Chapter 92: Luke

Luke

⛸️

The silence stretches between us, thick and dangerous. I see the calculation in her eyes, weighing her options. I know I have to move first.

I make a break for it, trying to shoulder past her toward the bedroom to grab my phone, my keys—anything.

Pain explodes in my side.

Sharp and white-hot.

"What the fuck?" I gasp, clutching my side. My other hand hits the wall for support as I stumble. Blood seeps through my fingers, warm and terrifying.

"I wish you didn't make me do that," she says, voice cold as the blade in her hand.

Rage floods through me, hot and blinding. I lunge for the knife, but she's faster, slicing my arm as I pull back. The cut is deep, but the adrenaline keeps me from feeling it fully.

I bolt for the stairs, taking them two at a time despite the searing pain in my side. Each step sends jolts of agony through my body.

She follows right behind me, her footsteps unnervingly steady.

I misstep on the last stair, my body giving out from the pain and blood loss. I crash to the floor, the impact knocking the wind out of me.

Before I can move, she's on me, straddling my chest, the knife pressed against my throat.

"I didn't lie about loving you," she says, leaning close, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But I did lie about everything else."

She studies my face like she's memorizing it.

"What a waste of talent and a pretty face," she continues. "But I'm not having you ruin my life, Luke. I'll just replace you with another boy at a different school in a different state."

My blood runs cold at her words.

"But first," she says, raising the knife, "I'll have to kill you. Like I did all those other boys when they tried to escape."

Before she can strike, we hear it—loud banging on the front door.

"POLICE! OPEN UP!"

Bev freezes for a split second, just long enough.

The door bursts open, wood splintering.

Cops pour in with guns drawn, followed by Mercedes, Mitch, and Brianna.

"FREEZE! DROP THE WEAPON!"

Bev is ripped off me, cheek pressed to the floor before she can fully process what's happening.

I lie there on the floor, bleeding but alive, as reality crashes down around me.

All those other boys.

She killed them.

And I would have been next.

The paramedics work quickly on the floor where I fell, their movements efficient and practiced. One of them presses gauze against my side while another cleans the slice on my arm. The stinging is sharp, real, but somehow distant—like it's happening to someone else.

"You're lucky," one of them says as he tapes a bandage over my stitches. "Another inch to the side and this could have been much worse."

I don't feel lucky.

I don't feel anything at all.

Mercedes hovers nearby, her face pale but determined. Mitch and Brianna stand by the doorway, silent witnesses to the aftermath. When the paramedics finish, they help me to my feet, their hands steady on my arms.

"You should go to the hospital for observation," one of them says.

"I'm fine," I hear myself say. The words sound foreign, detached.

After some debate, they agree to let me sign a refusal form, and one of the officers helps me outside. The night air hits my skin, cool against the places where blood still seeps through the fresh bandages.

I don't move.

I don't think I can.

My feet are on the porch steps—somebody's porch steps, Beverly's porch steps—but it feels like I'm not actually standing on anything. Like the ground gave up holding me a while ago and nobody bothered to tell me.

Her wrists are in cuffs.

Metal. Cold. Real.

It doesn't match her.

That's the first thought my brain manages to produce, like it's still trying to protect me from whatever this is.

"Luke," she says, voice shaking but still soft in that practiced way she always had. Always calm. Always controlled. Always like she knew exactly how to place her words so they landed right where they were supposed to.

"I will always love you."

She says it like it's normal.

Like this is just another day.

Like I'm not standing here watching her get escorted into a cruiser like a criminal.

Like my stomach isn't hollowing itself out in real time.

One of the officers opens the door.

The car is parked at the curb. Black paint. Flashing lights. Too bright for a quiet neighborhood like this. Everything feels too bright lately.

She pauses at the door, turning her head back toward me.

"I love you, Luke," she repeats, softer this time. Almost pleading. "You know that, right?"

And something in my chest shifts—like a latch trying to open and failing.

I don't answer.

I can't tell what answer she wants.

I can't tell what answer is real.

Then she gets in.

The officer's voice fills the small space between them, calm but firm as he reads her her Miranda rights. He doesn't rush it—every word deliberate, practiced, like he's said it a thousand times before. Her rights hang in the air heavier than the silence that follows.

