SWT - Chapter 3

TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDED INTERVIEW

DATE: 02.15.XXXX

LOCATION: EMERGENCY DEPT, CROWLEY GENERAL HOSPITAL

TIME: 00:00:30

DL: THIS INTERVIEW IS BEING RECORDED. I AM DETECTIVE P. LANSING BADGE # XXXXX HERE WITH DETECTIVE R. WILLIAMS BADGE # XXXXX FROM CROWLEY POLICE DEPARTMENT. THE TIME IS ZERO ZERO THIRTY HOURS. IT’S SUNDAY, FEBRUARY SEVENTH XXXX. AND WE’RE HERE AT CROWLEY GEN WITH WITNESS ##XXXXX.

[PAUSE]

DL: BEFORE WE BEGIN, WE WANT TO REMIND YOU THAT YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT. ANYTHING YOU SAY CAN AND WILL BE USED AGAINST YOU IN A COURT OF LAW. YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO A LAWYER AND HAVE THEM PRESENT WITH YOU WHILE YOU ARE BEING QUESTIONED. IF YOU CANNOT AFFORD A LAWYER, ONE WILL BE APPOINTED TO YOU FREE OF CHARGE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THESE RIGHTS?

VR: YES, I UNDERSTAND.

INTERVIEWEE'S LAWYER: I AM FRANK GALLOWS, COUNEL FOR MR. RIVIERA. I AM PRESENT TO ADVISE MY CLIENT DURING THIS INTERVIEW, PER HIS REQUEST. 

DL: PLEASE STATE YOUR FULL NAME AND DATE OF BIRTH FOR THE RECORD.

VR: VALE RIVIERA. NOVEMBER 7TH XXXX

DL: AND WHAT IS THE NATURE OF YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH MISTER SAINT JAMES?

VR: HE’S MY BOYFRIEND.

DL: DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU’RE BEING QUESTIONED BY POLICE?

VR: BECAUSE I DIRECTLY WITNESSED A CRIME THAT TOOK PLACE EARLIER TONIGHT, RESULTING IN THE DEATH OF ANOTHER STUDENT.

DL: OKAY. WE’D LIKE YOU TO TAKE US BACK TO THE BEGINNING. HOW DID AND MISTER SAINT JAMES MEET?

VR: DO WE REALLY NEED—

DW: MISTER SAINT JAMES IS A PRIME SUSPECT IN A STRING OF MURD—

VR: IS? YOU’D THINK AFTER WHAT HAPPENED TONIGHT, AND GIVEN HIS CURRENT STATUS—

[THROAT CLEARS]

DW: WE HAVE TO COVER ALL BASES, MR. RIVIERA, AS I’M SURE YOU CAN UNDERSTAND. WE HAVE A TRAIL OF  BODIES LEADING TO YET ANOTHER DEAD KID. AND ONE CRITICALLY INJURED. WHAT HAPPENED TONIGHT, WHAT WAS DISCOVERED IN THE MINES—

VR: MAKES ME A SUSPECT NOW TOO. I KNOW HOW IT LOOKS.

[PAUSE]

[THROAT CLEARS]

DL:  I UNDERSTAND YOU’RE IMPATIENT AND WORRIED ABOUT YOUR BOYFRIEND. BUT RIGHT NOW, THIS IS HOW YOU HELP HIM.

[PAUSE]

VR: YOU’RE RIGHT. I’M SORRY. I JUST…I REALLY NEED TO KNOW HE’S OKAY. 

[PAUSE]

DL: YOU CARE ABOUT HIM A LOT.

VR: YES.

DW: CAN YOU TELL US IN YOUR OWN WORDS HOW YOU TWO CAME INTO EACH OTHERS’ LIVES? 

VR: WHICH TIME?

[PAUSE]

DL: LET’S EASE INTO THE PAST, YES? YOU MAY START WITH  THE PRESENT-DAY, WHEN YOU FIRST SAW HIM AGAIN, AND TAKE IT FROM THERE AT YOUR OWN PACE. IF AT ANY POINT YOU NEED TO TAKE A BREAK, SAY THE WORD.

