Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
SHERRIFF JONES OBSERVES the young boy in the interrogation room through the two-way mirror. He is sixteen years old. His cuffed hands are folded on the desk in front of him, bloodshot eyes focused on a spot on the wall. He is trying to hold back tears, but unsuccessfully so. They drip down his cheeks, onto the sterile gray of the desk.
"Are you going to talk to him, or should I, Captain?"
Jones jumps when he hears the voice of Deputy Smee beside him. The action causes the stitches in his shoulder to pull, and he inhales sharply.
"I will, Deputy," he answers.
"What is he going to be charged for?"
The sheriff lets out a sigh, running his hand through his hair. "Drug possession, distribution, and... and suspected murder."
"You can't be serious!" Smee exclaims, looking at Jones with disbelief in his eyes. "Drug dealing, yes, but murder?"
Jones snorts, but humorlessly so. "Deputy," he replies, "I know this boy. You'd be surprised to learn what he's capable of." With that, Jones rubs his aching shoulder one more time and unlocks the door to interrogation room #4.
When he enters the room, the boy glances warily up at him and his cuffed hands clench under the desk.
"Hook," he says, his voice hoarse and low. Jones can't help but replay the sound of the boy's scream on the bridge, when the girl toppled down and into the river. He didn't resist, not once, when Jones put him in handcuffs.
The sheriff clears his throat. "That's Sheriff Jones to you, Mr. Pan." He instinctively adjusts the black glove over his prosthetic hand. His shoulder gives another throb as he does so, and it strikes him as humorous that the two biggest injuries of his life are because of the boy sitting in front of him.
"Mr. Pannora," begins Sheriff Jones, "where were you last night— the night of November 5th?"
"You know perfectly fucking well where I was, Sheriff Jones," Peter deadpans. "How's the shoulder holding up, hmm?"
Jones raises one eyebrow. "Fine, thank you for asking," he answers. "Now, if we could keep it civil, that would be much appreciated."
"Look," the sheriff begins, "you do know why you're in here, right?" When Peter does nothing but look away, clenching his jaw, Jones continues. "You manufacture and deal drugs, you use underage children to sell those drugs, you—"
"Don't send them back home." Peter cuts the sheriff off, turning back to face him. "They can't go home. I gave them a place to live, I took care of them, they were safe—"
"Safe?" Jones repeats. "You lived in a cabin in the woods and let them run wild through the streets of London, dealing drugs! Some of those kids aren't a day over eleven! That's your idea of safe?"
"It's better than what they had to face at home," Peter replies softly. "Some of their parents kicked them out, some of them were abused, they're—" he pauses, clearing his throat. "They're good kids. They deserve a good home."
Sheriff Jones softens. "If it makes you feel any better," he begins, "they're getting foster homes." He looks at the file in which the names are listed. "Lily Dakota, Pablo and Santiago Palacio, Jade Overstreet, Annabelle Tinker— a children's centre has been contacted, that's where they'll be staying for the next few days."
"Tink—," says Peter, "—Annabelle. She's not..." he searches for the correct word, "completely stable. I think she's got schizophrenia, or something. Will... will she be looked after?"
"She will," replies the sheriff. "A psychologist will talk to all of them at the centre, and they'll be treated appropriately."
Peter hesitates before uttering a small, "thank you." He runs his hands through his unruly hair and sits back in his chair, taking a deep breath. It catches in his throat and he can't keep his voice from breaking as he says—
"I killed her." His red-rimmed eyes meet Jones's.
"It's my fault. I never should have talked to her at the party. I never should've taken her away, never should've kissed her, never should've drugged her. I gave her the pixie dust. That's what made her jump, she thought she could fly, and it's my fucking fault she's dead!"
Peter's voice has risen to nearly a shout and he's standing now, but even though he towers over Sheriff Jones, he has never felt so small. The room is dead quiet, save for the humming of the fluorescent lights overhead. His chest heaves, and then suddenly his face crumples as if he has just realized the weight of his words.
He sinks back down into the chair and covers his mouth with his balled fists. "I killed my darling Wendy," he whispers.
Sheriff Jones is taken aback. To his own surprise, he reaches across the desk and puts a (what he hopes is) comforting hand on Peter's shoulder. The boy glances at the prosthetic, but does not brush it away.
"You didn't kill her, Peter," Jones says after a while. Peter looks up, brushing a tear away from his cheek.
"You're not guilty," the sheriff continues. "You made some bad choices, and those choices may have contributed to her death, but you didn't kill her. You're no murderer. You're just a kid." He squeezes the boy's shoulder, and Peter closes his eyes, leaning back in his chair.
"I accept whatever punishment I deserve," he says. Jones nods, flipping to the page in his folder where Peter's penalty is listed.
"You'll need to serve time in juvenile prison," he reads, "and then a rehabilitation program. It'll be a year before you can reintegrate into society." He looks up for Peter's reaction, but there is none. The boy's face is blank, but the neutrality is all a facade. In reality, he is looking up at the stars, searching for the second one to the right.
Just always be waiting for me, he says to Wendy's star. You know that place between sleep and awake? That place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll be waiting... that's where I love you.
