The paper ball bounces off the other officer’s head. But he easily catches it in midair and tosses it into the garbage can at his feet. Like it’s something he’s done, and that’s been done to him, a thousand times before.
The sergeant exhales, loud and annoyed. “You got to excuse Officer O’Connell. He’s, well, him.” He shakes his head, like that’s all the explanation we should need. “But he’s not making up the bit about the fork. You may not want to hear this, but if your friend is here, meth is almost surely the reason. Doesn’t even mean she’s not a nice kid. That garbage has ruined a lot of decent folks.”
Meth. This time the word sinks into me. I knew about the drinking, and Cassie being arrested for buying pot isn’t even that much of a shocker. But meth? It’s like comparing a fender bender to an eighteen-car pileup. But it also doesn’t feel totally impossible either. Not nearly as impossible as I wish it did. It would definitely explain her not wanting to tell us what was going on. Would explain someone like Doug wanting to keep us away from whatever crack den they have her in. And meth sure would have kept Cassie skinny.
“It could be meth, I guess,” I say quietly.
“What?” Jasper whips in my direction, eyes wide. “Cassie doesn’t do meth. What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m not saying that is what’s going on. But I can’t swear it’s not. Can you?”
And in that moment, all I want is for Jasper to say that he does know for sure it’s not meth. That he has proof. But instead, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, rests a fist down on the counter.
“I can’t say anything for sure anymore,” he says quietly.
I look back to the sergeant. The other younger police officer—the one the weasel beaned in the head—has finally gotten up and is making his way over. He’s surprisingly good-looking, with thick black hair and deep-set brown eyes. But there’s something a little wounded about him. Strange for someone so good-looking and tall. Weird for a policeman.
“This is Officer Kendall,” the sergeant says. “He spends a lot of his time cleaning out the users, combing through the mess they leave behind.” It’s kind of insulting the way the sergeant says it, like Officer Kendall is literally on garbage duty. “Your friend say where she was? There’s spots we can check, but there’s a lot of them. It would save time to have a place to start.”
“Camp Colestah?” I say.
The sergeant glances over at Officer Kendall, who still has not spoken. The two nod knowingly to each other. “Colestah’s a popular spot,” the sergeant goes on. “Shelter, privacy—what more could a junkie want? They are like rats. We chase ’em off and they keep coming back and coming back. But you and O’Connell did a pass-through earlier today, didn’t you? It was clear?”
Officer Kendall frowns and nods, glances back the way O’Connell has gone. Yeah, but with him, who knows, the look says.
“Might be worth a second look,” the sergeant goes on. “Most of the other camps are pretty well secured. They learned fast, hired people to live on site in the off-season. Caretaker kind of thing. But the Wynns, who own Camp Colestah, have been gone so long—I warned their lawyer the place will be destroyed soon. They’ll never sell it.” The sergeant checks his watch. “I’ve got to head out. But Officer Kendall here will take another ride up there, check for your friend.”
But there is still something off about the way he says it to Officer Kendall. Like there’s a you know what to do under his actual words. Rats or not, why are the meth addicts so sure that Seneca is such a safe place to set up shop? Is somebody—like maybe the meth dealers—paying the police to look the other way?
I watch Officer Kendall head back to his desk for his keys. And I’m already thinking about how I’m going to feel afterward, once he reports back that there’s nothing up at Camp Colestah. I’m not going to believe he even looked. I don’t trust these police officers, period.
“We want to come look for her,” I say, my heart racing.
But the sergeant is already shaking his head. “There’s no way in hell that—”
“Please.” I sound desperate and a little crazy, but what does it matter? “We won’t get in the way. We’ll do whatever you say and—”
“Absolutely no way, nohow.” The sergeant eyes me firmly. “Listen, you seem like decent enough kids. I can see you’re real worried about your friend, but we can’t take civilians out into the field. Much less a couple kids.”
He has common sense on his side. The police don’t usually let regular people tag along. Even I know that much. I’m going to need a better argument.
“If there are a bunch of people there, how will you know if she’s one of them?”
The sergeant’s jaw tightens. He’s pissed, maybe because he doesn’t have an easy answer for that. Makes me wonder even more whether it’s that he doesn’t think Cassie’s up there or is just invested in not finding out.
“You got a picture of her on your phone?”