Michael clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. He was so cold, even though the inside of the detectives’ car was warm. They had the heater on high, at Dr. Dani’s request. Still, he shivered uncontrollably.

He stared out the window as the buildings went by. They were taking him to the police station. To question him. About Brewer’s murder.

Tell them the truth.

God, he wanted to. But his hands were shaking, too. He shoved them into the pockets of his jacket and closed his eyes, misery overwhelming him.

Misery and humiliation. And fear. They knew. The doctor had to have told them that his ass was bleeding. She was obligated. By law.

He hunched into himself, wishing he could just . . . die. It would be easier. So much easier. They were going to say he’d killed that bastard Brewer and they’d put Joshua in foster care somewhere. The doctor couldn’t keep him forever. She was only an emergency foster parent.

He jumped when Dr. Dani touched him, a brief graze of her fingertips over his cheek. He turned to look at her, focusing on her mismatched eyes. “What?” he voiced. He knew he sounded snarky and ungrateful.

She smiled at him. Sweetly. Not meanly. Not like his mother did. Dr. Dani’s smile made him want to believe her. He slowly drew his right hand from his pocket.

“Sorry,” he signed.

“It’s okay,” she signed back. Her mouth wasn’t moving at all. “I don’t want you to sign anything or say anything when we get there. There will be reporters outside the police station. Probably cameras. They’re not waiting for you specifically. They’re waiting for a statement from the cops on the body that was found this morning, but they may take pictures and video of you. You’re a minor, so they most likely won’t use the photos or your name, but you never can tell about the media these days. They’ll want to provoke us into saying something, especially when they see Deacon and Adam. Do not respond to them. Do not make eye contact. Don’t even sign to me. Nothing will be private until we get to an interview room. Got it?”

He nodded, huffing out a choked breath. Most likely? He could end up on TV and then everyone would know he’d been accused of murdering his piece-of-shit stepfather. But he’d worry about that later. For now, he was too terrified about being dragged off in handcuffs. “Are they going to put me in jail?”

“No. They don’t have any evidence. Right now they have your stepfather’s body, your mother’s accusation, and the gun you hid under your pillow.”

“How do you know?”

She tilted her head. “Did you do it?”

“No.” He snapped the sign.

“Did you ever fire that gun?”

“No.”