Page 161 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

“It’s a small town,” Thatcher says, cocking a dark eyebrow.

Thank God Peggy isn’t here. She has a thing for older guys, and I have a feeling she’d be all over Thatcher. With his square jaw, strong nose, and boy-next-door haircut, he reminds me of Clark Kent without his glasses. Not quite Superman—he’s not slick enough for that—but he’s the kind of guy who joined the force because he believes in right and wrong.

“It’s okay,” I say, not wanting to elaborate. If I don’t get this over with, I’m going to chicken out. Again.

Thatcher sits back in his seat and takes a sip of coffee, wincing faintly like it’s still too hot. But then he takes another sip anyway. Sucker for punishment, I guess.

“I witnessed a murder,” I blurt out.

He gives a quick double-blink, but if that’s him being caught off guard then he’s gotten really good at hiding it. “When?”

He’s smart too...not that I doubted it for a second. “The night my parents died.”

“Where?”

“In the Silverash Forest. About a mile or two from Vicky’s house.” Then I wait, because I have a feeling he likes getting information in a specific order.

Thatcher studies me for a few seconds, taking another sip of coffee, and then sets down his mug on a stained cardboard poster with a goofy drawing of a dog on it.

“What were you doing in the forest?”

Wow, townsfolk really don’t like hearing that you’ve been wandering around in their forest. Makes me wonder if there are some gingerbread houses in there I should know about.

“I went for a walk,” I say, trying not to sound too defensive. It is a valid question, after all. “About a mile or so in, I saw a puppy and followed it.”

Thatcher doesn’t touch his coffee the entire time I’m relaying the events that happened after I crossed paths with Boomer. I’m sure it’s cold by the time I’m done how I stop and start, forget things, repeat things, mix things up.

There’s a pit in my stomach when I’m done.Iwouldn’t even believe myself. And he’s barely blinked the entire time.

“Did it leave a scar?” he asks.

I nod, and reluctantly start to rise.

He puts out his hand, giving his head a quick, violent shake. “Stay seated.”

I swallow nervously, lick my dry lips. I guess this is the part where he tells me these are some very serious accusations, and?—

“Have they made contact with you since you started school?”

The little bit of moisture I’ve managed to work into my mouth dries up like I was sucking on cotton wool. I nod. “Have they threatened you again?”

Another nod.

“Have they assaulted you, Nim?”

I nod again.

“Witnesses?”

I shrug. “A few students. But?—”

“They’d say they didn’t see anything,” he fills in for me, petting his bottom lip for a moment as he stares at nothing. Then he taps his desk. “Sit tight for a moment. I’m going to speak to the Sheriff.” He stands, pauses. “I’m in half a mind to move you out of the Academy, but...” His brown eyes meet mine, hard and unflinching. “Just sit tight.”

He leaves his coffee behind, and pulls the door closed. I let out a stagnant breath and lean my head on the back of the chair. God, that was awful. And since he wasn’t writing anything down, I have a feeling I’ll have to do it again when he takes my statement.

Wait...whydidn’the take a statement?

Unease starts crawling over my skin like invisible beetles. I sit straight in my seat, staring at the frosted-glass door, willing Thatcher to come back. I glance at my phone. It’s just past noon—I’ve been here for over twenty minutes.

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