Chapter 8 8

The Blackwater Precinct smelled like stale coffee, sweat, and cheap floor wax. Telephones rang constantly in the background, a chaotic soundtrack to the misery inside.

Iverson sat in a small, windowless interrogation room. His hands were cuffed to a heavy metal ring bolted to the center of the steel table.

He kept his head bowed. His shoulders were hunched forward. He was the picture of a traumatized victim.

The heavy door creaked open. Officer Valerie Vance walked in, carrying a manila folder. She looked exhausted.

She pulled out the metal chair opposite him and sat down. She opened the folder and stared at the teenager across the table.

"Four men, Iverson," Valerie said, her voice flat. "Four grown men with criminal records are currently in the emergency room with broken bones. And you don't have a scratch on you. Tell me how that happens."

Iverson slowly raised his head.

His eyes were wide, wet, and filled with absolute panic. His lower lip trembled slightly.

"I... I don't know," Iverson stammered, his voice cracking perfectly. "They cornered us. The big guy, Rocco, he pulled a knife. He said he was going to cut my godmother's face if she didn't pay him."

Valerie frowned, her pen tapping against the table. "So you fought them off?"

"No!" Iverson gasped, pulling his arms back. The handcuffs dug into his wrists, leaving angry red marks on his pale skin. He made sure Valerie saw the marks. "I just... I grabbed a mop. I closed my eyes and I just started swinging it as hard as I could. I was terrified. I think they tripped over each other. I swear, I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I just wanted them to stop."

Valerie stared at him. She looked at his thin wrists, his baggy clothes, and his terrified eyes.

Then she looked down at the file. Rocco Gorski. Three counts of armed robbery. Two counts of aggravated assault. Known gang enforcer. And the butterfly knife found at the scene had Rocco's fingerprints all over it.

The logic clicked into place in Valerie's mind. A terrified kid swinging a heavy pipe wildly in a narrow hallway against overconfident, careless thugs. It was a lucky, desperate defense.

"You're lucky to be alive, kid," Valerie said softly. Her eyes narrowed, scanning his lean frame with a heavy dose of professional skepticism. "Your story has a lot of holes. A terrified kid swinging blindly doesn't usually shatter three jaws and a wrist with surgical precision. But... given the knife, and Rocco's extensive, violent record, my captain is ruling this as self-defense. You aren't being charged today. But don't make a mistake, Iverson. We will have people keeping an eye on this. You'd better make sure you never end up in my precinct again."

Iverson let out a massive, shuddering breath. He slumped forward against the table, burying his face in his arms. A single, perfectly timed tear slipped down his cheek. "Thank you," he whispered.

Valerie stood up and unlocked the handcuffs from the metal ring. "Come on. Let's get you out to the lobby. Your mother is here."

Iverson stood up, rubbing his raw wrists. He followed Valerie out of the interrogation room and down the busy hallway.

They walked past the temporary holding cells.

Rocco was gripping the iron bars of his cell with his good hand. His broken wrist was wrapped in a temporary splint. When he saw Iverson walking freely down the hall, his face turned purple.

"You little demon!" Rocco screamed, spitting through the bars. "He's faking it! He's a monster! I'll kill you!"

Valerie pulled her nightstick and slammed it hard against the iron bars. "Shut your mouth, Gorski, or I'll add terroristic threats to your charges!"

Iverson instantly shrank back, hiding behind Valerie's shoulder like a frightened child.

But as they walked past the cell, Iverson's pace slowed for a fraction of a second.

Valerie was looking forward. Iverson turned his head slightly toward the cell.

His gaze met Rocco's through the iron bars. In a fraction of a second, the trembling fear completely vanished from the teenager's face. His eyes turned into black voids of pure, terrifying malice, radiating an aura of absolute, unspoken violence. He looked dead at Rocco, his expression a promise of a slow death if the man ever crossed him again.

Rocco's screaming stopped instantly. The color drained from the gang member's face. He stumbled backward, away from the bars, his entire body shivering in primal fear.

Iverson turned his head forward, his face instantly morphing back into the scared teenager.

He stepped out into the chaotic, noisy lobby.

Standing dead center in the room, looking like a queen who had been forced to step in mud, was his mother, Adelina.