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Under the table, Cass gives my knee a quick squeeze. I brush my hand over her delicate fingers, silently telling her she’s doing great.
“What about you, son?”
Mr. Treadway turns his attention to me. He calls me “son,” which makes me feel ten times more guilty about keeping this relationship a secret. But I tell myself it would be too much for him to take. It’s not time yet.
“School is going great. Really enjoying it,” I say, blurting out some other bullshit.
“That’s wonderful, Titus. I know your father must be so proud of you.”
I nod and look sideways at Cass. Her gaze falls to her lap, and her throat bobs. She’s getting ready to say something big.
“Cass, honey? Our time is almost up. Is there something bothering you?”
Cass lifts her gaze to her father and says, “Did you do all those things they say you did?”
Mr. Treadway’s face turns sad, just for a moment. Then, it turns to stone. “You know these conversations are monitored.”
“It’s me, Daddy. They asked me to give a statement about your character, and I need to know.”
The man in the orange jumpsuit lifts his hand in the air. “I can’t comment on that without my lawyer present.”
“I’m your daughter! I’m not a detective.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Daddy, don’t be sorry. Just give me a clue. That money you left for Herc and me to find, are they looking for it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have to go.”
“Daddy!”
Mr. Treadway, as if done talking to his daughter, looks at me. “Anything else?”
I turn to Cass, whose eyes search me for answers. She wants me to say something. She wants me to compel this man to answer her questions.
I clear my throat. “Just that I don’t want you to worry about Cass, sir. Herc…Herc and I both are looking out for her.”
“Thank you, son.”
I can sense Cass studying me from the corner of my eye.
When we leave the jail, I wait until we arrive at the parking lot before taking her hand in mine. Cass looks up at me with a tight smile, then looks away.
* * *
My eyes focuson the words in my study notes, but my brain can’t comprehend anything.
I keep doing that thing where I reread the same paragraph five times but absorb nothing.
Tapping my pen on my desk, I sit back and breathe. I wonder if I should call the doctor; maybe that concussion has residual effects.
I scrub my face, rub my eyes, and drink water. Nothing helps. I turn on some study music and try again, but it’s not helping.
I haven’t been able to sleep since last weekend’s visit to the jail with Cass.
She left with more questions than answers. And I sense that she felt disappointed in me that we didn’t tell her father about us.
After the visit to the jail, we stopped at Arthur Gamble’s office, where she asked me to wait outside while she gave her statement. When she came out, she couldn’t tell me what she’d said about her dad, but she seemed resigned, sad. When we’d returned to campus, she said she wanted to be alone to think.
