Blend

39:00 | how did i get here

I WASN'T supposed to be at that party. Abby didn't want me to go, afraid I'd cheat.

I let that run in my mind a second. Curl my fingers so deep into the lines of each palm, it stings.

If this were a normal Sunday morning, I'd be meeting up with Owen so we could run a quick drill before he went to Mass. Then I'd probably hit the gym across my dorm to beat my reps from last week. Abby would be texting by then, wondering when I could pick her up from her dad's in Tucson. And I'd drive two whole hours, there and back, because that's the kind of fool I am for that girl.

"Hm," my attorney grunts, flipping another page to a shit-ton of police paperwork.

It took two hours with Detective Racist and Detective Sleepy Head before I finally got wise enough to shut the hell up. Told them I wouldn't say another word without a lawyer present. I keep beating myself up for talking to them as much as I did. But it's not like I ever prepared for something like this. You think you know what you'd do in a situation until you're actually living it. And these detectives knew exactly what to say to get me talking—to make me feel like I had to defend myself.

I flick my eyes from the stacks of paper to my attorney and try not to yawn for the millionth time. My eyes are so heavy. I maybe got an hour of sleep thanks to a dark spiral of anxiety while in the cold holding cell. Chris Decker arrived at the 4th Avenue Jail thirty minutes ago, courtesy of Mom. Well, actually, courtesy of my uncle. Mom didn't really know who to contact for something like this, but good ol' Uncle Joe came through. Like he always does for us.

"Oh, okay," Chris Decker mumbles, flipping another page. "I see."

I sit up with a cough. "What?"

Chris, a forty-something defense attorney with a balding hairline and thick glasses, finally sets the paperwork down. He removes his frames and wipes them with the tail end of his ASU tie, the famous pitchfork at its center.

When he first got here, he couldn't stop praising my talent. Said he was a big fan and had been tracking my three-pointers each game. Said he was betting I'd be the next Devin Booker. Thought I looked just like him, too. (I don't, but like Dad used to say, that's how a lot of white people are, especially Mom's family. They see one and they've seen us all.)

Guess none of that matters now.

"Well, Ace, I'm going to give it to you straight. The case they're building against you is not good."

I swallow. "How? It's not even been a day."

"They've got a witness saying she saw you last in the bathroom."

"Who, Melanie? Everyone knows she's always on Adderall. Plus, she's never liked me."

"Yes, which you told Detective Crawley. The problem with that is it's hearsay. And inadmissible in court."

I groan.

"Since we're on the topic of substance abuse, you should know you're also being charged with underage drinking. You had 0.08% alcohol in your system."

"What about everyone else?"

"No one else is on a full-ride basketball scholarship. It looks bad."

I slouch. "Fine, I'll accept that. But the rest is bogus."

"Was getting caught smoking weed at school bogus, too? Records indicate you were suspended three times that year. Defiance against teachers, destruction of school property, drugs..."

"Seriously, bro? I was like twelve, hanging with a stupid crowd. Mom sent me to live with Uncle Joe for a minute and I straightened out. That's when I really got into basketball. Turned everything around."

"Just giving you a little taste of what the prosecution might say at the preliminary hearing." Chris shakes his head, flipping another page. "And then we have the issue of the semen found in a wastebasket next to the body."

Rolling my eyes, I scoff.

"You really shouldn't have admitted it was yours," he continues.

Heat rises to my neck. I rock forward in my chair. "So I should've lied?" The anger on my tongue has more to do with shame than actual anger. I hate feeling dumb. About as much as I hate how that detective had me sobbing about every goddamn sin I'd committed since childhood.

Chris keeps a calm composure. "No. You should've stayed quiet. If by some miracle the DNA results come back inconclusive, they wouldn't be able to use your own words against you."

"Shit. Is this really happening?" I run my fingers over the inch-thick curls on my head. "How did I get here? I went from stressing over NBA drafts to worrying about the death penalty."

"I will do everything in my power to prevent that from happening, but in the spirit of keeping honest, a plea bargain may not be so bad. Let's keep all your options on the table."

I snap my head up, eyes rounding. "Did my mom say when she can make it to Phoenix?" My voice cracks with, "Or Uncle Joe?"

Chris shrugs, taking a sip of his soda. "Since you're nineteen, they can't see you yet. I don't think they're coming." He must see the disappointment in my eyes, because he softly adds, "Hey, but you have me, right? I may not be a cool, rugged farmer like Uncle Joe, but I promised him I'd take good care of you."

I give a half-hearted smile.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Your other uncle—Maurio Jones? He's been texting me nonstop about you. Even stopped by the visitation center with two of your cousins, demanding to see you."

I perk up in my seat. That's Dad's side of the family. I haven't seen them in years but ever since they learned I moved to Phoenix last fall to attend ASU, they've been trying to get me to come over for kickbacks and stuff. Of course, with my insane school and basketball schedule, I keep turning them down. Cheap excuses, I know.

I feel bad now.

"Tell them I'm appreciative."

Chris nods. "Hopefully you can tell them yourself if I can get you out on bail."

"My mom doesn't have the money for bail. I already know." That's why Uncle Joe is on the verge of being done with her. She always needs money. Never has her life in order.

"Well, one step at a time."

"I can't go to prison for the rest of my life, Chris. Especially for a girl I hardly knew!"

"And that's the third problem. The final nail in the coffin. Motive." Chris glances down at his paperwork, shaking his head as he reads another report. "According to this witness, you did know Penelope Adams. She tutored you on an English paper last spring."