Narc by Crissa-Jean Chappell Page A

head inside,” he said.
    I didn’t want to go in there, but I followed him down a hallway that reeked of piss. The empty room was studded with exhaust vents. Sunlight squeezed through the holes like windows on a ship.
    I opened my mouth and the words tumbled out.
    I told him about Skully. “She’s basically living by herself at this point. Her parents don’t even live in the same house, so it’s the perfect place to party. Besides, she’s desperate for friends, so all kinds of people just hang out there.”
    “Did you witness any drug transactions in the house?” the cop asked.
    I stared at the razor cuts on his head. “Not really.”
    “What do you mean, ‘not really’?”
    I thought about Morgan, all the cards and pictures on her bulletin board. I couldn’t do this to her. I just couldn’t. So I said, “There was some stuff in the kitchen.”
    “Stuff? Could you be a little more specific?”
    He was losing patience with me. I took another breath. “There was a scale.”
    “A scale?”
    “You know. Like for measuring.”
    “What else?”
    “Well, obviously there was weed there.”
    “Enough to justify a search warrant?”
    “Maybe. I don’t know.”
    The cop got up in my space. He was spitting all over me. “What exactly did you see?”
    “It was a party, okay? People were smoking. That’s all I saw.”
    He wasn’t buying it. “That’s all?”
    In the distance, I heard the pow-pow-pow of paintball ammo. I wanted to bust out of there and join the players in the fields, fighting wars where nobody wins or loses. At the end of the day, everyone just gives up and goes home.
    The cop leaned closer. “Listen to me and listen good. You need to get close to these kids, reel them in and earn their trust. Understand?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Any idea who’s the shot caller?” he asked.
    I shrugged.
    “So you’re at this party and you talk to nobody … not a single person … ” He trailed off. “What were you doing? Hiding in the bathroom?”
    It stung, that little comment. I fell right into his trap. “This girl, Morgan. She was selling.”
    “Okay. What exactly did you see?”
    He waited for me to continue. When I kept quiet, he said, “I don’t need to remind you how much your cooperation means. We must help each other.”
    I help you. You help me.
    The cop scratched his chin. “You’re protecting her, aren’t you?”
    True. I was trying to protect everyone: The girls. My family. My own sorry ass.
    A slow smile crept across his face. “Okay. Let’s cut the bullshit. Protecting her isn’t going to do you any good.”
    I was in so deep, there was no way out. I knew it sounded crazy, but I wondered if there was a way to locate the shot caller without getting the girls in trouble.
    “It doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Her family is loaded. I don’t get why she’s doing this.”
    “I’ve seen it before,” the cop said, folding his hands behind his neck. “She’s attracted to the lifestyle. It’s exciting for these spoiled rich kids to go slumming in neighborhoods like Wynwood. Makes them feel tough when they dirty up. This is a classic case. Broken home, too much free time, disposable income.”
    “Morgan is a sweet girl,” I said, a little too quickly.
    “Aren’t they all?” he said and I wanted to push my fist through his teeth.
    He didn’t know them. He didn’t know that Morgan was a cutter, that she carried a jagged piece of metal in her sock. I left out the parts that I kept close to myself: Skully leaning over the seawall, the winged tattoo on her back. Morgan gliding against traffic on her bike, speeding in the wrong direction. Kissing her on the dock, the battered remains of an old hermit’s house, ripped apart by a hurricane with no name.
    “Look. Don’t be getting too chummy with these kids.”
    “What’s going to happen to them?” I asked.
    He rubbed his forehead. “We need to find out who is supplying. If the girls lead us to the head honcho,