The siren's scream ripped through the evening quiet, gutting the neighborhood at ten past five. Every window became a pair of eyes, watching as police lights strobed across Michael K. Easterwood's face, dragging the seventeen-year-old from his home.

  His eyes widened at the chaos that used to be a decent garage. Polished floors, usually gleaming like a second living room, now trampled by frantic policemen. His mother's desperate pleas echoed against the metallic clang of opening toolboxes. His father watched quietly in the corner.

  A fat, old cop stared him down as another slammed him against the squad car, twisting his arms back. Cuffs clicked tight around his wrists. "Michael K. Easterwood, you're under arrest for trafficking illegal substances, aggravated assault on Cyrus Leonardo, second-degree murder, and sexual assault on Jennifer Morris."

  Michael snorted a laugh. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in court," the officer continued, his flat voice was devoid of emotions.

  "I didn't do any of that," Michael bit back, his gaze snapping back to the garage. "Cyrus and I had a fight, and Jennifer's my girlfriend." But his defiance withered as his eyes landed on that one officer, standing too close to the third tile from the left and peering down at the slight bump. The boy's heart hammered, drumming against his ribs. The stash was hidden right underneath the officer's feet. Michael had pulled the tile up earlier, expecting his friends at five. Ten minutes later, only the cops had shown. None of them called to say they weren’t coming. Weird, he thought. He took a deep breath in, a desperate try to stay composed in this chaos.

  The interrogation was a blur of repetitive questions and his own unwavering wall of silence. "I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't do any of that." His gaze met theirs, intense and unyielding. They couldn't break him. After an agonizing hour, they let him go. False allegations, they said. The anonymous tip didn’t hold up. Yet.

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  He hit the bus, straight to Jennifer's hospital room. Despite the baseball bat incident, the one that ended her pregnancy and left her battered, she sat up abruptly when he walked in. Her face eased. "Michael, you're safe! The police were here this morning, asking about you. What happened?"

  He rushed to kiss her possessively. "You saved my ass." He gripped her face, searching her pale blue eyes. "You didn't tell them I beat you."

  That cold sentence stung the young cheerleader. She shoved his hands away. "Making me pregnant then beat me with your baseball bat to kill the baby. Such an asshole!"

  Perching on the edge of her bed, Michael broke eye contact, staring at the wall like the answer might be carved into it. "I know I'm an asshole, but it was the only way to get rid of the baby. You know I'm not cut out to be a father."

  A frown creased her forehead.

  He leant forward, his voice a low hum. "Think about your parents. How angry they’ll be when they find out you’re pregnant. Also, pregnancy will make you fat and ugly, you’ll no longer be the cheer captain."

  The frown softened. Her gaze drifted to the pristine white sheets and the fading bruises on her forearms. She sighed. Maybe he was right after all.

  He reached out for her hand, his tone turning serious, “What did you tell the police about me?”

  "Nothing. I told them I fell down the stairs and lost the baby. That you didn't do anything."

  His grip around her hand tightened. "Did they say who reported me?"

  She shook her head. "Maybe... one of your friends."

  A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Michael. "Bullshit. None of my boys would rat me out." But the lie felt thin, brittle under her stare. The thought of a friend turning him in was a knot in his gut.

  "This isn't the first time, Mike," she said, her voice quiet but firm. Her other hand landed over the trembling one she was holding. "You're constantly getting called to the principal's office and searched. If it's not your friends, then you better start looking over your shoulder."

  Michael tried to ignore the growing suspicion, the cold certainty that someone close was selling him out. But it wouldn't be ignored. Not for long.