Get Dirty (Don’t Get Mad Book 2)
Get Dirty: Chapter 11

BREE SLOUCHED ON THE SOFA IN THE MEDIA ROOM, ABSENTLY clicking through stations. Why was morning television so terrible? Her choices seemed to be news, sports news, talk shows, soap operas, or guessing whose Showcase Showdown estimate came closest without going over. She switched the television off and flopped onto her stomach. House arrest was even more boring than juvie.

The doorbell rang, its harsh electronic peal so jarring that Bree practically fell off the sofa. She pushed herself up on her elbows and glanced at the grandfather clock. Nine o’clock in the morning? Who could possibly be coming to see her mom at that hour?

Bree waited several seconds to see if Olaf the Gorilla would open the door, but apparently it was too early for him as well. The doorbell rang again, and Bree reluctantly rolled off the sofa and shuffled down the hall.

She opened the door, but instead of the Avon lady or a Jesus pamphlet, she was greeted by Sergeant Callahan.

“Good morning,” he said with a nod.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s good to see you too, Bree.”

“No visitors!” Olaf’s booming voice filled the foyer. Bree turned and saw the blond god leaning over the banister, wrapped in one of her mom’s silk kimonos. “Olaf has orders.”

“Good morning,” Sergeant Callahan said, shouldering his way past Bree into the house. “Is Mrs. Deringer available?”

“Mrs. Deringer not up yet,” Olaf said. He gripped the belt of his undersized kimono, as if trying to make sure it didn’t fall off. Yeah, that was the last thing Bree needed to see.

“Can you let her know that Sergeant Callahan is here to interview Bree?”

“Again?” Bree said.

Sergeant Callahan ignored her. “And that I’ll need her to be present.”

Olaf grunted, which Bree assumed was some kind of affirmation, and lumbered down the hall.

Bree stood with her hand on the open door, a clear signal that she planned to be as uncooperative as possible.

“You can close the door, Bree,” he said with a tight smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bree shrugged and pushed the front door with the tip of her index finger. It swung silently, then clicked into place.

“Is there someplace we can talk?” he asked, amazingly calm.

Again, without a word, Bree sauntered down the hall, unhurried and uninterested, and turned into her dad’s study. She dropped into an oversize leather chair and swung both legs over the tufted arm, easing back into a reclining position while she twirled a strand of her hair.

“You realize this isn’t helping you, right? Your continued silence?”

Actually, it’s the only thing that’s helping me.

“I’m hoping your mother will be able to talk some sense into you.”

You don’t know my mother.

“Before this entire situation gets out of hand. There are a great many people pressuring the DA’s office to charge you as an adult.”

Bree continued to twirl her hair.

“And I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

Exasperation. She could hear it in his voice. Could she possibly push him over the edge? It was worth a try. She turned and looked directly at Sergeant Callahan. “If you had any real evidence,” she said, flashing him a big, shit-eating grin, “you’d have charged me by now.”

Sergeant Callahan shot to his feet. “Goddammit!”

Bree turned back to the wall. She’d finally gotten a rise out of him, but it was a hollow victory. She was in a dangerous position, and she knew it. If they didn’t replace the real killer, even without any evidence against her, the DA’s office might push through to a trial.

He paced the room. “Is everything a joke to you? This is serious, Bree. Two people are dead. There’s a girl in a coma that may or may not be related. Arson in the warehouse district that may or may not be related . . .”

Bree sat straight up. The girl in a coma was Margot, she was sure, the first real news she’d had of her friend. But it was the second statement that made her stomach drop. “The warehouse district?” It couldn’t be Kitty’s uncle’s place, could it?

Sergeant Callahan eyed her sharply. “Yeah,” he said, his voice back to its polished smoothness.

“Was . . .” Bree swallowed. “Was anyone there at the time?”

“No,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “It was empty.”

Bree’s mind raced as Sergeant Callahan continued to watch her. It could just be a coincidence, right? There were a lot of warehouses in that area, most of which were abandoned. Probably just some squatters trying to keep warm.

