“Sit down.”
“You don’t need to treat him like—”
“I said sit down.”
Officer Evan Lang, younger and visibly less comfortable, stepped closer but said nothing.
Drexler cuffed Malik.
Too tight.
Malik said so.
Drexler ignored him.
Then came the hallway.
Now the patrol car.
Drexler opened the rear door.
“Get in.”
Malik ducked.
Drexler put a hand on the back of his head and pushed him downward.
Malik’s cheek caught the upper edge of the door frame before he dropped into the seat.
Pain flashed through the side of his face.
He cried out.
Lang flinched.
“Carl.”
“What?”
“That was hard.”
“He moved.”
“I didn’t,” Malik said.
Drexler shut the door.
Through the glass, Malik saw Hargrove standing on the sidewalk.
For one terrible second their eyes met.
Malik expected him to do something.
Hargrove looked away.
The patrol car pulled from the curb.
Oak Creek High disappeared behind them.
Malik leaned back against the seat.
The cuffs cut into his wrists every time the car turned.
He told himself not to cry.
Then hated himself for thinking crying would somehow prove something.
He was seventeen.
Terrified.
He had every reason to cry.
Still, he held it in.
His father had once told him that fear made people rush toward anything that looked like an exit.
That was when mistakes happened.
“Slow your mind down,” Desmond Banks used to tell him before track meets. “Your body can panic. Your mind doesn’t have to follow.”
Malik tried.
Count breaths.
Look outside.
Remember facts.
He had not stolen the watch.
He had not touched Bryce’s locker.
He had been in AP History.
Before that, the nurse.
Before that, calculus.
There were records.
Witnesses.
Cameras.
Facts.
Facts were supposed to matter.
He repeated that until the precinct came into view.
The Fourth Precinct smelled like disinfectant, old coffee, and wet fabric.
Malik was taken through booking.
His shoelaces were temporarily removed.
His maroon hoodie was taken because of the drawstring.
He was photographed.
Fingerprinted.
Asked his name.
Address.
Date of birth.
Emergency contact.
Drexler filled out paperwork several feet away.
He seemed bored now.
That almost made the humiliation worse.
For Malik, the day felt like his life had split open.
For Drexler, it looked like Tuesday.
“Address?” the booking officer asked.
Malik gave the Oak Ridge address.
Drexler looked up.
“Oak Ridge?”
“Yes.”
“That where your aunt lives?”
“My parents live there.”
Drexler smirked.
“Both?”
Malik stared.
“Yes.”
“Good for you.”
Malik said nothing.
The booking officer glanced between them but kept typing.
A few minutes later, Malik was placed in an interview room.
The room had a metal table bolted to the floor, three chairs, beige walls, and a camera mounted high in one corner.
Drexler came in carrying a folder.
Lang followed.
Malik sat.
Drexler sat opposite him.
“All right, Malik.”
“I want to call my mother.”
“In a minute.”
“I want to call her now.”
Drexler opened the folder.
“You know why you’re here.”