Chapter 14 - The Deputy Said It Wasn't Flavoring
The sheriff's office smelled like old coffee and cleaning spray. My brother held my hand so tight my fingers went white, and I didn't pull away.
That morning he'd woken me up before light. He was still in his t-shirt and jeans, not the black suit, and his eyes were red like he hadn't slept. He'd said, "Get dressed. We're going."
Mom wasn't home. She'd stayed at Aunt Carol's after the fight the night before when his girlfriend left with her suitcase. The house had been too quiet. I'd lain awake listening to the fridge hum and thinking about the cake still in the trash bag in the garage because he wouldn't let me throw it out on pickup day.
Now the deputy behind the counter was looking at us. He was older, with gray at his temples and a name tag that said R. HALE. There was a plastic bag on the counter between us with the piece of cake inside and the little empty vial in another smaller bag. The vial still smelled sweet and sharp when you got close.
My brother cleared his throat. "You called about the sample," he said. His voice shook a little. "You said you had something."
Deputy Hale glanced at me, then back at him. "You the one who brought it in Tuesday?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"You said your sister saw something put in the batter."
My brother nodded and squeezed my hand again. I stared at the scuffed tile floor. My sneakers squeaked when I shifted.
Deputy Hale pulled out a paper from a folder. He didn't hand it to us right away. He kept his palm flat on it. "We sent it over to the county clinic lab for a screen. It ain't a full state crime lab workup. But it's enough to tell you what you need to know."
My heart was beating so loud I thought they could hear it. The fluorescent light buzzed over us. Somewhere down the hall a phone rang and rang.
"That frosting and cake," he said, "tested positive for something that shouldn't be in food. Not vanilla. Not almond extract. Not medicine dosed right. The tech said it was a cleaning-type chemical. Unsafe to eat. Enough to make a person real sick, especially a kid. Could've put someone in the hospital."
I felt my brother go still beside me. His hand stopped squeezing and just held on, loose and heavy.
"Are you sure?" he whispered. "It couldn't be flavoring? She said it might have been — she said it was lemon or something she bought at the craft store."
Deputy Hale shook his head slow. "Son, I make cakes with my wife for the church bake sale. Flavoring don't test like that. The clinic ruled that out. Whatever was in that vial wasn't for baking."
The room tilted a little. I gripped the edge of the counter. The plastic bag crinkled under the light. I could see the smear of blue and orange frosting through it, all mushed now. It didn't look like a birthday cake anymore.
On the drive home nobody talked at first. My brother kept both hands on the wheel at ten and two like he'd learned in driver's ed. The highway was gray and wide, cornfields on both sides starting to turn. The turn signal clicked too loud when he got off on our county road.
Halfway down our street he pulled over. He put the truck in park in front of Mrs. Jensen's mailbox, where nobody could hear us, and he just sat there staring out the windshield. His breathing was fast.
I picked at a loose thread on my white shorts. I was scared to say anything. I kept thinking about the party, the rug, his face when he yelled, and now this paper folded in his back pocket that proved I wasn't lying.
Then he turned. His eyes were wet.
"Hey," he said softly. Not angry. Just tired. "Look at me."
I looked.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you," he said. "In the living room. In front of everybody. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."
My throat got tight. I nodded because I couldn't get words out.
He went on, his voice breaking on the edges. "You were standing there crying and holding up your phone and I just — I shouted over you. I should have listened the second you said you were scared. You're ten. You shouldn't have had to knock that cake down to make me listen."
A tear slid down his cheek and he wiped it fast with the back of his hand, like he was embarrassed I saw. "You saved my life," he said. "If you'd let me eat that —" He stopped. He couldn't finish.
I finally found my voice. It came out small. "I didn't want to ruin your party."
"You didn't ruin anything," he said. "You did what I should've done. You paid attention."
He reached over and hugged me across the console, seatbelt digging into my shoulder, his chin on top of my head. He smelled like laundry soap and truck air freshener. I cried a little into his shirt and he just held on and let me, rubbing my back the way mom used to when I had nightmares.
When we got home, the house looked the same from the outside, white trim bright in the afternoon sun, balloons from the party still tied to the porch rail, all droopy now. Inside, the living room rug had a faint orange stain we couldn't scrub out. The streamers were still up. The framed flag was still on the wall.
My brother put the deputy's paper in the drawer of the side table, next to my phone charger. He kept the video backed up on his laptop too. He said, "We're keeping all of this together."
I stood in the doorway where I'd stood that day with frosting on my dress. He came and stood behind me, hands on my shoulders.
"She's coming back tomorrow for her things," he said quietly. I knew who he meant. My stomach dropped. "You don't have to talk to her. I'll handle it. But I want you next to me. Okay?"
May you like
I nodded. Outside, a car went by slow on our street. The droopy balloons tapped against the porch post in the wind.
We weren't safe yet. But for the first time in a week, I believed him when he said he was on my side.
