Fingers laced between her own, and Bree turned to find John looking down at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
"I couldn’t,” she said, desperately hoping he wouldn’t hate her forever. “It was too dangerous for you to know.”
"But...” His voice trailed off and Bree watched as weeks of emotion cycled rapidly across his face - anger, frustration, sadness, pride, understanding. “Your dad won’t bail you out this time,” he said at last. “You’ll be on your own.”
"I know.”
Then he pulled her to him as the police pushed their way into the bleachers, enveloping her fiercely with his arms as if he’d never let her go. “I know you didn’t kill them,” he whispered in her ear.
Several pairs of strong arms pried her away from John, but she hardly felt them. The only thing in the world was John’s body pressed tightly against her own, as she gazed up into his eyes.
“Bree Deringer,” an officer said. “You are under arrest for the murders of Ronald DeStefano and Richard Creed.” They wrenched her from John’s arms, but her eyes never left his face. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she needed him to know. Her Miranda rights faded into the background as they pinned her arms behind her back and handcuffed her. Still, all she could think about was John.
"I love you,” she said.
John stared at her silently, then a grin spread across his face. Lopsided and wicked, and every inch Han Solo. “I know.”
She smiled as the police lead her away.
