Page 77 of Forever We Fall

“What’s going on?” I prompt.

The older man scoots his chair forward. As if this place can’t spring for a rolling chair. He leans his elbows almost comically far onto his desktop and crouches his head. It’s like he’s conspiring to commit treason or something.

“Arlo,” he says in a voice so close to a whisper, I find myself straining for every word. “Detectives for the local station are here to speak to you about your uncle.”

“Uh, why am I here?” I interject. Not scared to rock the boat.

His barely weathered gaze shifts to me. “I was hoping you’d act as a sort of interpreter for Arlo.”

“But I can speak.” Arlo offers what the headmaster already knows.

“Yes, but you don’t like to, and no one else at this school knows you can. Besides Hota and me.”

My gaze swings to Arlo’s and he meets my quizzical gaze for a second before shining it back to the man on the other side of the desk.

“Are we all not on the same page?” Bridgeport asks. I wonder what he knows, and why he’s trying to protect Arlo now when it’s damn near too late.

“I don’t know that we are,” Arlo admits.

The headmaster takes a breath that moves the walls around us. “Your uncle is missing.”

“Okay?” Arlo’s brows furrow.

“The detectives looked into it and he has a record. A big one that involves…” Headmaster Bridgeport grimaces and the lines are unusually deep. “Assaults of a specific nature.”

My friend is good. His furrow grows and a what-do-you-mean quality leaks into his gaze.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s for the detectives to speak to you about. Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but it seems your uncle is a horrid person. If he’s gone missing, I suspect it’s a benefit to humanity and your future, Mr. Judge.”

“He’s…that bad?” Arlo shakes his head, as though he doesn’t know exactly how grim his uncle is. Or was.

The man’s hands come up. “I’ve said too much already.”

“I’ll speak to the detectives.” He nods. “I want to help any way I can.”

“Very well.” The headmaster looks at me. “Mr. Kido, the detectives have a couple of questions for you as well. If you would, wait in the lobby.”

“Aren’t minors not supposed to be questioned without parental consent or an attorney?” I push.

“Your father gave consent for you to be questioned.”

Of course, he did. Probably hopes I’ll end up in jail.

“As for Mr. Judge?—”

“I have no parents,” Arlo offers. He bobs his head. “I’ll speak to them without an attorney. Like I said, I want to help.”

“Okay then. They’ll talk to you here. Mr. Kido, come with me.” Bridgeport stands and heads for the door.

I have to force myself not to grab Arlo’s shoulder and give him a reassuring squeeze. I give him a wink instead. I hope it has the intended effect.

I’m on what seems like the hundred thousandth lap of my four-metre path from Hota’s door to his window. I’ve taken to chewing my cuticles in the time since I last saw him. A new tick, apparently. I was told to have a good day, while my suitemate was told to have a seat inside the headmaster’s office.

This is the hardest part of the whole endeavor. Had I acted alone, my heart wouldn’t be trying to escape my throat.

We took precautions.

The gloves, clothes, and shoes Hota bought from various stores in the towns surrounding us. He paid in cash. After, it was all doused in bleach and discarded a significant way off our route back to school. By now the articles have made it to a landfill—sorry Earth—or incinerator somewhere a few cities away from us and the scene. A scene where we took meticulous care not to leave evidence of a crime.

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