Innocent Mistakes Read online

  Instead of Agent Merriweather, the principal comes back on the line. “Ms. McCandless-Connelly, I understand you want to speak to the agent.”

  “I do.”

  “This is all very unusual.”

  “I’ll say. Why is a federal agent questioning a minor without his parents present? What agency does this Merriweather work for? What crime is being investigated? Shall I go on?”

  She can almost hear his shoulders slump under the barrage of questions. “No, I get the picture. Why don’t you come on out here? I think Colin probably could use your help.”

  She allows herself a moment of satisfaction. She’s showing up at the school no matter what. Having an invitation saves her some time and hassle.

  “I’m on my way.” She dumps her laptop and a random assortment of folders into her bag and races out the door, waving to Caroline on her way through the lobby.

  She collides into Will in the stairwell and he steadies her before she can do a header down the stairs.

  “Whoa, are you okay?” Her partner peers at her over his wire rims, concern wrinkling his eyelids.

  “My nephew’s in trouble. He’s sixteen. Do you know a good juvenile defense attorney?”

  He purses his lips. “I’ll have to check my contacts list. Is he at Shuman?”

  Shuman Juvenile Detention Center is the city’s kiddie prison. If one of the teens who loiters in their parking lot gets picked up for cutting school or dealing weed, they’ll get shipped to juvie. But Sean and Jordan moved to the suburbs for the blue ribbon schools. She’s not sure Colin’s even in Shuman’s jurisdiction. She’s not sure of much of anything.

  “No. The details are unclear. A federal agent came to the school and interviewed him. I don’t think he’s been charged with anything—yet. But I think he’s in federal custody. Maybe.”

  “The feds?” Will blinks in surprise.

  “Yeah. Like I said, it’s not clear. Do you even know what happens to a minor charged with a federal crime? Where will they take him?”

  Will’s face is blank. “I have no idea. It’s rare … almost unprecedented. Usually, they refer juvenile cases to the state. They don’t really have a robust criminal system for minors. This isn’t good, Sasha.”

  Not good. Leave it to Will, the master of understatement.

  “If you have a referral, text it to me, okay?”

  “Of course. Go. Take care of your nephew.”

  His words float down the stairs behind her. She’s already halfway down.

  3

  Siobhan can’t focus. Her stomach’s jumping, and she’s practically vibrating with worry about Colin. Roshi, her lab partner, pours a solution into a beaker and sets up their experiment while she stares out the wide plate-glass window, her gaze fixed on the baseball field up on the hill. The dusty diamond where her brother shines, where he’s in his element.

  Roshi’s movements are loud and exaggerated. He thumps the beaker down. He sighs. He drags his chair across the linoleum with a screech. She knows what he’s doing. He’ll never call her out for daydreaming while he does all the work. Instead, he’ll passive aggressively draw attention to his plight. If she pulled this stunt on him, he’d call her a drama queen, or worse. She tunes him out.

  Thunk. Thunk.

  Mallory kicks the leg of her chair, jarring her out of her thoughts.

  “What?” She turns around and half-whispers, half-hisses the question.

  Mrs. Plinsky’s made it clear she has no patience for Siobhan and Mallory. She’s already separated them as lab partners and told them the next move will be transferring one of them into another class. And neither of them wants to screw up their schedules like that.

  Mallory’s distracted, too. She points her chin toward the windows and mouths “your aunt.”

  Siobhan scans the parking lot. Mall’s right. That’s definitely Aunt Sasha sprinting across the lot. Her long wavy hair bobs along behind her, threatening to shake loose from the knot at the back of her head. She pumps her arms, swinging a briefcase as she races toward the building.

  “How does she run in those shoes?” Mallory wonders.

  “Practice.”

  As Siobhan turns back to the front, Mrs. Plinsky raises her gaze from her tablet to shoot a warning look at her and Mallory. Roshi sees it, too, and thinks it’s aimed at him.

  He clenches his jaw and hisses, “C’mon, Siobhan. It’s bad enough that Plinsky saddled me with you. Let’s try to stay out of Dunbar’s office. Isn’t one degenerate in your family enough?”