The door shuts.

That sound—click—shouldn't be that loud.

But it is.

It echoes through me like a gunshot that doesn't end.

The cruiser pulls away slowly, tires crunching gravel, like the world is giving me time to process it.

I don't.

I just... stand there.

Frozen.

My hands are still at my sides, but I can't feel them. I can't feel anything except this pressure behind my eyes that won't turn into tears and won't turn into words and won't turn into anything useful.

Just pressure.

Behind me, I hear footsteps.

Someone speaking. Low voices. Calm tones. The kind adults use when they think they're helping you.

A cop stops beside me.

"You okay, kid?"

Kid.

The word hits wrong. Like it doesn't belong to me anymore.

I blink once.

Nothing changes.

"I—" My voice starts and immediately fails me. I clear my throat like that fixes it. It doesn't. "Yeah."

It's a lie.

It's also the only thing I have.

Another voice—closer now.

"Luke."

Mercedes.

I turn before I even think about it.

She's running toward me.

Black hair messy, face wrecked, eyes already full of tears like she's been holding them back for hours and finally lost the fight. She hits me hard—arms around my torso, face pressed into my chest like she's trying to hold me together by force.

She's crying.

Saying my name again and again like it's the only thing keeping her upright.

But I don't move.

I don't hug her back.

I don't even lift my arms.

I just stand there.

Like I'm still waiting for someone to tell me what part of this is real.

Her tears soak through my shirt and I register it distantly, like it's happening to somebody else's body. Somebody else's life. Somebody else's mess.

A cop says something about paperwork.

Another says something about support resources.

Words float around me like they're underwater.

Mercedes pulls back slightly, looking up at me like she's searching for something I'm supposed to give her.

"Luke..." her voice breaks. "It's over. It's done. I knew I did the right thing and trusted my gut. She can't—she can't hurt you anymore."

Hurt me?

My brain catches on that word.

Hurt.

I try to find where that started.

I try to trace it back like game film, like I always do when something goes wrong on ice.

But there's nothing clean to rewind.

Just fragments.

Practice.

Her voice correcting me.

Her standing too close.

Her telling me I'm "different" from the other guys.

Her saying I "understand her in a way adults don't."

Her making everything feel like I was chosen.

My stomach turns.

My chest tightens.

Not with sadness.

Not exactly.

More like something collapsing inward.

Like a building realizing it was never stable to begin with.

"I didn't—" I start again, but I stop.

Because I don't know what I didn't.

Because the truth feels too big to hold all at once.

Mercedes grips my shirt tighter like she's afraid I'll disappear.

And I still don't move.

I stare past her shoulder.

At the empty driveway.

At the space where the cruiser was.

At the world that just kept going like nothing happened.

And for the first time, I understand something I don't want to understand.

Not in words.

Not in clarity.

Just in the way my body goes cold and my thoughts go quiet and everything I thought I knew about last year starts to feel like it was never mine to begin with.

Behind me, someone says my name again.

But I don't answer.

Because I don't know who they're talking to anymore.

Officer Bailey steps into my line of sight like she's been there the whole time and I just didn't register it.

She's not rushing. Not harsh. Just... steady.

Like she already knows I'm not going to fall apart in a way anyone can fix quickly.

"Luke?" she says gently.

I blink at her.

My brain feels like static. Like a TV left on after the channel's gone.

She gestures slightly toward Mercedes, then lowers her voice. "Can I speak with him for a minute alone?"

Mercedes stiffens immediately. "I'm not— I'm not leaving him."

"I understand," Officer Bailey says, still calm. "Just a minute. I promise."

Mercedes looks at me like she's asking permission without saying it.

I don't know what to do with that.

So I just... nod.

Barely.

Mercedes hesitates, then slowly steps away across the lawn. Not far. Just enough that I can still see her pacing, arms wrapped around herself like she's holding her own pieces together.

Officer Bailey watches her go, then turns back to me.

Up close, I notice things I didn't before. The way her expression isn't judgmental. Just careful. Like she's trying not to scare something already injured.

