Chapter 6 Chapter 6
Quinn’s POV
Normally, walking to the athletic center with Luca meant listening to twenty minutes of reasons hockey was superior to football.
Today, he barely spoke.
Which was how I knew things were bad.
“You’re being quiet,” I said.
“I’m trying something new.”
“Thinking before you speak?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets as we crossed the courtyard.
“Seriously, Quinn. You okay?”
“No.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
I looked at him.
“Good?”
“Means you’re still capable of answering a question without telling me what you think I want to hear.”
I almost smiled.
Luca glanced toward the athletic center.
“Whatever happens in there, don’t forget you’ve got people on your side.”
I swallowed.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t get emotional. I’ll deny saying it.”
That was Luca.
He could make you feel better and insult you in the same breath.
The film room was packed with captains from nearly every varsity team.
Coach Reynolds stood near the projector beside Athletic Director Bennett. Coach Morrison from hockey was there too, along with two people I didn’t recognize.
And Mr. Harris.
My father’s attorney stood near the back wall, holding a leather folder.
He met my eyes.
Then looked away.
Wonderful.
Nothing said normal school day quite like the man who’d helped my father clean up the worst night of my life attending an athletics meeting.
Bennett stepped forward.
“Thank you for coming. I’ll get straight to the point. This morning, our security team detected an attempt to access confidential student-athlete records.”
The room erupted.
Coach Reynolds raised a hand.
“Let him finish.”
“The attempt was blocked. We have no confirmed evidence that student records were accessed.”
“What kind of records?” the volleyball captain asked.
“Medical clearances, scholarship agreements, emergency contacts, and disciplinary documentation.”
My stomach tightened.
Medical clearances.
I glanced toward Mr. Harris.
He was watching Bennett.
Not me.
“Is this connected to The Velvet Ledger?” someone asked.
“We don’t know,” Bennett replied. “And I won’t speculate.”
At least one adult at Ashcroft understood the concept.
The meeting continued with instructions about protecting personal information, reporting suspicious messages, and referring questions to the administration.
Important information.
Just not the reason I suspected Mr. Harris was there.
When Bennett dismissed us, I stood.
Mr. Harris moved toward the door.
“Quinn. A moment, please.”
Luca stopped beside me.
I shook my head.
“Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
He studied Mr. Harris.
Then me.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Luca didn’t look convinced.
But he left.
Mr. Harris waited until the film room was empty.
“Your father asked me to speak with you.”
“Of course he did.”
“Quinn.”
“Does he know how to use a telephone? Because he seemed pretty good at it this morning.”
The attorney sighed.
“I understand you’re upset.”
“That’s one word for it.”
He opened his folder and removed a single sheet of paper.
“Your father wants to ensure that you aren’t inadvertently complicating matters.”
I stared at the document.
“What is that?”
“A statement for you to review.”
“About what?”
“The incident on Briar Ridge Road.”
My blood went cold.
Three years ago, Mr. Harris had sat in my father’s study while I answered questions about the accident.
I’d been fifteen.
Scared.
Still wearing clothes that smelled faintly of rain.
He’d told me everything would be handled.
Now he was standing in my school with another piece of paper.
I took it.
The statement was short.
It said I’d been present after an accident involving Noah Whitaker, that I had no knowledge of who was operating the vehicle, and that I had cooperated fully with the adults responsible for resolving the situation.
I read the second sentence again.
I have no knowledge of who was operating the vehicle.
I looked up.
“I’m not signing this.”
Mr. Harris’s expression barely changed.
“It’s simply a clarification.”
“It’s a lie.”
“Quinn, I strongly recommend you avoid making statements without legal counsel.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t hand me one that’s false.”
He lowered his voice.
“Your father is trying to protect you.”
I laughed.
There wasn’t anything funny about it.
“That’s what he said three years ago.”
“And he did protect you.”
I looked at the paper.
There it was.
The Sinclair family definition of protection.
Make the problem disappear.
Make the witnesses quiet.