  She’s about to fire back a defense of Colin, but Mrs. Plinksy’s still watching her. So she swallows it and turns back to the window to watch Aunt Sasha march through the front entrance of the administration wing. Her chin juts forward the way it does when Dad and Uncle Ryan tease her.

  “Small but fierce.” She breathes the phrase like a prayer. If anyone can get Colin out of this mess, it’s Aunt Sasha. She’ll know what to do.

  There’s a tap, tap, tap on her back. She swivels around and gives Mallory a bug-eyed stare. Are you for real right now?

  Mallory flashes a tight, apologetic smile and palms her a note. She takes it with a practiced motion like a magician and unfolds it under the lab table, flattening the paper against her thigh. Mallory’s precise printing—all caps and small caps—stretches across the scrap of paper in bright blue:

  I’m sorry I said that in the hall. I know Colin would never do something like that. Even though you-know-who deserves it. This must be some kind of mistake.

  She stares down at the words. Tears prick at her eyes. She’s not sure if she wants to cry from relief or something else. Regardless, she blinks them back and turns to nod at her best friend. They’re in complete agreement on two things: Colin would never post something so mean. And Hunter Dalton one-hundred percent deserves it.

  Sasha catches her breath while the receptionist on the other side of the bulletproof glass divider checks her driver’s license and prints out a visitor’s badge. The woman slides Sasha’s license and the badge through a cutout in the glass. Sasha tucks the ID card into her wallet and takes the sticker from the tray, peels it from the backing, and slaps it onto her suit jacket.

  “Which way to Principal Dunbar’s office?”

  The woman jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “Down the hall to the left. You can’t miss it.”

  Sasha flashes a smile and waits for the woman to press the button to buzz her through the security door. The door clicks open, and she steps inside. A beefy blond man, barrel-chested but soft, barges past her on his way out.

  “Watch out,” the man snarls as he shoulder checks her.

  His aggression triggers her training, and she plants her feet in a fighting stance, fists at her sides.

  Cool it. For all you know, this caveman is Merriweather.

  She exhales and relaxes her hands. “Pardon you,” she says in a sugary sweet voice.

  He turns back, but whatever snappy comeback he had planned dies on his lips as his eyes lock on the visitor’s badge plastered over her lapel.

  “You Colin’s mom?”

  “What?”

  He points at her ID badge. She looks down at the sticker. It reads “Sasha McCandless-Co.” Her full, hyphenated last name is apparently too many characters for the default field.

  “Oh, no. I’m his aunt. Sasha McCandless-Connelly.” She extends her hand, and he sneers at it.

  “Word of advice: keep your creep nephew out of my sight. I’m inclined to give him the thrashing his own folks should’ve given him a long time ago.”

  She pulls back and lowers her chin, raising her left eyebrow. “Oh, really? And you are …?”

  “None of your damn business.” His florid face flushes a deeper red and a tendon in his neck pulses.

  “Mr. Dalton, please …” The receptionist flutters out of her bulletproof box and is wringing her hands, shooting meaningful glances over her shoulder at the resource officer leaning against a pillar. The gleam of interest in the
officer’s eyes belies her casual stance. She moves her hand to the weapon on her hip.

  There are armed officers at the high school?

  Caught up in her surprise, she nearly misses Mr. Dalton’s response.

  He shoves his face right up against the receptionist’s. “I have the right to be in there, you know. It’s my kid he’s threatened.”

  Then, he twists his neck to glare at Sasha. She stares back at him, unblinkingly. The officer pushes off from the wall and saunters in their direction, and he breaks eye contact and scurries out the door.

  “Everything okay here, Mrs. Grady?”

  “Oh, Officer Hill. Mr. Dalton’s just upset. I mean, you know … it’s understandable.” The receptionist’s glance slides away from Dalton’s departing back to Sasha. “Would you mind escorting Ms. McCandless-Connelly to the principal’s office?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  Officer Hill waves off Sasha’s protest. “It’s probably better if I do. Tempers are running hot today.”

