Hud and I leave the conference room with Detective Whitfield right behind us. He steps around us, clapping a hand on each of our shoulders. “I’m sure you boys are happy to have this behind you.” His hand is heavy, clammy heat seeping through my t-shirt.
I really hate this guy.
“Detective, are we able to talk to Mason at all?” My head snaps to Hud. He looks confused, like he’s trying to figure out if the moon landing was real or not.
“Ah, no. That’s against policy, kid.” His thumbs hook through the belt loops of his wrinkled khakis as he rocks up on the balls of his feet.
“How’s the brain?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject.
My jaw locks so hard it aches. Across from me, the asshole keeps talking, oblivious to the way my hands curl into fists at my sides.
“Uh, it’s great… thanks.” Hud links his pinky with mine and tugs. It’s his attempt to keep me chill, but I’m hanging on by the thinnest thread.
“Good to hear. Don’t need ya taking any more flying lessons off bridges.” The detective chuckles like he made the funniest joke on the planet.
My vision tunnels.
I lunge.
“You motherfucker!”
Hudson just barely gets his arm wrapped around my midsection, stopping me from pummeling this piece of shit.
My yell catches our parents’ attention, and they come rushing over from the entrance where they had gathered to wait for us. Detective Whitfield shuffles back, his hands out like that would stop me from planting my fist in his greasy face. A couple of cops catch the commotion and run over, hands on their weapons.
“Cullen, what the hell, son?” Dad’s eyes are wide and… disappointed. That should bother me, but all I can focus on is the fucker cowering by the wall.
“Don’t youeverfucking speak to Hudson like that again. What kind of cop makes fun of someone’s suicide attempt, huh?” I’m fighting like hell to reach him, but Mr. Eric comes over and takes Hudson’s place holding me, my dad’s hands shoving my shoulders back.
“Cullen, stop.” Hudson gets in my face, his hand coming up to swipe at my eyes.
I didn’t even realize I was crying.
“Arrest him,” Detective Whitfield snarls.
Shit.
My dad whirls on him, his expression a stony mask. “I’d reconsider that if I were you.”
“He just attempted to assault me!”
“Did my son actually put his hands on you?” Dad is staring him down, pulled up to his full six-three height. He towers over the detective by miles, and it’s fun to watch the rat shrink back in his presence.
“Well, no. But—”
“Then we are done here.” Dad grabs me by the bicep and hauls me from the police station, his grip just shy of bruising.
Once outside, he lets go and steps up to me. I’m only an inch or so shorter than him, but his anger and height make him feel like a giant.
And I’m the bug he’s about to squash.
“That’s it,” he growls. “This has gone on long enough. Your mom and I have tried to be patient, tried to extend a little grace, but enough is enough. I’m setting up an appointment with Maria for PTSD and anger management.”
I laugh, the sound dark to my own ears. “I don’t need anger management.”
PTSD might be accurate, though.
I push the thought to the back of my brain.
