Cold Springs by Rick Riordan

was shivering now. Heroin withdrawal pains, probably getting worse.
    “Look, just let me go in and talk to her, okay?” She moderated her tone—going for the calm approach. Adults are idiots—speak to them softly. “I guess I got a little crazy on her. I'll apologize.”
    “You attacked her with a hammer. You ran away to Race's house.”
    “I didn't hurt anybody, okay? Neither did Race. I'm not going to a school for mental cases.”
    “What happened to Race's mom?”
    Her eyes slid away from his. “We— We didn't do shit. We were out all night, came back in the morning, and we just opened the door . . . And . . .”
    Her voice broke. She brought her palms up into the light, as if looking for a reminder she might've written on her skin.
    “Don't protect him,” Chadwick said. “Race is a drug dealer. His whole family is toxic.”
    “He's not a goddamn dealer.”
    Chadwick fanned the stack of money that had spilled from Mallory's coat pocket—$630 in crisp new bills. “Where'd you get the cash, Mallory?”
    She twisted her wrists against the plastic cuffs. “Just keep it. All right, Chadwick? Keep it and let me go. Nobody has to know.”
    He looked at Olsen. With her blond buzz cut and her denim, the tight set of her mouth, she could've passed for Mallory's peer. But there was fear in her eyes—a bright emptiness that had blossomed the moment Race Montrose pointed his gun at Chadwick's chest.
    “I'll make this brief,” he promised.
    “Hey,” she murmured. “Wait—”
    He got out of the car, Olsen leaning across the roof, protesting. “Chadwick, what the hell . . .”
    “Just a few minutes.”
    “Mallory . . .”
    “She'll be all right.”
    “So what am I supposed to do?”
    Chadwick heard the edge of panic in her voice. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to warn her that Mallory could smell her nervousness like a piranha smells blood. But he couldn't say any of that—not with Mallory there.
    “She's cuffed,” he said. “Just lock the doors, wait for me.”
    “Who the hell is Katherine?”
    He left her staring over the top of the car, her fingers splayed across the black metal, grasping at the reflection of the street lamp.
    On the playground, half a dozen kids were still waiting for their parents to pick them up. Two little girls spun on the tire swing. A trio of middle school boys played basketball; the yellow floodlight above them swirled with moths. A sleepy-looking after-school attendant sat on a throne of milk crates, reading a college textbook. She didn't look up as Chadwick walked in.
    Once inside, he was immediately disoriented. The doors weren't where they were supposed to be. The walls were too white, the linoleum floors too shiny. Even the smell was different. The old odors—decades of peanut butter apples, dried Play-Doh, burnt popcorn and peeled crayons—had been replaced by the industrial lemon scent of an office building.
    The first phase of Ann's expansion plan, Chadwick remembered—to remodel the interior of the existing building to maximize space.
    The basketball dribbled outside.
    In a way, Chadwick was relieved to look around and see almost nothing he remembered. On the other hand, the changes in the school seemed uncomfortably like his own changes—shuffling interior walls, laying down new carpet to conceal old floors, making everything look as different as possible. Yet the underlying structure was the same. You couldn't change the size and shape of the foundation.
    He was still trying to get his bearings when a young man came down the stairwell. He was in his mid-twenties, short blond hair, navy business suit. A kindergarten parent, Chadwick assumed.
    “Mr. Chadwick?”
    It took a moment for his features to resolve themselves in Chadwick's mind—for Chadwick to see the boy he had been, an awkward zit-faced kid, waving a red handkerchief to spot the high bidders.
    “David Kraft?”
    David grinned. “This is awesome. What are you doing here?”
    Chadwick shook his