Chapter 46 Manipulated
In under five minutes, we were seated in his office.
The Sheriff was already rifling through files, paper whispering beneath his fingers while Oliver and I sat stiff-backed, waiting for the inevitable.
“You came to visit Marcus?” he asked without looking up. “Or you came concerning his issue?”
He caught us there.
“Both—” Oliver began.
“No.” I cut in quickly, sitting straighter, hands folded neatly in my lap like a student pretending innocence in front of a chalkboard. “Sheriff Fitzroy, we just came to pay him a visit.”
A lie, smooth and fast.
The Sheriff finally lifted his head. One slow blink. Then another. Measuring us like witnesses under interrogation lights.
He exhaled through his nose and dropped into his seat, hand pressing briefly to his chest like he physically felt the weight of disappointment.
“I know you came for answers,” he said, voice low. “But I hate to break it to you, Marcus won’t say a thing.” He tapped his sternum twice with the flat of his fingers. “I’ve tried.”
“He’ll speak to us,” I said confidently.
“Us?” Oliver repeated, leaning back, one brow raised, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “No, Sheriff. It’s her friend, not ours.”
His smile widened, enjoying the chaos.
I scoffed, crossing my arms tightly, head snapping to the side.
Sheriff Fitzroy rubbed his temple in slow circles, muttering under his breath, “I expected this from his parents… but I can’t reach them. Not once.”
He raised his face to us, pen pointed toward the air between us like a judge about to assign blame.
“Fine,” he relented, standing up. “You two can see him.” He aimed the pen at us again, more dramatic this time. “I hope this works.”
“Of course, Sheriff,” I said quickly, already halfway rising from my chair.
He nodded once. “Follow me.”
Marcus wasn’t in a prison cell. He was locked in a small interrogation room, a single guard stationed outside. The knife had been removed, but his uniform was smeared with dried blood stains, brownish-red, jagged, telling a story no one had spoken aloud yet.
We stood outside the glass, staring in.
“Which of you is going in?” Fitzroy asked.
“His friend,” Oliver said, smirking, already pointing at me.
“Both of us,” I said at the exact same time.
Our voices collided in the air.
The Sheriff glanced between us, head tilting slightly like even he couldn’t believe the synchronization of our dysfunction.
“You should go, Lexie,” he said calmly. “I doubt this young one here will get more than a glare.”
“Hey, don’t—” Oliver started.
I grabbed his wrist immediately, squeezing it once with a sharp, warning stare. Shut it.
“I’ll go in, Sheriff,” I said.
The guard opened the door.
Before stepping inside, I drew in a long breath, shoulders rising, chest tightening like a swimmer preparing to dive into water too deep.
The door slammed shut behind me.
The sound made Marcus lift his gaze.
His expression was unreadable, blank, hollow, pale-faced. His eyes looked like someone who had run out of sleep too many times and never caught it again.
I raised my right hand slowly. It trembled, faint, shy, betraying me.
“I— hi, Marcus,” I said, voice small, brittle.
A sudden knock on the glass.
Oliver, of course, taps his wrist right after. Time’s up. Hurry.
I rolled my eyes once and exhaled sharply. Relax, I just got in.
Marcus stared harder.
I stepped closer and took the seat opposite him. The table split us cleanly down the middle.
“You remember me, right?” I asked.
Silence.
“Lexie Lambert,” I pressed gently. “Student council candidate. Trial winner. The girl who stood under Mr. Roger’s stupid questions and somehow survived it.”
A slow smile pulled at his lips.
Not bright or warm.
Dark. Crooked. Wrong.
My breath hitched. I swallowed, my throat dry. “You remember me… right?”
“You won,” he finally said.
I nodded rapidly, too fast, too many times, like I was reassuring myself more than answering him.
Behind the glass, Fitzroy shot to his feet, relieved. “He spoke!” he said, fist bumping the air quietly, face glowing like someone who just unlocked a level in a game he’d been stuck on for weeks.
Oliver stayed exactly where he was, his face neutral, unbothered, observant. One slow shrug.
Inside the room, I leaned forward slightly.
“So… how are you?” I asked, deliberately avoiding the real question, buying time.
Marcus leaned forward too, hand splayed on the table.
“As you can see,” he said, eyes drifting briefly to his blood-marred sleeves, “I’m doing fine.”
Then he laughed, soft, mischievous, unsettling.
Why is he laughing like that? I thought.
“Okay…” I said, forcing steadiness into my tone. “Where were you, Marcus? All those times you disappeared?”
His smile dropped instantly.
His hand tightened around the table’s edge, veins rising under his pale skin like dark ink spreading beneath paper.
He stood abruptly and slammed both palms onto the desk.
The sound cracked through the room like a gavel.
I flinched, breath caught, but didn’t rise.
Marcus leaned forward, face inches from mine, his voice dropping into something cold and scraping.
“You want to know where I was?” he asked.
I swallowed hard again, eyes locked on his, pulse hammering against my ribs like a countdown clock.
He tilted his head slightly, an eerie smile fading into shadow.
“I was with—” he began.
Behind the glass, Oliver jerked toward the door.
“We need to get her out,” he snapped.
Sheriff Fitzroy caught his arm firmly, voice low and controlled. “Not yet. He might be giving her something important.”
Oliver yanked his hand free, pacing once, twice, foot tapping nervously. “That psycho could hurt her!”
“He won’t,” Fitzroy said, eyes fixed on the room. “Not while we’re watching.”
Oliver stopped pacing but stayed tense, jaw tight, one foot tapping the ground rapidly like he was ready to sprint through the glass himself if needed.
Inside the room, Marcus’ voice dropped further, softer, but sharper.
“You want to know where I was?” he repeated, quieter now, as if the room itself was leaning in to listen.
“I was with—”
“Marcus!”