Or maybe it was Christopher.

Were Kitty and Olivia okay? Sergeant Callahan said there was no one in the warehouse, but that only meant no one he found. Maybe Kitty and Olivia had been there for a meeting and managed to get out before the fire department arrived. Dammit, she needed more information. Was this meant as a warning or had Christopher tried to kill her friends?

Bree eyed the policeman. Maybe she should tell him the truth? He was right: two people were dead and Margot was, apparently, in a coma. If the warehouse fire and the sabotaged seat belt were related, maybe it was better to tell the police before someone else got hurt.

“You know,” Sergeant Callahan said, leaning closer to her as if he was about to share with her the third secret of Fátima, “if you tell me what you know, it’ll go better for you. We can cut you a deal, make sure you get off with just a slap on the wrist. You weren’t really to blame, were you, Bree? Someone else had to be involved. . . .”

Bree stiffened. She was an idiot for thinking he was on their side. Sergeant Callahan wasn’t going to listen to her about Christopher. He was just looking for the quick fix, for Bree to snitch on her friends to save herself.

Over my dead body.

She shrugged and turned away. “I hope you replace the guy.”

“Darling!” Bree’s mom swept into the room before Sergeant Callahan could respond. She was wearing the same kimono Olaf had just sported. Bree cringed, wondering what, if anything, Olaf had on now. Her mom took Sergeant Callahan’s hands in hers and kissed him on both cheeks. “It’s been ages.”

“You look wonderful, Diana.” And he meant it too. His eyes traced every line of her mom’s body.

Barf.

Her mom winked, then swirled into an armchair, patting the ottoman next to her for Sergeant Callahan. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“I wish I was here under more favorable circumstances,” he said, lowering himself to the ottoman like a courtier paying homage to the queen. “But it’s about your daughter.”

“Bree?”

Bree smacked her forehead. As if her mom had another daughter.

“Er, yes,” Sergeant Callahan said.

She leaned in to him. “Is she in a great deal of trouble?”

“She might be.”

Bree’s mom gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “Oh no! My poor sweet baby girl!” Her voice shook, her eyes welled up, and Bree had to turn away to keep from laughing out loud.

“Diana, don’t cry,” Sergeant Callahan said, his voice tender. “I’m doing everything I can for her. But your daughter is being stubbornly uncooperative.”

“Yes,” her mom said. “She can be like that.”

“Is there anything you can do to convince her to talk? I can’t help her if she refuses to tell me anything.”

Bree’s mom laid her hand on Sergeant Callahan’s knee, and dropped her voice. “Are you going to charge her with murder if she doesn’t cooperate?”

“Well,” Sergeant Callahan said, clearing his throat. “We, uh, don’t actually have any evidence linking her to the crimes.”

I knew it!

“Wonderful!” Her mom popped out of her chair and clapped her hands. “Then you can remove the anklet and send her back to school.”

Sergeant Callahan rose to his feet. “Er, actually, Diana—”

“I’ll be back in France in time for the weekend.” Her mom dashed into the hallway. “Olaf? Pack the bags. And see if Johan can get us a first-class upgrade on a flight for tomorrow.”

And with that, her mom disappeared upstairs.

Sergeant Callahan sighed. “I guess that’s all for today.”

Bree sprang from the chair and led the police officer to the front door. She couldn’t help but feel bad for him, yet another man swept up in the insanity that was Diana Deringer.

Bree held the door open, then pulled up the leg of her pajamas. “So when can I get this thing off?” He’d admitted they had no reason to hold her, and now she was desperate to get out of the house.

“The anklet?”

No, my foot. “Um, yeah.”

Sergeant Callahan smiled. “Oh, that’s not up to us.”

Bree didn’t like the snide look on his face. “What do you mean?”

“The Menlo Park Police Department isn’t holding you under house arrest. That’s by order of your father.”

Then he pulled the handle, and closed the door in Bree’s face.