I eat mine, too.
I've had plenty of water. But I still feel parched.
"I suppose," I say. "Maybe we can search again tomorrow. And the night after that. And the night after that. Until we find him."
"Or maybe someone else will find the killer first," Charlotte says, steering us back home.
…
I'm not expecting company the next morning. Through an open window, I spot a car sitting in our driveway. I don't immediately recognize it, black from top to bottom. When a man steps out, I know almost instantly that he's a cop. The folder. The pen. The look of authority. Like he's come to take notes on our family.
"We have a visitor," I say, alerting Grandpa and Charlotte.
Grandpa opens the door before the officer has a chance to knock. It's nearly time for us to go to school.
"Can I help you?" he asks.
"I'm here to ask for your cooperation in our ongoing case regarding Nicole Samantha Star." The cop glances purposefully at me. "I'm a detective with the police force. Mind coming into the station, all of you? Just routine stuff."
The way his gaze cuts the air in half and lands on me tells me that I'm his main concern. His look is weighted by suspicion.
"Sure," I say, letting my family know I have no problem answering his questions. I guess school will have to wait. I hope Willow won't mind my not driving her. "I'll go to the station."
After all, I have nothing to hide.
The officer gives Grandpa the address. "One hundred and third Avenue. Two-story brick. You know the place?"
I send a quick text to Willow saying I can't drive her, and I receive a response a few seconds later saying Okay.
"I know it, yes," Grandpa replies and goes to retrieve his car keys.
"Ride with me," he says to Charlotte and me.
The drive to the station takes twenty minutes, but it takes no time at all for the police to separate me from my family. The room they place me in smells like the rose air freshener they've plugged into the wall. There's a table, a water bottle, and a notepad. A detective walks in. Not the man from the house. This one is lanky, with a thin mustache.
"I'm Officer Cordova. Mind if I ask you a few questions, Beau?"
"Not at all," I say casually.
He shuts the door behind him. I lean in my chair and stare at the double-paned glass. Wonder who's looking back. Officer Cordova takes out a pen and readies it, along with a recorder. He presses play.
"As you know, there's been a murder in the swamp," he says. He waits, as though I might have something to add. Since he didn't technically ask a question, I keep quiet.
"Wonderful young girl. Such a tragedy. Been talking with her family and friends lately. What we can't figure out is who would do such thing."
I stare at Officer Cordova. I watch the way his eyes scrutinize me, assessing.
"Do you happen to know anyone who would do this to Samantha, as she was known, especially by those she was closest to, which I hear includes you?"
"Don't know a thing about it, Officer," I say. "Couldn't point you to anyone."
"Hmm," he says. "No one at all? Any help you can give us would be much appreciated."
"No one," I say.
"You mind telling me about your relationship with Samantha, then?"
I cross my arms and prop my feet up on the table with a comfortable ease that I force on the outside. Inside, I feel as though this small room can't contain all my nervousness. Do they really think I did it?
"Sure. I wouldn't call it much of a relationship, though. We sometimes saw each other."
"Romantically?"
"Yes."
My eyes slide to the window again. I wonder if the person-or people-behind it is taking notes like the officer in front of me. My fingers tap, tap, tap on the chair. Even though the detective's eyes fall to my movement and notice the crack in my armor, I can't seem to control my unease. I need to get out of this room. I don't want to talk about a dead girl. Especially not with a detective who thinks I'm the one responsible.
"For how long?"
"A few weeks."
The officer sets down his pen. "You seem pretty casual about it, Beau."
"I didn't have feelings for her anymore, if that's what you're hinting at."
I don't want to go into the fact that I don't have feelings for any of the girls I date outside of finding them interesting and having fun. I am honest with each girl, so it's not like I'm hiding anything. They know I don't develop attachments. Still, I do care if one of them is murdered. How could I not?
"Did she do anything to anger you? Did you fight often?"
"No and no."
The officer slowly loses his friendly facade, his tone sharpening to a point.
"Listen, Beau. I'm going to be straight with you. I know you and Samantha were involved, which you've admitted. I also know it was more than casual for her. And I know that she had contact with you the night she died."
I'm pretty sure I understand where he's headed, but I let him take his time getting there.
"She sent a text asking to come to your house. You replied with a firm ‘no.' She then resorted to calling. You answered, declining her visit. Yet somehow, she ended up near your cabin anyhow. Want to tell me how that happened?"
"I wouldn't know."
I've gone over the possibilities myself, but I've come up with nothing. The officer surely knows more specifics than I do.
"I'm going to need the details of your interaction with Samantha on her final night."
"You already know," I reply. "You just said them. She sent a text, and then called. I'd broken up with her at school that afternoon. She initially seemed fine about the breakup but left school early. Apparently, she was more upset than I had realized. She wanted to come over. I said ‘no.' End of story."
"Your whereabouts, Mr. Cadwell?"
The detective no longer bothers to call me by my first name, nor does he bother to make me feel comfortable. He leans into my personal space, hovering. It's overwhelming, the white sterile walls, harsh tones, and what I imagine are too many eyes staring from behind the glass. I want to leave.
"I was home with my family. You can ask them yourself, if you'd like."
"There was never a time you were alone?" he asks.
"Not until about two a.m., when I finally went to my own room to sleep."
I know good and well that Samantha's death occurred around midnight. The police said so themselves the following day when they visited the swamp and questioned my family, needing to know where we all were at exactly that time.
"Did you see or speak to Samantha after her phone call?" he asks.
"No."
He's nearing the end of his rope. I wasn't with Samantha at the right time. I have an alibi. I know his words before he speaks them.
"Okay, then, Mr. Cadwell. That's all for now."
Whether he suspects me anymore or not, I don't care. The important thing is that I answered his questions, and he has nothing to charge me with. I leave as quickly as I arrived.
In the car, Grandpa tells me that they questioned him and Charlotte.
"Damn police, never minding their own business. Just because we live out this way doesn't mean nothing," Grandpa says.
"Well, Beau did date her," Charlotte says.
"Doesn't mean I killed her," I reply.
"Then who did?" Grandpa asks.
I wonder if Grandpa doubts me like the others, or if he simply means to make conversation. I watch the marsh slowly come back into view-stagnant green water between slices of trees.
"That's what we need to find out," I reply.
"More searching?" Charlotte asks.
"Exactly," I say.
It's already lunchtime. I text an apology to Willow as we near the school and ask if we can eat together.
"See you later," I say to Grandpa as he pulls up to the front doors.
Charlotte hops out first and takes off without me. I shut the door and offer Grandpa a final wave just as my phone chimes with a message from Willow, accepting my offer to have lunch together beneath the shade of a maple tree.
…
"Sorry I couldn't drive you this morning." I sit in the shade, relishing the heat on my skin. "The police showed up, wanting to question me."
Willow takes a bite out of a turkey sandwich. "It's okay. I rode the bus."
She doesn't seem upset, which is a relief.
"They let me go easily enough," I explain.
"Of course they did. You have an alibi. You didn't murder that poor girl, but that doesn't stop the rest of the school from suspecting you. Who knows … maybe the police have questioned others. I'm sure, if they did, many of them mentioned your connection to her. They thrive on gossip, and you haven't exactly given them much reason to believe you're innocent. It wouldn't hurt for you to be a little kinder. I know you have it in you. Why do you show a softer side to me that you won't allow them access to?"