  At the woman’s tone, a frisson of unease snakes down Sasha’s spine. For the second time, she wonders exactly what Colin’s done. What he’s been accused of doing, she corrects herself in a hurry. Think like a lawyer, not an aunt.

  She’s about to break her own cardinal rule and ask a question she doesn’t know the answer to when Officer Hill barks out a bitter laugh. “Code Orange Alert. You’d think that someone would tell the school resource officer what the devil’s going on, wouldn’t you?”

  Sasha clamps her mouth shut and lets the officer do the talking. She never interrupts a witness who’s volunteering information if she can help it.

  “But, no. This Merriweather fool sweeps in here like this is some kind of high-stakes crime and not run-of-the-mill teenage drama. Tells me my services aren’t needed and asserts federal jurisdiction.”

  She waits, but Officer Hill goes quiet. They walk along the empty, gleaming corridor in silence.

  “Which agency is he from?”

  The woman shoots her a surprised look, like she forgot she was talking aloud. She scrunches up her face. Sasha’s pretty sure she isn’t going to answer.

  But, after a moment, Officer Hill shrugs. “The FBI. Where else?”

  The FBI. She could call Connelly and ask him to poke around.

  On the one hand, what’s the point of having a husband who has the highest security clearances and connections through the federal government if you don’t call in a favor now and then? On the other hand, she hasn’t taken a run at Merriweather herself yet. She might not need to involve Connelly.

  The officer stops in front of a door marked ‘Principal’s Office’ and turns to face Sasha.

  “This is it. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think your nephew intended his comment as a serious death threat. He’s a good kid.” She hesitates, then adds, “And, don’t quote me, but Hunter Dalton is a smarmy little prick. That apple didn’t fall far, you know? His parents are …” She trails off.

  Death threat?

  Sasha tucks the resource officer’s unsolicited opinion away in case she needs it later. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Hill nods once, gives the door a brisk double rap, and opens it without waiting for an invitation.

  Sasha draws herself up to her full, if unimpressive, height, squares her shoulders, and sweeps inside like she owns the place. Colin’s slumped miserably in a leather chair, his hands gripping his knees. At her entrance, he lifts his head and meets her eyes with a wild, terrified look. She smiles an encouragement at him, hoping it’ll calm him down, then turns her attention to the two men on the other side of the room.

  Keenan Dunbar looks like hell. His short, curly hair is sticking up in all directions, as if he’s been running his hands through it. His tie is askew. His eyes are heavy and glassy.

  The federal agent, in contrast, is fresh-pressed and bright-eyed. Sharp, unwrinkled suit. Dress shoes polished to a mirror shine. And a feral, eager expression on his face. Like a dog that’s caught a scent. He leans forward and eyes her with interest, so she ignores him. Might as well establish the upper hand from the outset.

  She extends a hand and beelines toward the principal. “Keenan, it’s nice to see you—despite the misunderstanding.”

  Every word’s chosen to send Merriweather a message. Keenan. I’m on a first-name basis with this man (even though that’s a bit of a stretch). It’s nice to see you. I’m not worried in the slightest. Despite the misunderstanding. This situation—whatever Merriweather might be trying to make of it—is no big deal. Just a little matter that we’ll clear up in no time.

  Dunbar blinks, then pumps her hand. “Ms. McCan—er, Sasha, hello. Thanks for coming out.”

  “I’d rather be here cheering the Tigers to another victory.” She side-eyes the federal agent.

  Colin smothers a smirk. Dunbar winces and gestures toward the man straining toward her like a puppy on a leash.

  “Uh, yes, well. I’m hopeful you and Agent Merriweather will clear up this misunderstanding so we can get Colin back on the mound in no time.”

  Merriweather pounces. “Baseball should be the least of Colin’s concerns right now. You all seem to be missing the gravity of this situation. Colin transmitted a threat of death or bodily injury through interstate commerce. That’s five years right there.”

  Colin gnaws his lower lip. Sasha appraises the agent for a long moment. She holds his gaze until he blinks.

  When she speaks, her voice is cool. “I believe you misspoke, Agent Merriweather. Colin’s been accused of transmitting a threat. Isn’t that what you meant to say?”