"Luke," she says, softer now, "we're going to need you to come down to the station."

My throat tightens instantly.

Station.

Questioning.

Trouble.

My brain fills in the blanks before she can even finish.

"I didn't do anything," I say quickly. Too quickly.

"I know," she replies immediately.

That stops me.

She nods once, like she expected that reaction. "You're not in trouble."

I stare at her.

My thoughts don't connect properly. It's like they're bouncing off each other instead of forming a line.

"You're going to give a statement," she continues. "Your side of what happened. Anything you remember. Anything that stood out to you. That's all."

My mouth goes dry.

"My side," I repeat quietly, like I'm trying the words on and they don't fit right.

"Yes," she says. "And I want to be clear with you—Luke—you are not the one being investigated."

That should make me feel something.

Relief. Maybe.

Instead I just feel... empty.

Like my body forgot how to respond.

She studies me for a second, then her tone shifts slightly. More careful.

"Beverly Colette has a documented history," she says. "Not just here. Other schools. Other programs."

My stomach drops, but even that feels distant.

"Patterns of using fake names and manipulation tactics," she continues. "Targeting underaged student hockey athletes. Building trust in a way that crosses professional boundaries. What she did to you fits a very specific pattern we've seen before."

The word pattern sticks in my head.

Like I'm not a person in it.

Like I'm just... a point on a chart.

"I don't—" I start, then stop again.

Because I don't know what I'm trying to say.

Because I keep seeing her face on the porch.

"I love you, Luke."

Sweet.

Soft.

Familiar.

Officer Bailey's voice pulls me back. "Luke, what happened to you is called grooming. It means an adult used their position of authority to manipulate trust over time. It doesn't always feel obvious when you're in it."

My chest tightens hard at that.

Manipulate.

Authority.

Grooming.

Those words don't match anything I lived through.

Because Beverly was kind.

She was patient.

She was the only one who didn't treat me like I was a problem to manage or a stat line to fix or a disappointment waiting to happen.

She got me.

That's what it felt like.

Didn't it?

I swallow.

My head shakes slightly before I even realize I'm doing it.

"No," I say quietly. "She... she loved me."

Officer Bailey doesn't flinch.

She just nods like she's heard that exact sentence before.

"I believe you think that," she says. "A lot of people do at first. That's part of how it works."

My fingers curl slightly at my sides.

Like I'm trying to hold onto something solid.

But everything feels like it's slipping.

She takes a slow breath. "We're going to connect you with support resources. Counselors who specialize in this. You don't have to figure it out alone."

Counselors.

Support.

Victim.

That word lands last.

And doesn't move.

I don't feel like a victim.

I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a story someone else wrote about me.

Officer Bailey glances over my shoulder briefly. Mercedes is still there, watching us like she's waiting for something to break again.

"You're seventeen," she adds gently. "So a parent will need to accompany you to the station."

That finally cuts through.

My mom.

The idea of her flashes in my head—confused, worried, already halfway into panic.

I nod again.

It's automatic this time. Easier than thinking.

"That's fine," I say.

Officer Bailey softens slightly, like that answer makes things easier for her too. "Okay."

She gestures toward Mercedes. "We'll head out shortly."

I turn my head slowly.

Mercedes rushes back the moment she sees the signal, grabbing my hand this time like she's afraid I'll disappear if she doesn't anchor me.

Her grip is tight. Real.

I don't pull away.

But I still don't fully move toward her either.

It's like my body is delayed.

Like I'm watching myself from a few inches behind my own eyes.

Officer Bailey walks with us toward the sidewalk, giving instructions I only half-hear.

Station. Statement. Parent present. Resources.

Everything organized.

Everything too normal for what just happened.

As we leave Beverly's lawn behind, I catch one last glimpse of the house.

It looks the same.

Too normal.

Too quiet.

Like nothing inside it ever rearranged my entire life without me noticing.

And I think—distantly, vaguely—that I should feel something bigger right now.

Anger.

Shock.

Grief.

Something sharp enough to prove I understand what's happening.

But all I feel is this strange, suspended silence.

Like I'm still waiting for someone to explain the rules of a game I've already been playing for a year.

And nobody does.