Page 111 of Forever We Fall

“If you didn’t see Mr. Phillips hit Mr. Judge with the rock, how did you know he’s the one who attacked him?”

I let my eyes roll from the door, which of course I’m still staring at, to the moron questioning me. I brace my hands on my hips and huff. It’s long and antagonizing. “The same way you can tell I’m annoyed with you asking questions that I’ve already answered. Power of observation.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but I cut him off.

“Arlo was on the ground with blood on his head. Phillip stood over him with a big-ass rock in his hands, and those hands wereextended over his head, ready to strike, and the rock had blood all over it. The same rock he proceeded to hit me with.”

“I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

“Not many people do,” I say with little inflection. I’m not trying to rile this guy. I’m just trying to get back to mine. “Why are they taking so long?” I point toward the door. “He needs to rest, and they have the light on. It makes his head hurt. You know, the one that’s cracked.”

“Why did you attack Mr. Phillips?” The guy taps his pen on a flimsy notepad, ignoring my questions and mounting irritation.

“To save my best friend’s life.”

When I close my eyes, I can still see that piece of shit standing over Arlo.

Only his touch steels the chill of fear in my veins. And he’s giving it to me. They’re small touches.

The lacing of our fingers. The grazing of my temple. The smooth strum of his fingers through my hair.

Though small, they are everything.

“You messed up that kid’s face.”

My gaze snaps to the cop. “He’s not a kid. He’s bigger than you, and he’s a menace, bullying everyone smaller than he is. Arlo put him in his place without lifting a finger, and he couldn’t take it. Like most bullies, he’s a coward.”

“And this Miles kid can corroborate your story?”

I relax my hand by my side and manage to keep from dragging one over my face, but barely. “Miles Reymon. R. E. Y. M. O. N. It’s not a story. It’s a chain of events.”

“All right, Kido,” he says my name like a bullshit Brit. I am not a kid, and I’m not a kiddo, but I don’t bother correcting him. He doesn’t matter.

Only Arlo does.

“Are we done here?” I take a step toward the room.

“We’re done, but he’s not.” His grip snags my shoulder.

I stop cold and turn my head very slowly, looking down at him. My eyes convey every ounce of get-your-fucking-hand-off-me-if you-want-to-keep-it.

He clears his throat and lifts his hand from my arm. “You’ll have to wait until they’re done to go back in.”

I nod and continue my walk to the door.

The cop stays on the far side of the hallway. His gaze flits to me, then down at his notes several times. I let mine stay steadily on him. After another moment, he grabs his phone from his pocket and pretends to do something important with it. Another minute more and he holds it up to his ear.

“I have to make a call.” He heads for the elevator.

He presses the button, dancing from one foot to the other, as though begging it to come faster. The second it arrives, before the door is fully opened, he shoots through it and stabs at the buttons. He slinks into the back of the car, not saying anything to the so-called person on the line.

When the elevator door shuts, I open Arlo’s.

The voices in the room die down. One male and one female detective. My eyes find Arlo. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, and he’s squinting against the harsh light.

I flip the switch, and the room dims, nowhere near dark enough for him, but it’s enough for now.

“Hey!” the female detective rasps. Dean, I think.

---