INTERLUDE
CHAPTER NINE
INTERLUDE
* * * * *
* * * *
The overnight holding cell is cold, the kind of chill that sinks into your skin and stays there, like it has nothing better to do.
Tommy doesn’t mind it all that much. He’s too busy contemplating how seriously fucked he is.
Sitting on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, he keeps staring at the streaks on the cement floor. A bad mop job, maybe, or blood—he can’t tell in the pale wash of fluorescent light. Not that it matters. Everything important, all the decisions about his life, they happen outside the cell.
He leans back against the wall, wincing as the chill bites through his threadbare hoodie. Someone has carved their initials into the brick above him—probably with a shiv, knowing this place.
Tommy rubs his hands over his face. He reeks of old sweat and body odour but he’s barely getting a sandwich dinner in this place, let alone a shower. He wishes he could clean it away, wishes he could forget the heat in his veins, the world blurring around him like a broken film reel. The way the air screams past his ears as he moves too fast for his own body to keep up.
His legs still ache from it. Or for it. Who knows.
The speed is new, so far as he can tell. If he’s been hiding this for a while, he’s done a great job. Not even Lisa had known. Oh, God. Lisa . Is she still waiting on that webchat for him to reply? He can’t even remember the last thing he’d written before he spotted the guy in a ski mask.
Tommy clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees it play out, in perfect detail. The way the cashier crumples to the floor when the gun goes off. The crack of the shot, so loud it rings in his skull. And then the blood—so much blood. It pooled around the cashier attendant in a dark halo, soaking into his apron, his shirt, his skin.
Could he have saved him? The thought hits like a punch to the gut every time it drifts through his head. He could’ve done something—anything. He has these stupid powers now, doesn’t he? He’s fast enough to dodge bullets, probably fast enough to catch them if he really tries.
But not fast enough to push the cashier out of the way.
“God damn it all.” Tommy mutters, pressing his palms into his eyes and watching the whole thing over again.
He worries that he wasn’t fast enough because he wasted all his speed earlier, with that shitstain Greg. He can’t regret setting the guy up. He’s a piece of crap and he deserves every minute they throw him in the hole. For what he did to Lisa, if nothing else. He was so hungry afterwards. He still is, to be honest. He feels like he could eat a horse, hooves and all, and still go back for seconds.
If he hadn’t expelled so much energy planting the cocaine and burner phone in Greg’s car, racing from the cops before they could spot him, if he’d just spoken to Officer Daniels when he had the chance, could he have saved the cashier?
He honestly doesn’t know. The guilt eats at him either way.
It’s been thirty six hours by his count and these assholes have barely done more than check his fingerprints and take his photo. If they’ve called his mother, the joke’s on them: Mary is probably high as a kit right now while Wayne searches his room for more shit to sell.
He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. Which is fine by him because what the hell is he gonna say when they do interview him? That he just happened to be there when the robber walked in? That he wasn’t trying to pull anything himself? A kid with his record just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? They’re gonna crucify him for this one.
Tommy huffs, letting his head fall back against the wall.
The worst part is he doesn’t even remember doing half the shit he’s been punished for. As much as he’s learned these past few weeks, Tommy Shepherd is still a stranger to him: an angry kid with neglectful parents, a shit reputation and, admittedly, some pretty great friends.
Everything before that day at the pool has been yanked out of his brain and replaced with strange, unsettling nightmares that don’t fit together—voices he can’t place, flashes of faces he’s sure he once knew, the feeling of water in his lungs. And now this: a dead man and a bullet and some freakish ability he barely understands, let alone controls.
His stomach growls again, loud enough to echo. He presses a hand to it, trying to ignore the ravenous ache. They don’t feed you much in here. One dry egg mayo sandwich, a bottle of water that tasted like pennies. He devoured both in seconds and he can still feel his body burning through what little energy he has left, like he’s still moving at hyper speed.
He’s so tired. Of this cell, of this hunger, of this guilt. He’s tired of being surprised by his own life, he’s tired of not recognising his own face. He’s tired of feeling like he might come apart at any moment.
“You know,” his mouth is parched. “If you’re real, I could really use the help right now, Billy.”
The brother of his dreams, the laughter at the end of the tunnel, the silent presence sleeping in the bed next to his. The twin he knows Tommy Shepherd never had. The other half he can feel is missing.
The cell door gives a sudden clank as an officer in uniform appears, waving his hand impatiently.
“Interview time, Shepherd. Let’s go.”
They shove him into the interrogation room and it might actually be worse than the holding cell.
The chair is too small, or maybe Tommy has just grown since he last sat in one. Not that he can remember that far back. The screws are wobbly. It creaks every time he shifts his weight, no doubt on purpose. They’ve chained his cuffs to the table as if he’s something dangerous.
Whatever he knows about himself, he knows he’s not one to show fear. So Tommy plants his sneakers on the linoleum and leans back, balancing on two legs, just to make it sing. Anything to drown out the fluorescent hum overhead.
Across from him, Officer Kincaid flips through his notes with all the grace of a butcher carving up a pig.
“You’ve got a rap sheet that could wallpaper this whole room,” Kincaid finally says, not looking up. “Petty theft, vandalism, a couple of assault charges. Real model citizen, huh?”
Tommy gives him a tight smile. “I’d offer to sign it for you, but my hands are kinda tied here.”
