“Because I think Simon’s going to have a challenging enough life without being entirely dependent on sign language. Especially ,” he emphasized, giving Simon a look, “when you can speak perfectly well.”

Now it was Simon’s turn to look shocked.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said their father, his voice just a touch softer. “You have my full attention now. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

They left Gabriel in an interrogation room.

A relief, really, since he’d gotten a glimpse of the holding cell, somewhere between fingerprinting and mug shots. Fifteen other guys, some sitting, some standing. Most were twice his size. One guy slumped against the back wall, and he’d puked on himself at some point. More than once, from the stains on his clothes. He was the only one who didn’t look up when Gabriel walked past.

The rest of them watched him. Especially a pale guy in his twenties with track marks down his forearms, who stared at Gabriel in a creepy, dreamy way.

Gabriel avoided eye contact with everyone.

He wished he could call Michael. He didn’t even know if his brothers knew what had happened.

And he thought he’d been alone before.

He’d been holding it together, though. He’d had a brief burst of panic in the school—which blew out the lights in the guidance office. Suddenly, he’d been on the ground, with a knee in his back.

They had pinned him there until Vickers started babbling about recent electrical problems.

And then they’d searched him.

The cops had found the lighter in his pocket—and another one buried in his book bag. Had Layne turned him in for what had happened at the barn?

It made him remember the way she’d looked at him in the classroom this morning, breathless and wide-eyed and barely able to speak. Or her scripty handwriting on that piece of notepaper, when he’d asked if she was afraid.

A little.

Like he could blame her.

Just now, he could relate.

The interrogation room was just like on TV shows, barely twelve feet square with a table and four chairs. White walls, steel door with a tiny window. He got to sit, but they left him cuffed. And they left him alone, with the assurance that someone would be in to talk to him in a minute.

It was a long minute.

His stomach assured him it had been many hours since he’d eaten, though really, Gabriel had no idea how much time had passed. His shoulders were starting to hurt from being cuffed so long, but he didn’t want to complain, because this was ten times better than that holding cell.

He wished he knew how long they could keep him here. Wasn’t there something about seventy-two hours? Or was that just on cop shows?