Make sure the right people signed the right documents.
And never, under any circumstances, ask whether the truth deserved to survive.
I handed the statement back.
“Tell my father I won’t sign it.”
Mr. Harris didn’t take it immediately.
“You should consider the consequences.”
“I have.”
“Have you?”
I met his eyes.
“For three years.”
Luca was waiting outside.
Naturally.
He leaned against a column, pretending to be fascinated by a championship banner.
“How’d it go?”
“Terribly.”
“Excellent. I was worried you’d had a pleasant conversation.”
I told him about the statement as we walked toward the courtyard.
His expression changed.
“He wanted you to say you didn’t know who was driving?”
“Yeah.”
“But you do?”
I stopped.
Luca stopped too.
For once, he didn’t make a joke.
I looked toward the athletic center.
“I can’t answer that yet.”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to do? Beat the truth out of you?”
“Preferably not.”
“Good. I have practice.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then Luca put a hand on my shoulder.
“Just promise me something. If somebody’s trying to make you take the blame, don’t let them.”
I nodded.
“I won’t.”
And for the first time, I meant it.
Sloane found us near the library steps.
She had her notebook tucked beneath one arm and the expression she wore whenever she’d discovered something important.
“Quinn, can I ask you a question?”
Luca groaned.
“Detective, the man’s barely survived lunch.”
“This won’t take long.”
“That’s what all detectives say.”
Sloane ignored him.
“Did you receive medical treatment after the accident?”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Anything. A concussion check, a visit to the trainer, even a basic examination.”
I thought back.
My father had insisted someone look me over.
Not because I was seriously injured.
Because I’d come home with blood on my clothes and a bruise across my shoulder.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “The team physician examined me the following morning.”
Sloane exchanged a glance with Luca.
“What?” I asked.
“Someone tried accessing athletic medical records this morning.”
“I heard.”
“What if they weren’t looking for current records?”
My stomach tightened.
She continued.
“What if they wanted to know who was treated after Briar Ridge?”
I stared at her.
The thought hadn’t occurred to me.
“Would those records still exist?”
“Possibly,” she said. “But we need to establish that before assuming anything.”
I thought about Mr. Harris.
The statement.
The sudden security concerns.
And the medical examination I’d barely remembered until now.
“There’s something else,” I said.
I told her about the attorney.
Sloane listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she held out her hand.
“Do you have a copy?”
“No. He kept it.”
“Did you photograph it?”
I shook my head.
She sighed.
Luca pointed at her.
“That’s her disappointed journalist face.”
“I have several,” she replied.
“Terrifying collection.”
Sloane looked back at me.
“Write down everything you remember about the statement. The exact wording, if possible. Do it while it’s fresh.”
I nodded.
For once, someone was giving me advice that didn’t involve keeping my mouth shut.
We found an empty table in the library.
I opened my laptop and began typing.
Sloane sat across from me, quietly reviewing her notes.
Luca wandered off to find snacks.
Apparently, investigative work made him hungry.
I typed the sentence Mr. Harris had wanted me to sign.
I have no knowledge of who was operating the vehicle.
Then I stopped.
Three years ago, I’d been too frightened to question the adults who told me what to say.
Today, one of those same adults had tried again.
I opened a new document.
This time, I wrote what I actually remembered.
The rain.
The Range Rover.
Noah lying beside the road.
And the person who’d been behind the wheel.
I stopped before typing the name.
Not because I intended to protect them forever.
Because once I put it in writing, I needed to be ready for what came next.
My phone vibrated.
Dad.
I looked at the screen.
Then answered.
“Quinn.”
His voice was controlled.
Familiar.
Dangerously calm.
“Mr. Harris tells me you refused to cooperate.”
I glanced at the document on my laptop.
“No, Dad.”
I took a breath.
“I refused to lie.”
Silence.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Son, you have no idea what that night cost this family.”
I looked at the photograph of Briar Ridge Road still open on Sloane’s screen.
“No,” I said quietly.
“But I think it’s time somebody told me.”
