to twenty-five years old. Union and Carson counties and thirty miles in all directions.
Vince De Luca pulls up several hits.
There's one that meets parameters.
I click the link.
It's him.
The guy from the party. Twenty-two years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. He's been arrested four separate times, each providing its own mug shot. I scroll through the guy's rap sheet, reading police reports.
Assault afflicting injury.
Assault on a female.
Breaking and entering.
Possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell.
Conspiracy to sell a controlled substance.
Two counts of trespassing.
Possession with intent to sell.
Possession with intent to sell.
"Six to eight months Department of Correction. Twenty-four months of probation," I mutter, half under my breath. "That's it ?"
I click on the earliest report—the one from four years ago. Vince was arrested in Trenton when a party was raided. They found marijuana on him. There were other arrests that night, too. Underage drinking. Drug possession. I skim the list of names.
One in particular jumps out among the rest.
Daniel McEntyre.
Shit.
McEntyre?
My heart goes silent—stops beating—everything inside growing still. I click the link and a mug shot loads. I recognize him instantly from the family photos. It's him—Jaden's brother.
Jaden's oldest brother was arrested the same night at the same party as Vince De Luca.
Drug possession.
I lean back on the couch, run fingers through my hair as he stares back at me, frowning.
This shit just got complicated.
C HAPTER S IXTEEN
I park my bike in a space behind the school. I can hear the crowd in the gymnasium. The chanting and the clapping and the cheers. And I'm reminded how much I hate high school sports—how, at one time, they were all that mattered.
I turn my cell phone off. I don't need any interruptions—not tonight.
Principal Howell meets me at the side door. We slip down darkened hallways until we reach the guy's locker room.
"Be quick," he warns. "I'll wait out here."
I push the door open and call out: "Anyone in here?"
Nothing.
I twist the lock on the door, then pull the handle, just to be sure. I check the bathroom stalls. The showers. The room is empty.
The smell pulls me straight back to the locker rooms at my old school—bleach, corn starch, body odor. Layer upon layer of dirt and sweat.
"Get in and get out," I mutter.
There are hundreds of people packing that gymnasium; time ticks off the game clock. I don't have long. I open the first locker and remove a duffle bag. I tug every zipper, stick my hand in every pocket. I push aside clothes and towels and water bottles. Nothing. I shove the bag back in the locker and move on to the next one. And the next. I check pockets of athletic pants. Jackets. And the next bag. And the next.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
I slam the last door shut. The sound pings off cinderblock walls, filling the room. "Dammit!"
I unlock the door, crack it open. "Clear?"
"All clear," Principal Howell replies. I ease into the hallway and follow him to the exit. "Any luck?"
I steal a quick glance over my shoulder. We're still alone. "No. I'll try again soon. If I have reasonable suspicion of a specific player, I can get a warrant for a more thorough search. In the meantime, I need a list of every athlete at this school. I'll be back in Trenton tonight. If I find anything else, I'll let you know."
He thanks me, and I slip into the night. I'm circling the gym, heading toward my bike, when the crowd cheers.
The basketball game.
It's no coincidence that Brandon Garrels, basketball player, was at that party. That he spotted me talking to Vince. That he asked me to put in a "good word" for him—like I have more connections than he does.
If Vince De Luca is dealing....
I pull the door handle and enter the gymnasium. The noises are amplified—the clapping and cheering and stomping, the squeak of new shoes scraping the gym floor. My eyes instantly
Vince De Luca pulls up several hits.
There's one that meets parameters.
I click the link.
It's him.
The guy from the party. Twenty-two years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. He's been arrested four separate times, each providing its own mug shot. I scroll through the guy's rap sheet, reading police reports.
Assault afflicting injury.
Assault on a female.
Breaking and entering.
Possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell.
Conspiracy to sell a controlled substance.
Two counts of trespassing.
Possession with intent to sell.
Possession with intent to sell.
"Six to eight months Department of Correction. Twenty-four months of probation," I mutter, half under my breath. "That's it ?"
I click on the earliest report—the one from four years ago. Vince was arrested in Trenton when a party was raided. They found marijuana on him. There were other arrests that night, too. Underage drinking. Drug possession. I skim the list of names.
One in particular jumps out among the rest.
Daniel McEntyre.
Shit.
McEntyre?
My heart goes silent—stops beating—everything inside growing still. I click the link and a mug shot loads. I recognize him instantly from the family photos. It's him—Jaden's brother.
Jaden's oldest brother was arrested the same night at the same party as Vince De Luca.
Drug possession.
I lean back on the couch, run fingers through my hair as he stares back at me, frowning.
This shit just got complicated.
C HAPTER S IXTEEN
I park my bike in a space behind the school. I can hear the crowd in the gymnasium. The chanting and the clapping and the cheers. And I'm reminded how much I hate high school sports—how, at one time, they were all that mattered.
I turn my cell phone off. I don't need any interruptions—not tonight.
Principal Howell meets me at the side door. We slip down darkened hallways until we reach the guy's locker room.
"Be quick," he warns. "I'll wait out here."
I push the door open and call out: "Anyone in here?"
Nothing.
I twist the lock on the door, then pull the handle, just to be sure. I check the bathroom stalls. The showers. The room is empty.
The smell pulls me straight back to the locker rooms at my old school—bleach, corn starch, body odor. Layer upon layer of dirt and sweat.
"Get in and get out," I mutter.
There are hundreds of people packing that gymnasium; time ticks off the game clock. I don't have long. I open the first locker and remove a duffle bag. I tug every zipper, stick my hand in every pocket. I push aside clothes and towels and water bottles. Nothing. I shove the bag back in the locker and move on to the next one. And the next. I check pockets of athletic pants. Jackets. And the next bag. And the next.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
I slam the last door shut. The sound pings off cinderblock walls, filling the room. "Dammit!"
I unlock the door, crack it open. "Clear?"
"All clear," Principal Howell replies. I ease into the hallway and follow him to the exit. "Any luck?"
I steal a quick glance over my shoulder. We're still alone. "No. I'll try again soon. If I have reasonable suspicion of a specific player, I can get a warrant for a more thorough search. In the meantime, I need a list of every athlete at this school. I'll be back in Trenton tonight. If I find anything else, I'll let you know."
He thanks me, and I slip into the night. I'm circling the gym, heading toward my bike, when the crowd cheers.
The basketball game.
It's no coincidence that Brandon Garrels, basketball player, was at that party. That he spotted me talking to Vince. That he asked me to put in a "good word" for him—like I have more connections than he does.
If Vince De Luca is dealing....
I pull the door handle and enter the gymnasium. The noises are amplified—the clapping and cheering and stomping, the squeak of new shoes scraping the gym floor. My eyes instantly
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