Passenger by Andrew Smith

I could feel his eyes pressing into my skin.
    And with just one glance, I thought I had him sized up pretty good. He stood there, sucking in his stomach with his hands on his hips. He was one of those edgy grown-ups who’d played football in high school and bragged to his friends about how he goes to the gym every morning, and he probably did part-time coaching for a youth program just so he could yell at kids and tell them what pieces of shit they were.
    You see guys like that everywhere in California.
    I kept my head down.
    The walk seemed to take forever.
    How far away did I park my goddamned truck?
    But I knew he was going to say something to me.
    “How’s it going?”
    I stopped.
    Shit.
    My hand was just touching the door of my truck. I calculated three seconds—if I had left my room just three goddamned seconds sooner, none of this would be happening and I’d be on my way to Conner’s house.
    I pretended like I didn’t know the guy was talking to me.
    I opened the door and started to get in.
    He turned up his football-coach volume just a notch. Edgy. I could tell he thought I was another piece of shit.
    “Hey. John? You’re John Wynn Whitmore, right?”
    What could I do?
    Nobody ever calls me John.
    I was wedged inside my open door, one elbow resting on top of the cab. I looked over at the guy, who’d come around and stood in the street between our cars. His face was blank, but as soon as he saw me look at him, he cracked a smile.
    “Yeah. My grandparents are in there.”
    I nodded my head toward the house, trying to see if maybe the guy really was there to fill out beneficiary forms or some shit like that.
    Nice try, Jack.
    “I was hoping I’d catch you.”
    Catch me.
    He closed the space between us, his eyes fixed directly on mine, unblinking, smiling that fake football-coach smile that made me feel like a piece of shit.
    Then he put out his hand.
    I thought of Quinn Cahill.
    And he said, “My name is Sergeant Scott. Avery Scott. I’m a detective with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s?”
    He said it like a question, like he expected me to say, Okay, you can play that part in this game.
    When I didn’t take his hand, he smoothly reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folding wallet with a gold badge and ID card.
    “It’s pretty fucking hot today, wouldn’t you say?”
    He kept the smile on. He was testing me. He wanted to see if my reaction would show him I thought he was cool for being an old guy who comfortably says words like fuck to a sixteen-year-old kid.
    “I didn’t watch the Weather Channel today.”
    Avery Scott laughed. He reinstalled his nice wallet into his pocket.
    “I came out today. Well. I’m looking into a case we’ve got and I was hoping to ask you a couple questions. It has nothing to do with you.”
    Sure.
    Nothing.
    “Am I in some kind of trouble or something?”
    “No, no, no!” Scott was a little too exaggerated. “It’s just. Uh. Some background stuff. Do you mind?”
    “Shouldn’t my grandparents be around? I mean, if you’re a cop and all, and want to talk to a kid?”
    “Seriously, John. You didn’t do anything wrong, son. But if you’d like to go inside, we could talk to your grandparents, too. It’s about this thing you may have heard of. A doctor named Manfred Horvath. People called him Freddie. He was found dead. Not a nice guy.” Scott shook his head. “A fucking sicko. You ever watch the news?”
    At that moment, I felt my balls twist their way up, crawling like snails inside my stomach.
    Then I was suddenly aware of the sweat dripping down my temples, running from my armpits, playing xylophone on my ribs.
    “Sometimes.”
    Scott put his hand on the top of my car door. He had curly brown hairs on his fingers and wore a ridiculous class ring with a big green gem in its center.
    “This is a sweet truck. You know the thing that’s fucked up about parking under these big oaks? The crow shit.”
    Detective Scott pointed a finger at the