Ye gods. I’d had it all wrong. Mark’s father wasn’t abusing him. It was his mother.
Joy flailed at Mark with her other hand, landing ineffectual punches on his torso before Dillon stepped forward to haul her away. She batted at him, shrieking hysterically and almost incomprehensibly about “Your father . . . Do what I say . . . Ungrateful . . . You must!” Dillon nodded at Hank, who pulled her arms behind her back and cuffed them. Throughout, Captain Crenshaw stood as if turned to stone, his eyes never leaving his wife’s frantic figure. Tears slid down Mark’s face and I looked away, not wanting to intrude on his anguish.
“Have an officer take her to the station,” Dillon said, and Hank nudged the woman forward. I leaped to open the door for him, and Hank gave me a wink as he propelled Joy Crenshaw through the opening.
She swiveled her head to look over her shoulder into the room. “Eric! Help me, Eric. Don’t let them do this.”
Eric Crenshaw swallowed, his Adam’s apple working. “I’m staying with Mark,” he said. “He needs me.”
I closed the door on Joy’s outraged face and shriek of anger.
Silence lingered in the room for thirty seconds, broken only by the creaks and moans of the house as the wind buffeted it, before Dillon cleared his throat. Pulling up a delicate, gilt-legged chair, he sat on it, facing Mark. He placed the recorder on the marble plant stand at Mark’s elbow. “Now, Mark, why don’t you tell me what really happened Saturday night.”
“I don’t know!” Mark looked at Lindsay, but she was staring into her lap.
“Okay. Tell me what you do know. You arrived here with the science class, accompanied Dr. Mortimer on a tour to hear about Cyril Rothmere, and then what?”
“We went to our station—in the master bedroom on the second floor,” Mark said. “We took readings on the Mel 8704 and recorded them, just like we were supposed to.”
“And then?” Dillon prompted when Mark showed no sign of continuing.
“Then . . . then we started, you know, kissing and stuff.” A slight stain of red suffused his cheeks. I looked at Lindsay, but she didn’t react beyond raising her head to watch Mark.
“How long did you fool around?” Dillon asked.
Mark scrunched his brows together. “I don’t know . . . maybe half an hour? Until just before the fireworks started. Lindsay had to go to the bathroom.” He leaned toward his girlfriend, apology in his eyes. Betrayal stiffened her face before she bit her lip and turned her head away.
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Dillon asked sharply. “Why did you lie about being together the entire time?”
“It was a . . . a woman thing,” Mark said in a strangled voice. “She had her, you know . . . and she didn’t want me to say anything.”
I looked at Lindsay with new respect and wondered how much of this she had preplanned. She’d found a surefire way of making sure Mark wouldn’t say anything to the cops; no teenage boy can talk about menstrual periods.
“So . . . you waited for her in the bedroom?”
Mark shook his head. “No, I went out to watch the fireworks. Lindsay caught up with me.”
Dillon searched his face. “You knew there were going to be fireworks?”
“Oh, yeah. Lonnie planned it. He said ghosts didn’t know how to party, but he did.” Mark half smiled before his face turned somber again. “Ten o’clock was party time, he said.”
Two or three flashes of lightning lit up the yard outside the window like daylight. Thunder rumbled. The room was quiet for a moment, then Dillon asked, “Did you bring a sheet with you that night? A ghost costume?”
Mark was nodding before Dillon finished. “Yeah. We were going to have a competition to see who could be the scariest ghost, but—” He broke off. “Is that it? Did Lindsay—?”
For the first time, Lindsay broke in. “I went to the bathroom. I changed my tampon.” She put a sneer into the word. “I met Mark by the fireworks. No one can prove differently.” Her face was impassive, her voice steady. Only her hands betrayed her as her fingers twisted in the wet hem of her shirt.
Mark’s gaze stayed on her face for a long moment. Then, he looked at Dillon, me, his father. “Braden was my best friend,” he cried. “I wouldn’t ever have hurt him. He knew how I felt about going to the Academy. He knew I was having trouble with depression again. He was afraid I’d . . . I’d hurt myself if I had to go to Annapolis. He said he was going to send the superintendent a letter, tell him about my time at Sandy Point, my suicide attempt. That would’ve been enough to deep-six the appointment. He was only trying to help me! I wish he’d done it weeks ago,” Mark said savagely, “that he’d told them without even telling me! Then I would never have discussed it with—”