience do I have in manipulating justice?

I walk a lap around the yard. He said I had to prove to the cops that Trips is innocent.

Which means I have to prove to the cops that Bryce, not Trips, assaulted that guy.

I do another lap. I think best when I’m moving. Like Jansen, I wasn’t built to sit still.

So what do I know about how to build a criminal case? I know that the weakest form of evidence is circumstantial. What have we done so far? We’ve created circumstantial evidence that points away from Trips and toward Bryce.

If I want to prove Trips is innocent, I’ll need a stronger case to bring to the cops.

What is the strongest form of evidence? A confession.

I need Bryce to confess to a crime he didn’t commit.

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