CHAPTER 159: SECRET SOCIOPATH: LINDA CARTER

The Lincoln Heights Police Department looked like every other government building trying too hard to seem important—part concrete bunker, part ego monument, sprinkled with the kind of cheap landscaping that screamed budget meeting compromise.

The American flag out front looked like it had seen more wind than a Kardashian Instagram comment section.

News crews were already camped outside like it was fucking Black Friday, and I was the doorbuster deal.

’Fantastic. Nothing like the smell of opportunistic journalism in the morning.’

’Can’t wait to trend on Twitter,’ I thought, stepping over a power cable some intern probably risked their career to run. #PrivilegedTeenBeatsUpPedo is gonna hit different when they find out I’m the broke kid in this story. I should start a GoFundMe just to see how many people would donate purely out of spite.

Officer Logan led me in through the back entrance, the kind of hallway that looked like every bad police procedural had been filmed there. Madison got shuffled off toward the visitor’s area.

She tossed me that "please don’t make this worse" look girlfriends have been perfecting since the Mesozoic Era, right alongside figuring out how to blame you for their bad dreams. Which was adorable, considering I’d already speedrun the worst-case scenario by turning Trent’s face into a Jackson Pollock painting.

"Your mom’s already here," Logan said, tone flat enough to iron a shirt on. The guy probably joined the force to chase real criminals, not babysit teenagers with anger management issues and excellent right hooks. "Interview Room 3."

Oh, good. The Final Boss fight. And unlike video games, I can’t just hit respawn if she decides to end my life.

"Master," ARIA chimed in, her voice as crisp and unhelpful as ever, "your cortisol levels indicate extreme stress. Perhaps we should review your legal knowledge before—"

ARIA, I could pass the bar exam in my sleep. Hell, I could defend myself in seventeen different courts without breaking a sweat. None of that changes the fact I’m about to face the woman who once grounded me for sneezing too loud in church.

The walk to Interview Room 3 felt longer than the Marvel Cinematic Universe—phases one through twenty. Every step carried the weight of every "we need to talk" in human history, every "I expected better from you" that’s been weaponized by disappointed parents since the invention of language.

Logan opened the door, and there she was. Linda Carter. Sitting at the metal table like judge, jury, and potential executioner. Still in her ICU scrubs, fresh from twelve hours of handling other people’s worst days.

Her expression? Scarier than any legal statute I’d memorized.

This is it. This is my obituary. Cause of death: pure, undiluted maternal disappointment. ’ ’Someone better make sure they use my good Instagram picture for the funeral program.’

"Twenty minutes," Logan said, getting the keys ready to unlock my cuffs with all the ceremony of a priest giving last rites. "Knock when you’re ready."

The cuffs came off with a click that sounded way too much like a countdown timer. Logan closed the door behind me, and I swear I heard the faint thud of him leaning against it—probably hoping it’d muffle the screams when Mom started my emotional autopsy.

Mom didn’t say anything right away. She just looked at me, and the silence hit harder than any belt, slipper, or wooden spoon known to mankind. Nurses have that look—they can assess your entire life’s worth of poor decisions in one scan, like TSA but for moral character.

"Sit," she said.

Her tone wasn’t loud, but it had that parental frequency that bypasses your ears and goes straight to your spine, forcing obedience. You could probably aim it at a pit bull mid-maul and have him sitting pretty like he was at Westminster.

I sat.

She folded her arms and leaned back in the chair. "Explain."

I opened my mouth. ARIA, my AI, of course decided this was the perfect time to be helpful.

"Master, might I suggest beginning with a measured apology before—"

’ARIA, shut up. You’re like Clippy, but with fewer boundaries and more emotional sabotage.’

"I’m waiting," Mom said.

Okay. Deep breath. Time to either talk my way out of this... or add ’estranged’ to my résumé.

"Trent was about to hurt her." I leaned forward, trying to keep my voice calm but confident—like every white-collar criminal on 60 Minutes

explaining how the money just sort of ’appeared’ in the Cayman Islands. "I stopped him. With... physical persuasion."

Her eyebrow twitched. That was my first red flag. Mom’s eyebrow only twitches for two reasons: when she’s holding back rage... or when she’s trying not to laugh. Considering I wasn’t juggling baby pandas, I knew it was the first.

"You broke his nose," she said.

"He had it coming," I replied. "You don’t get mad at a fire extinguisher for damaging the wall while putting out the flames."

That almost sounded reasonable—until I remembered I’d also kicked him while he was down. Twice. Okay, maybe three times. And all those punches and the knee in the face.

She sighed. Not a normal sigh, either. This was the Linda Carter ICU Sigh™—the one that carried the weight of every 2 a.m. patient, every idiot who thought WebMD made them a doctor, and every son who thought he was invincible because he could quote legal precedent in casual conversation.

"I have one son," she said slowly, "and instead of staying out of trouble, he finds it... like he’s trying to get a sponsorship deal with the state prison."

"Hey, at least I’m ambitious," I shot back. "You raised a go-getter."

Her eyes narrowed in that way that could curdle milk. "Peter, do you know what people see when they hear about this?"

Here it comes.

"They see a headline. They see another teenage boy with a temper. They don’t care about the context, they care about the spectacle. You think you’re the main character, but to them? You’re just another statistic."

I wanted to clap. Not for the lecture—God, no—but for how perfectly she’d summed up the public. It was almost poetic.

"I am the main character," I muttered.

Her head tilted. "What?"

"Nothing. Just... trying to figure out how to spin this so the book deal sounds sympathetic."

She closed her eyes like she was praying for divine patience. Somewhere in the building, I was pretty sure Logan was listening in and placing bets on whether I’d leave here alive.

"Emma told me something interesting," Mom’s voice suddenly shifted like she’d just swapped Netflix profiles—going from "Grounded Teen Disciplinarian" to "Mother of the Girl I Just Saved." Calm. Almost casual. Like we were discussing grocery lists instead of my possible felony charges. "She said, ’Don’t be mad at him, Mom. He did what you would’ve done if you’d known.’"

Emma going straight for the emotional nuclear codes. Smart girl. I’ve seen people trend slower after a Super Bowl ad.

"And she’s right." Mom’s fingers drummed on the table in that rhythm she does when she’s plotting something she can’t say out loud. "If I’d walked in on that scene, if I’d seen that predator threatening my daughter..." She paused, and her eyes flickered like she’d just mentally added duct tape to her shopping list. "They’d need a shop vac to clean up what was left."

Excuse me, what the actual fuck?