Fathom L. Standage (books for 8th graders .TXT) 📖

“Should we answer it?”

The doorknob wobbled. I froze, staring at it with alarm. Slowly, I backed away and bumped into Sam.

“They’re trying to get in,” I said.

“What are we going to do?”

“Call the police?”

“They are the police,” she hissed.

“Well, they can’t just break into the house. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

But as I said the words, the knock turned into a pound.

“Police,” said a voice. “Open up.”

We scrambled to the nearest escape: the staircase leading up to my aunt’s bedroom. I shut and locked the bedroom door behind us. The hammering downstairs continued. Samantha and I huddled on the other side of the bedroom door. Bang. Bang. Crash! The front door opened below. Voices and footsteps entered the house. I closed my eyes and held my breath to keep from screaming.

“SDPD. We know you’re here. We know you’ve got her.” A deep voice called from downstairs. Had I heard that voice before?

“Got who?” Sam whispered.

The voice continued. “Come out now with your hands where we can see them, and we won’t have to use physical force.” Why did he sound so familiar?

Banging continued downstairs—doors opening and furniture shoved aside.

“What do we do?” I whispered.

“I don’t know! Why are they doing this?”

I covered my face. It couldn’t be because of the men at Point Loma. There was no way they’d know who I was or where I lived. It wasn’t my fault. Was it? Whether or not it was, we couldn’t just sit here.

“Let’s get out,” I said. “Through the window.” We got up just as footsteps sounded on the staircase. The doorknob rattled. Ice engulfed my stomach as we lunged for the window.

“In here!” The voice on the other side shouted. More footsteps came up the stairs. I fumbled for the lock on the window while Sam whimpered in fright. Just as I slid the window open, the door’s lock broke. I turned to see the shining barrel of a gun aimed at my face.

“You,” the man said, pointing at me. A jolt of horrible recognition shot through me; he was the same man who had been chasing us that morning. His shoulder-length hair hung like a stringy curtain around his face. Frozen, I stared at the gun. The hand that held it was missing a pinky. A shiny, healing patch of red skin covered its stub. “Come away from the window. Now.”

We couldn’t argue with a weapon. Shaking all over, I edged away from the window. The gunman escorted us downstairs where two other men waited amid the ruins of the doorjamb.

“Olivia, is it?” asked the guy in the polo. His police badge gleamed at his hip. He chuckled. “The little marine biologist. Clever.”

I finally realized where I’d heard his voice before. I’d have recognized it sooner if he’d been wearing a Padres sweatshirt instead of a polo. The tide pools. Cold remorse joined my fear. He was a cop! If only I hadn’t been so stupid. Why did I have to go to the tide pools at midnight? He pulled out a pair of clanking hand cuffs. “We’re going to have to take you in.”

“What? Why?” I shrieked as he grabbed my hands.

“She didn’t do anything!” Samantha shouted. “You can’t just break into our house like this!”

Blood pounded in my head. The polo shirt man pulled my hands behind me and slapped the cuffs on. I winced at the sting.

“I’m afraid I can, young lady,” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “We have a warrant.” After briefly brandishing the document, he put it back into his pocket.

“For what?” I asked. The guy stopped for a second, looked at Sam, then back at me.

“Well, trespassing, for one.”

“But—”

“And murder.”

“What?!” Trespassing, yeah, I get that one. But murder?

“Murder?” shouted Sam. “You’ve got to be kidding me! What’s he talking about, Olivia?”

I took a deep breath as the man pulled me toward the door. I wanted to explain, but he pulled me away from Samantha and out the front door.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” I cried.

“Let her go, she didn’t do anything!” Samantha bawled as she followed us outside, where a shining black Crown Victoria waited.

“Do you know that for sure?” said the polo shirt guy. “Do you know who she is? Who she really is?”

“I’ve known her my entire life, you creepy son-of-a—”

“That’s enough,” said Polo Shirt. “Either shut up, or I’ll call in the unit down the street to bring you in too.”

I wanted to tell her it would be okay. That there had just been a mistake. But all that came out was a ragged sob. Polo Shirt opened the back door and shoved my head down. I fell onto the seat. My shoulders twinged as I tried to maneuver myself to a sitting position with my arms cuffed.

I felt small and vulnerable as the other men climbed in, the one without a pinky shouldering me aside, squashing me into the middle. I looked out the dark tinted window as Samantha continued shouting after me.

What was I going to do?

We pulled away from the neighborhood and headed south on the highway toward downtown San Diego. The three men remained silent, making the car too quiet. Shouldn’t there be some kind of radio going off, even in an undercover vehicle? And didn’t all cop cars have some kind of plastic cage between the front and back seat? And shouldn’t they be reading me my rights? I wasn’t a genius on law enforcement, but I did know suspects had the right to remain silent. I shivered again. I was a suspect. In a murder! How was this happening? I had a million alibis; there was no way I was going to prison. I gulped. Was there?

“How long have you been here, Olivia?” Polo Shirt asked from the driver’s seat. His eyes watched me from the rearview mirror.

“I th-think I have the right to r-remain silent,” I said. He laughed, but it sounded wrong.

“Just tell me how long you’ve been