Page 67 of For Your Own Good
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FOUR O’CLOCK INthe afternoon, and Zach is high. So very, very high.
He and Lucas are in Lucas’s theater room, watching a Marvel movie. Zach isn’t sure if he’s seen this one before or not, but it doesn’t matter. He watches it anyway. Lucas’s parents aren’t home, and even if they were, they wouldn’t give a shit. Not as long as Lucas stays on track to be Belmont’s valedictorian.
“What I want to know,” Zach says, pausing to exhale, “is who did you pay to avoid Crutcher? You haven’t had him for a single class.”
“Oh, screw Crutcher. My brother told me about him. I bribed one of those women in the office to switch me.”
“With money?” Zach says.
“Nah. With charm.”
“Dick.”
Lucas shrugs. “Why? You on his shit list?”
“Yep.”
“Sucks for you.”
Yes. Yes, it does.
They stop talking long enough to watch a battle in the movie. Zach and Lucas have seen dozens of superhero movies. They’ve been friends ever since they were twelve, when Lucas told Zach his parents were assholes. Zach could relate.
They pass the bong back and forth, alternating between checking their phones and watching the movie.
“Holy shit,” Lucas says. He struggles to sit up in the recliner. “Did you see this?”
Zach glances over, seeing the glow of Lucas’s phone. It’s so very bright. “See what?”
“The hashtag ‘HomicideHigh’ is trending.”
“Shut up.”
“Seriously. Just around here. Not nationwide,” Lucas says. “Not yet, at least.”
Zach pulls it up on his phone and scrolls through the messages. Most are stupid. Still, he reads them, because he can’t not read them. He scrolls until the screen is just a blur.
“They still haven’t found Mr.Maxwell,” Lucas says. “There’s a rumor he’s dead, too.”
Zach groans and sinks deeper into his chair, trying to hide from this news. If someone else is dead, he’s definitely getting sent to Vermont.
AN HOUR LATER,Frank is still at the police station. He hasn’t been arrested, nor have the uniformed cops shown up. But his wife has.
Missy is angry and crying at the same time. It’s the worst combination, though hardly surprising. Tough to find out your husband is a murderer.
The door to the interrogation room is open, and Frank watches Missy talking to Oliver. She gestures with her hands, often pushing back herhair. She does that when she’s frustrated. Her eyes flick back and forth between her husband and the detective.
Frank knows she must be mad. Must be disappointed, hurt, and confused. All the bad things. But she’d also know that he had to tell the truth. Missy is a huge advocate for the truth.
When she walks toward him, he sits up a little. Braces himself.
“Frank,” she says. Her voice isn’t angry. It sounds a little weird, like she’s talking to their son.
“Hi,” he says.
She pulls the other chair around the table, next to him, and sits down. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but we’re going to get you some help.”
