Page 160 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

I expect her to laugh and tell me the cemetery is too far away for that harebrained excuse, but she purses her lips and nods a few times. “Yeah, that makes sense. I’ll park around the corner. Just text me soon as you’re ready to leave, okay?”

“Thanks, Romi.” I turn in my seat as I unlatch my seatbelt. When she keeps staring ahead, I grab her arm and squeeze. “I mean it.”

She looks surprised when she glances my way. “Nim, of course. If you’re—” she cuts off hurriedly, a touch of color in her cheeks.

“If I’m telling the truth, then I need to report them,” I finish for her.

“Nim—”

“It’s okay, Romi. Really. You’ve been amazing about this. About everything.” I pat her arm. “I couldn’t have asked for a better roommate.”

She gives me a shy smile. “That’s so nice of you to say.” Shifting, she grabs the back of my hand, locking my touch in place. “Can I be honest about something?”

“Sure.”

Romi squirms for a second before stilling. “I didn’t actually want a roommate. I thought whoever took your bed was bound to annoy the crap out of me.”

“Well I’m glad I don’t,” I laugh.

“Me too.” She runs her hands over the Audi’s steering wheel. “Man, I waspissedwhen my mom told me I had to get a twin room. And that after saying I couldn’t study abroad.”

“Yeah, no offense, but I think that was kind of a dick move, not letting you go to Europe.”

Romi shrugs. “Well...Maybe she was just trying to protect me, I dunno.” She gives me another shy smile. “I can be a bit too introverted sometimes, you know? I can spend days locked in my room. I think it scares her.”

I give her arm a squeeze, and her smile widens. “Think we can sneak in some lunch before we head back, or would we be asking for trouble?”

Romi shakes her head. “I know just the place.” Then she peels my hand off her arm and gives me a playful shrug. “Now you’re officially stalling. Just go in there and tell them what you told me.”

I let out a huge breath and get out before I can change my mind. Romi waves and pulls into the street, indicating to turn the corner.

Let’s do this.

A swarm of memories rushes back when I set foot inside the Sheriff’s office. I was kind of out of it when Deputy Thatcher brought me back here that Saturday morning, but nothing’s changed since then. There’s a different receptionist, but I guess they work in shifts. A few people are already seated in the waiting area, but as fate would have it, Deputy Thatcher walks into the common area as I push open the door.

When the bell tinkles he looks up from a beige file and locks eyes with me. “Nim?” he calls out, a confused smile touching the corner of his mouth before he beckons me over. “Good to see you,” he says. “Are you here for me?”

“Yeah, if I can? I know I didn’t make an appointment...I’m actually not sure how—” My cheeks are already warming up as I feel several sets of eyes on me from the waiting people. “Sorry. I should probably get in line.”

“Nonsense. Come through.” He tosses the file on the reception counter and murmurs something to the officer behind the desk. Then he waves me to follow him, heading down thesame narrow passage we walked the night my parents were killed.

Another cop comes out of an office further down the hall, and pauses when he sees us. Deputy Thatcher just gives him a nod and then opens his office door so I can go inside ahead of him.

As I sit, he asks, “Coffee? Water?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Mind if I get some? I was just headed over that way.”

“No, not at all.” Although I’m nervous as anything, I could probably use a minute or two to compose myself. Thatcher smiles and pulls the door partly closed before disappearing down the hall.

I look around the small room as I prepare. The deputy has quite a few more files on his desk than I remember. I’m itching to open one and take a peek, but that might be a criminal offense. At the very least, snooping without probable cause.

Thatcher comes back with his coffee and pushes the door closed behind him. He looks much better than the night we first met. No more shadows under his eyes, his uniform smartly pressed. It’s just before noon—we left as soon as we got Rigby’s permission, but it’s still a long drive from the Academy.

As if sensing that I’m hesitant to get into it straight away, Thatcher blows on his coffee and says, “So how are you liking Academy life?”

“You know I’m enrolled here?”

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