[PAUSE]

VR: OKAY.

DL: WHENEVER YOU’RE READY.

VR: IT WAS A…FRIDAY. THE NIGHT OF THE BELL GAME. TWO WEEKS INTO SENIOR YEAR…

***

VALE

SEPTEMBER

“Riviera, go long!”

It takes me a split second longer than it should to realize that means me, and I quickly run to catch the unexpected pass.

You’d think after all these years I’d be used to my new last name. Hell, it’s printed across my jersey and taped across my locker. I write it on every test and paper, and hear it shouted and cheered at every single game.

It should be as a part of me as my first name.

It shouldn’t feel like a lie.

Loud whoops go out around the field as I catch a perfect spiral. Rolling my eyes, I toss the football behind me, not waiting to see who will stumble forward to catch it. 

Hands come out to slap mine as I jog over to the bench like I just scored the game-winning touchdown. When really, we’re just warming up before we kick off our biggest, most attended game of the regular season, which is set to start in less than an hour.

The stands are already filling up, forming a sea of black, burgundy, and gray, the official school colors of Grady Prep. It’s our turn to host this year’s Bell Game—an annual face-off between us and our rivals across the river, in which the victorious team gets custody of the revered, retired town hall bell until the other team can win it back.

It’s been a town tradition for going on eighty years. There’s an opening ceremony and everything. Then, tomorrow, the big, bronze monstrosity currently placed at the old Colonel D. Grady train station—from which our school got its name—will be loaded back up on a cart and rolled across the bridge connecting the town.

Well, that’s only if we lose.

Crowley High hasn’t had a turn with the bell in three years, and we don’t plan on surrendering it anytime soon. Definitely not under my watch.

“Yo.” A shoulder knocks mine, pulling me out of my thoughts. A dark muscular arm reaches around me for the pile of water bottles.

“S’up,” I mumble, popping the sports cap on my bottle with my teeth, before tipping my head back and shooting a stream of water down my throat.

Fletch, our star defensive lineman, looks around the stadium with hard, determined eyes. “Gonna be a good game. A blow-out.” He nods. “Gonna crush ’em, I can already tell.”

I snort softly at that. “Yeah, how’s that?”

He cuts me a sideways look, black paint smudged across his flushed bronzed cheeks. It’s mid-September, but the sun’s been brutal today; not so much hot as bright. He points to his temple, where his sweat glistens just near his buzzed hairline. “I can just feel it.”

“With your brain?”

He nods, grinning like an idiot. “With my soul.”

“And your soul’s in your brain?”

He steps back, cupping his junk protectively through his burgundy compression pants, and thrusts obscenely into the air. “No, man, it’s allll in here.”

I chuck my bottle at his head, and he ducks just before it could hit him in the nose. He’s still laughing as he turns and jogs away.

With a rueful shake of my head, I remove my helmet.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Casey says, joining me. He plops down on the bench, legs spread out before him, heels of his cleats digging into the grass. “Good catch,” he pants, smirking through his face guard as he glances my way. 

“Nice throw,” I say dryly.

As the quarterback to his running back, usually I’m the one barking commands at him and throwing balls his way. Not the other way around.

We stretch and shoot the shit while the D-line runs drills. Soon, we’ll be migrating to the locker rooms for last-minute wrapping and pre-game rituals. Coach will do his little speech to get us all hyped up, and then it’s go-time.

It’s one of my favorite parts of the game. That anticipation just inside the tunnel before we get the go-ahead to run full-steam ahead onto the field. Heart racing. Chest vibrating. Music blaring from the speakers, warring with the thundering crowd as we explode through whatever fancy-ass banner the cheerleaders put together for that week.

Never gets old, even if everything else about high school has.

“Oh, hey, there’s your dad.” Casey goes to wave, but quickly pulls his hand back, sucking in air through his teeth. “Damn. Remind me to never get on his bad side. He looks pissed.”

Frowning, I turn my head to follow his gaze.

Over by the concession stand, I can just make out the first three letters of my last name printed across a burgundy jersey. Angled away from the field, he paces in a small circle, phone pressed to his ear.