  Merriweather lunges forward and gestures toward the computer monitor on the principal’s desk. “What is it you lawyers like to say? Res ipsa loquitur, right? The thing speaks for itself.”

  She leans in and studies the screen. It appears to be the school intranet site. The headline reads “Today in Tiger Sports” and a picture of a boy about Colin’s age fills the top of the screen. He’s apparently won a medal at a track and field event and is celebrating. The caption identifies him as Hunter Dalton. She squints, trying to make out a resemblance between the irate, stocky father and the long, lean golden boy son, but it’s faint at best. Hunter’s smack in the middle of his glory years. Dad’s a sad, faded hero at best. If she were betting, she’d put her money on Dad having been a gridiron athlete, not a runner.

  Beneath the article—article being a generous description of the three-line item—there’s a comment section.

  Who thought that was a good idea?

  Everyone knows better than to read the comments section of any online article—it’s the refuge for frustrated trolls, conspiracy theorists, and scammers hawking get-rich-quick schemes. If she were Principal Dunbar, she’d have disabled the comments section from the start. But, she isn’t, and he didn’t, so she scans the thread. She doesn’t have to go far to see the problem.

  The very top comment, which by the immutable law of the Internet, should be “FIRST!” is instead a post by @tigerpitch10, complete with an avatar of Colin’s face, calling Hunter a ‘punk-ass bitch.’ While not particularly kind, it hardly rises to the level of a death threat. She’s about to say as much, but then she reads the next sentence: ‘KYS before I do it for you.’

  She stops herself from asking what ‘KYS’ means. She’ll ask Colin privately later. She won’t give Merriweather the satisfaction of telling her.

  She turns to her nephew. “Did you post this?”

  “No!”

  She nods and faces the agent. “Please tell me you have more than a two-sentence post on the school intranet.”

  Merriweather gives her an icy, sour smile. “It’s more than enough.”

  She places a hand on Colin’s shoulder. She presses down, hoping he’ll get the message to remain silent, impassive. Then she tilts her head. “If that’s true, charge him. Now. Otherwise, we’re leaving.”

  The agent almost suppresses his reaction, but a glimmer of impo
tent anger flashes in his eyes.

  “That’s what I thought. Come on, Colin, I’ll take you home.”

  She scoops his backpack up from the floor and slings it over her shoulder. He leaps to his feet. She gives the principal a short nod, then tosses a business card on the desk in front of Agent Merriweather. As she pilots her dazed nephew out of the room, Merriweather’s eyes burn a hole in her back.

  “That was badass, Aunt Sasha,” Colin exclaims as they make their way down the hallway.

  She flashes him a tight smile. She has a feeling they haven’t heard the last of Agent Merriweather.

  4

  Colin stares out the kitchen window, just over his dad’s left shoulder. His gaze is locked on the steep blacktop driveway that leads down to the street. Aunt Sasha’s car bumps down the drive and turns onto the street. He tracks it as it shrinks, until it’s just a grayish-silver speck, and then it’s gone.

  He wishes he were in the passenger seat, headed to Shadyside and Aunt Sasha’s house. Uncle Leo’s probably making dinner right now, pots bubbling on the stove, bread baking in the oven, his terrible classic rock blaring from the little speaker on the counter. Colin could walk Mocha for them while Sasha and the little twins set the table and light the candles they use all the time, even when it isn’t a holiday. Then, they’d all eat something warm and hearty, and Finn and Fiona would babble about their day and tell lame jokes, and everyone would laugh. They’d walk to the ice cream shop for dessert, and Colin would get a double scoop of cookie dough in a pretzel cone.

  “Earth to Colin.” Dad snaps his fingers just inches from Colin’s face, and he blinks, jerking his attention back to the lecture and his own grim, tense kitchen.

  “Sorry.”

  “Is this a joke to you?”

  “What? No.” He shakes his head, wide-eyed. He presses his palms flat against the oak table.

  Mom places her hand over his. “If you did this thing, Colin, you have to tell us. We can help you, but only if you tell us the truth now. Aunt Sasha can get out ahead of this, work something out with the Daltons and the school—”