Kincaid slams the folder shut, leaned forward. “This isn’t a joke, kid. A man is dead and you’re found at the scene, your prints are on the weapon. You’re saying that’s all just a coincidence?”
“I’m not saying I wasn’t there,” Tommy snaps, his voice sharpening. “I’m saying I didn’t shoot anyone.”
“You wanna tell me why you were in that store?” Kincaid presses, clearly enjoying his moment in the spotlight.
Tommy grinds his teeth because the evidence that proves exactly what time he walked into that corner store is on his phone, in his chat history with Lisa. But so is a video of him planting cocaine in Greg Danes’ car and Lisa knowing about it. Which makes her an accessory and leaves him without an alibi.
“I don’t know what to tell you man. You never had a midnight Twinkie craving?”
“That what you’re gonna go with? Twinkies?” Kincaid leaned back, folding his arms like a man who’s already won. “The DA’s gonna eat you alive, kid. We got eyewitnesses, we got your prints—
“On what? A half-opened bag of Cheetos? Fine, sue me for being hungry.”
Kincaid's lips curled into something halfway between a smirk and a snarl. “You think you’re real clever.”
“I think this is a waste of time.” Tommy bristles back.
“What? You got somewhere to be, punk?”
“No but I’m sure there’s a doughnut somewhere in your desk sitting there, gathering dust.”
“Oh you little asshole- ”
The door swings open before Kincaid can give into his urges and actually beat the shit out of him. A younger officer pokes his head in, his buzzcut gleaming under the lights. “Chief needs you outside.”
Kincaid throws up his hands. “Jesus Christ, can’t you see I’m in the middle of—”
“He wants you now.” the officer says, pointedly eying the two-way mirror on the far side of the room.
Kincaid rises with a grumble, gathering his papers like he was trying to crush them. He jabs a finger at Tommy as he backs out. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Yeah, I’ll just teleport outta here,” Tommy mutters, staring after him.
The door clicks shut, leaving him alone again. For a moment, there’s only the hum of the light, the faint tick of the second hand on the wall clock. His stomach snarls again, loud enough to make him wince.
Then the door opens again.
The man who steps in isn’t a cop. That much is clear from the way he carries himself, easy and unthreatening. He has a lean build, a neatly pressed shirt and suit jacket, and dark eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
“Tommy Shepherd,” he holds out a hand. “My name’s Jeff Kaplan. I’ll be taking on your case.”
Tommy looks at the hand, then back at Jeff and jiggles his cuffs pointedly. “You might be waiting a while for that handshake, chief.”
Jeff smiles faintly. “Right. How about we get those off, huh? Officer Johns, can we-?”
As if by magic, the young buzzcut from before comes walking in with a shiny silver key and just like that, Tommy’s uncuffed.
Huh.
He rubs his wrists, eyeing his new lawyer sceptically. “So who called you?”
Jeff sits across from him, setting down a manila folder that looks far less ominous than Kincaid’s. “My firm offers regular pro bono defence counsel through the state’s legal department. We get tapped when high risk cases come across their desk.”
“High risk, huh?”
“You are still a minor, Mr Shepherd.” Jeff reminds him gently, as if anyone in Tommy’s social circle remains a kid for long. “Actually, you’re the second case I was handed today. That’s why I was delayed, apologies for that.”
“Geez, way to make a guy feel special, Lawyer Jeff.”
Jeff smiles again, not missing a beat. “You’ve had a rough couple of days, huh?”
Tommy snorts. “That’s one way to put it.”
Jeff looks at him for a long moment, consideringly. “When’s the last time you ate?”
Tommy blinks back. “What?”
“When’s the last time you ate something?” Jeff repeats, knowingly. “My son gets crabby when he’s hungry too.”
“I dunno. Yesterday? Maybe?”
Jeff frowns, stands, and crosses to the door. He pokes his head out, saying something Tommy can’t quite hear, then returns to his seat. A minute later, the buzzcut from earlier returns with a can of Coke, and then leaves without a word.
His lawyer slides the can across the table. “Drink up.”
Tommy hesitates. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just trying to do my job.”
Tommy pops the tab and takes a long, greedy gulp. The fizz burns his throat, but it’s the best thing he’s tasted in days.
Jeff waits until he set the empty can down before speaking again. “Tommy, I’ve gone over the report. I know your record doesn’t exactly paint you in the best light, but I believe you. You didn’t pull that trigger.”
“Yeah? Tell that to Phillips.”
“I will.” Jeff’s tone is firm, steady. “And to the DA. But I need you to trust me, okay? I’m not here to screw you over. I’m here to help.”
“What happened to the first guy?”
“Pardon?”
“I’m your second case.” Tommy points out. “So what happened to the first guy?”
“I can’t discuss particulars.” Jeff says in a slightly admonishing tone. “But it was another minor, facing drug charges. He didn’t trust me either, decided to roll his chances on a legal defender provided by the State.”
Tommy’s lips twitch. God, he hopes it was Greg. “Seems like a dumbass.”
He swears there’s a hint of amusement in Jeff’s eyes. “So what’s it gonna be?”
“Alright Lawyer Jeff,” Tommy finally sighs and sets the chair back down on all four legs. “What do you wanna know?”
* * * * *
* * * *