My frown only deepens when Quentin throws a hand up, before jabbing a finger in the general direction of the field. I catch sight of his profile—his rigidly held jaw—and can practically see the flare of his nostrils from here.

It’s not so much that my adoptive dad is upset that has me concerned. It’s that he’s visibly upset.

Quentin Riviera is nothing if not carefully controlled. Poised. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this animated in all the years I’ve known him. Even back before he took me in, when he had no choice but to stand in front of a courtroom and defend the people—the system—who failed me in a state-level court case that made national headlines, he wasn’t this… expressive.

He won the case, because of course he did. He wasn’t the state’s attorney for nothing. The man is a ruthless, callous force to be reckoned with when he has to be.

But despite what prosecutors might say, he isn’t heartless.

Hell, to make up for what he had did, he adopted me. What better way to right such a wrong, than by saving one of its victims from winding up in another shitty home?

Casey whistles under his breath. “Who do you think he’s talking to?”

I shake my head. “No clue.” Yet I can’t escape the feeling that whatever's going on somehow involves me.

That hunch is confirmed a second later when Quentin’s eyes dart my way. He abruptly stops talking when our gazes meet, his eyes widening a fraction while mine narrow, his shoulders tensing at having been caught mid-tirade. 

What the fuck is going on?

Lips pursed, he rubs a hand across his stubbly jaw, and glances away, nodding to whoever’s on the other end of the call. He says something I can’t make out before hanging up.

“Yo, did you guys hear?” a voice pants. 

Casey shifts his attention to the newcomer.

Not really in the mood to hear whatever fresh tea’s got my teammates foaming at the mouth, I tune them out. 

Just when it looks like Quentin’s about to make his way over here and hopefully give me some insight as to what’s going on, something in his periphery steals his attention. Freezing him in place.

The fingers knotted in his hair are slow to release and drop to his side to hang lifelessly. And it’s then, at that perfectly timed moment, a snippet of conversation from behind me filters through, taking a half-second longer than it should to register.

“Ashwood as in the insane asylum?” Casey blurts.

No…

Oh fuck no.

My vision begins to tunnel, blackening around the edges. Next thing I know, I’ve whirled around and grabbed the collar of some underclassman’s jersey. “The fuck you say?”

The kid’s eyes widen, cheeks visibly blanching.

I’m dimly aware of Casey letting out an uneasy laugh. “Dude…”

Throat constricting around my swallow, I release whatever his name is, shoving him back a step.

He gulps, darting a look just over my shoulder. “Um, I was just telling Casey about the new charity case. My mom’s on the school board. Guess they had an emergency meeting today to address some, uh, concerns. He starts Monday.”

“Did you get a name?”

The kid gives a quick, jerky shake of his head. “A-all I know is he’s enrolling as a s-senior. And r-r-rumor has it he… he—”

I snap my fingers impatiently. “He what?”

“Vale,” Casey warns softly. I can feel him shifting nervously next to me, as if debating whether or not to risk a season-ending injury only three weeks in.

The kid’s shaking like a leaf, but I don’t care. I stare him down hard, waiting.

Another audible swallow, then, “K-killed someone.”

I go utterly and completely still.

It can’t be…

“That so?” I say in a dangerously quiet voice.

The kid nods. Shrugs. Shakes his head. “I-I don’t know. L-like I said, it’s just a rumor. I mean, just ’cause he was a patient at Ashwood—if-if that’s even true—doesn’t mean he’s dangerous?” He says it like a question.

“My uncle did a stint there,” Casey says, nodding. “Bipolar. Stopped taking his meds, and just got, like, super depressed. Definitely not a threat to—”

At the look I shoot him, he raises a hand. “Shutting up now.”

“Anything else?” I say quietly to the kid, my tone flat.

His face reddens, and he shakes his head.

Nodding shortly, I dismiss him and make my way over to the bench.

It takes me a second to realize Casey’s followed, and he’s saying something, his voice slow to penetrate the heavy fog clouding my senses.

“...that about?”

