“But her sending us to the police isn’t,” Jasper says. “Is it?”
I don’t answer. Because he’s right, of course. Something has gotten worse, bad enough that Cassie doesn’t even care about a criminal record. If that’s even why she said no to the police in the first place.
We’re coming, Cassie, I write back. Just hold on.
I hit send quickly before the signal is lost again to the wilderness, then look down at the little number 4 next to my voice mails, all my dad. But I can’t bear to hear the sound of his voice. Especially because I’m betting he didn’t call to apologize. At least all the calls are from our home number, which means he hasn’t come looking for me yet. And his last text came after the calls anyway. That’s the very last thing he had to say to me, the only thing I need to read, just in case.
Ironically, it’s from his cell number and not Dad in my contacts, probably the spotty cell signal. Or like after threatening to have me committed, even my cell phone has turned its back on him. I take a deep breath as I tap open the message.
The police are out looking for you. Dr. Shepard called them. You left us no choice. They will commit you when they find you. After what happened in the diner, I won’t be able to stop them. Unless I can get to you first. Tell me where you are, Wylie. And I’ll come. We can figure a way out of this together.
Jasper asks me twice on the way to Seneca whether everything is okay. But I’m too ashamed to get into details. To tell him that my dad thinks I should be committed. Though he does have a right to know that somehow my dad already knows about what happened in the diner, which means they’ve identified me. Maybe identified Jasper, too. We could already be fugitives.
“It’s just my dad being my dad,” I say, and I silently promise to tell Jasper the rest before we get to the police station. “He’s still being a jerk about me leaving.”
“You can vent about it if you want. I know about shitty parents, believe me.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But I’d rather just pretend it didn’t happen.”
Jasper nods, looks kind of sad. “I get that, too.”
When Jasper and I finally pull into Seneca, it’s picture-perfect quaint. All the buildings in the little downtown are white with matching green shutters, set out just so around a small town square. There’s even a neatly trimmed lawn with a white pagoda in the middle, for concerts, maybe. There’s a darkened church with a spiky steeple, too, and a row of shops with their names etched in matching arcs on their front windows. It’s past eleven p.m. now, so everything’s closed, except for a bar attached to the Fiddler’s Inn. A small wooden sign hanging out front says The Pub. The only other place lit up is part of what looks like it could be the city hall or something. It’s the largest building around, marked off by three flags out front: US, State of Maine, and a third, which might just be about bears.
“Maybe that’s the police station,” I say, pointing.
I am relieved that we might be getting Cassie real help soon. But it’s a risk for me to go inside. After all, I am the crazy girl who stabbed a man in a diner bathroom. The girl whose therapist has already reported her as a danger to herself or others.
“What are we going to tell them?” Jasper asks as he pulls into a parking spot alongside the square, a little distance from the station. Like he’s still thinking we can guard Cassie’s secrets somehow.
“Everything,” I say. But I can’t not warn Jasper about the rest because I’m ashamed. Not when it could affect him, too. “But there is something else. They already know about the diner. The knife. Doug.”
“Who knows?” Jasper asks. “How?”
“I’m not sure, but my dad mentioned it in his text. I guess the police must have made the connection. He sent them out looking for me because I’m ‘unstable.’” And maybe I can just leave it at that. “Anyway, you might get caught up in this—my—you might not want to come in. Just in case these police know about it too. I could tell them about Cassie on my own if you want.”
“Unstable?” Jasper looks totally confused. Almost offended, as he turns off the car. “Yeah, I’ll take my chances. You weren’t in that diner alone.”
The police station is brightly lit, but so small—just six metal desks in a single open room. There are three men sitting there, playing cards, when we walk in. Two look on the younger side, maybe late twenties. One is older than my dad, fifties maybe. They turn in our direction when we walk in, not startled or surprised. But also not particularly interested even though you’d think they would be—two teenage kids, walking in at eleven at night.
“We help you?” the older one calls, though he makes no move to get up from his card game. He has salt-and-pepper hair and looks puffy, like a football player whose muscles have gone soft. He makes a big show of squinting up at the clock on the wall. “You lost?”