I give a little shake of my head. “Nothing.” Out of habit, I go to fiddle with my eyebrow piercing, only to remember I had to take it out for the game.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

I sigh, drop my hand to my lap, and cut him a flat look.

Rolling his eyes, he says, “Fine. Whatever.” A beat passes, before he can no longer resist asking, “Do you think it’s true?”

“What?”

“That this dude murdered someone when he was only twelve? That would mean he’s been locked up for, what, five? Six years?”

“Congrats, you can do math.”

Casey scowls, but it’s quick to morph into a snort of laughter. He shoves my shoulder. “Asswipe. What’s it to you anyway?”

Spreading my legs, I rest my elbows on my thighs and hang my head between my padded shoulders. I don’t say anything right away. It’s not often I lose control like I just did, and it’s for this very reason.

Not that those closest to me, like Case and Fletch, haven’t seen glimpses over the years. But it was always because I allowed it. The end game far outweighing the risk of them seeing too much—of them prying into things that are better left in the dark.

Knowing I have to give Casey something, I finally shrug, and say, “Just reminded me of a story I saw on the news years ago. About a kid who went ape shit on his abusive foster dad.”  I pause, before adding, “We lived in the same area. Went to the same school.”

Not lies…just not the whole truth.

“So, it was more like self-defense…”

I shrug. “Sure.”

“And he was in the system like you,” Casey finishes softly, ensuring no one overhears us. He’s one of the very few people at Grady Prep who know this. Knows I was adopted.

With him, it was one of those “benefits outweighed the costs” things—I knew I needed someone to have my back. Someone to pity me and excuse my behavior whenever I struggled to keep up pretenses.

Plus, his dad’s a cop. Those kinds of connections are invaluable, as Quentin would say.

Jaw working, I give him a short nod.

“Did you…did you know him? Do you think it’s actually the same guy?” Were you abused too?

No, he’s probably not actually thinking that. But then again, it’s not that far of a reach.

Still, I’m probably just being paranoid.

“No, and…no,” I say. “The odds of that are…” Straightening suddenly, I jump to a stand and turn toward the concession stands. Eyes darting around.

I forgot about Quentin. The phone call. He was headed over here, and then—

“Hey, babe!”

Startled from my search, I blink into focus the figure standing on the other side of the chain-link fence, fingers curled around the metal rungs.

“What are you doing here?” I all but growl as I close the distance, my voice harsher than usual. Behind me, someone makes kissy sounds—probably Casey, the dumbass—but I hardly pay him any notice.

Seth’s brown eyes widen, filling with something like hurt, before narrowing with a familiar flash of anger. “Nice to see you too.”

Blowing out a breath, I cover Seth’s fingers with my hand, trying not to be obvious as I glance over his shoulder. Softer this time, but no less distracted, I mutter, “Sorry, just lost in my head. You know what it’s like before a game.”

I forcefully shift my attention to the guy standing before me. “I thought you were gonna be late,” I say through numb lips, feeling like my pulse is seconds away from punching out of my throat.

Seth shakes his head with a quiet huff. “I texted you. Study group ended early, and…”

His voice fades into the background as I once again find my gaze sweeping over the crowd, words playing back through my head.

Ashwood…last five years…

Killed someone.

Would I even recognize him if I saw him? It’s been almost six years. Not long in the grand scheme of things, but given how much I’ve changed, it’s possible he did too.

Memories begin pushing their way to the surface, this time more vivid than they’ve been in years.

Pale, gray skin. Wide, vacant eyes. 

Blood.

So much fucking blood.

There’s a wet, squelching sound, and my hand burns, it stings, flooding with warmth—

“V-Vale?”

And then more memories. Dancing on the fringe of that night, darker but no less vivid to my senses.

The thread of smoke curling up from the overcrowded ashtray, blanketing the room in the stale scent of tobacco.

From the old tube television across the room, a laugh track playing during some family sitcom. 

I’m on the floor…on my back…

It’s itchy, grimy, and—

My eyes squeeze shut, and I barely manage to hold back my flinch.

This can’t be happening. Not now. Not after all this time.

“You’re hurting me.”

Releasing Seth’s fingers like he burned me, I’m only vaguely aware of him letting go of the fence and bringing his hand to his chest, massaging his knuckles. 

“Sorry,” I mutter, lifting my hand to my face, ignoring the way it trembles as I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. 

My gut hollows as I almost expect to find them wet and sticky and smelling of metal. Relief is instant when all I catch is a whiff of sweat and dirt.

“Are you okay?” Seth’s question somehow pierces the roar in my ears, and the sights and sounds of the field surge forward, the present once more returning to me. Sharper than they probably should be. Almost painful in their intensity.

Knowing he’s watching me closely, too closely, I will the tension in my shoulders to unwind, and my pulse to slow down.

It’s been so long since I let myself think about that time in my life, much less the boy who hides in the deepest corners of my memories. The one who lurked around the edges of my sleep, in that space between consciousness and that black pit where dreams should be.

“Yeah,” I say quietly, pasting on a look of indifference as I drop my hand back at my side. This time, I don’t break my boyfriend’s gaze as I plaster on a small smile and say simply, “Headache. Sorry. Came out of nowhere.”

Seth’s brow pinches like he’s not quite sure he believes me. Thankfully, it’s right at the moment Coach blows his whistle and shouts for us to hit the lockers.

Forcing a swallow, I shrug and say, “Gotta go,” and make to pull back my other hand.

Seth grips my fingers through the gaps in the fence, tugging me before I can get too far. Already knowing what he wants, I step forward and meet his lips through a hole in the fence in a quick, chaste kiss.

“Have a good game,” he says softly, my weird behavior from only moments ago already forgotten, just like that.

Typical, I think with a quiet huff. Not that I’m complaining. It’s moments like these I’m reminded why I’ve put up with him for so long.

My gaze flicks between his eyes as I nod.

Stepping back, I chance one last look over his shoulder, this time in search of Quentin.

There.

Just past the apparel stand, under the flourishing canopy of a tree, he’s once more got his phone pressed to his ear. He’s nodding, his face pulled taut. Eyes locked in the direction of the bleachers.

“Thanks,” I murmur absently to my boyfriend, bracing myself for what I’ll find as I follow Quentin’s gaze.

Or rather…who.

My heart pounds. Lungs strain for air as I hold it.

Only it’s…Mr. Jennings. My freshmen history teacher.

An odd sight to see at a football game, sure—he made it no secret about his distaste for jocks when I had him. Pretty sure he’s never attended a game before today. But why he’d be the focus of Quentin’s attention…the source of what’s got him uncharacteristically agitated…

I frown, searching those around Jennings, taking in those who pass by. But other than a short woman with bright red hair standing at his side, there’s no one else of note lingering about.

“Vale?” Seth, still standing where I’d left him, follows my gaze. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” And with that, I turn away, thoughts churning with questions that will just have to wait to be answered until the end of the game.

Reaching for my helmet where it rolled across the grass, I shove it over my head, providing some much-needed cover from what feels like more than one set of eyes watching me.

Seth.

My teammates still lingering nearby.

Perhaps Quentin now too, at having finally sensed how on edge I am…and why.

And someone else’s…someone’s watchful, piercing stare I tell myself I’m just imagining. Just a phantom sensation creeping out from the past I’ve done everything I could to bury.

It’s not him. He’s not here. There’s just no possible way.

Without looking back, I turn away and start jogging after my teammates, the tunnel to the locker room looming ahead just as music starts blaring from the speakers overlooking the field. People cheer, knowing it’s nearly time.

I let it all wash over me. The sights, the sounds…

The orange evening sunlight bearing down on me.

The fresh scent of grass and dirt burning a pathway up my nose.

The pre-game jitters buzzing through my veins.

I let it consume me and eradicate everything else as my cleats eat up the distance, putting me further and further away from my past. From the sinking gut feeling that tells me everything’s about to change.

After what he did, what the cops walked into…

The mess he left, the way he was laughing.

And then everything else that came to light in the days and weeks and months to follow…

It has to be a mistake.

There’s no fucking way fate would dare put Aston St. James back in my path.

No fucking way.