The Other Game: A Dean Carter Novel (The Perfect Game #4) by J. Sterling Page B

get out here,” the first cop yelled, and another guy appeared, his mouth half-filled with food.
    “What the—”
    “You boys want to tell us what happened to you tonight? I’m Officer Candalle, by the way, and this is my partner, Officer Santos.”
    “I’m Dean, and this is Brett.”
    “And you’re both students here at Fullton State?”
    “Yes. Mind if I sit?” I motioned toward the uncomfortable-looking metal chair in the corner.
    “No, of course. Do you need some ice?” Officer Candalle asked.
    I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I honestly had no idea what I needed. All I knew was that my head hurt like a bitch and probably needed stitches. “Maybe some ibuprofen or something for the pain?”
    Officer Santos frowned. “We’re not allowed to give you medication. Sorry. Maybe we should get you to the hospital. We can ask you questions from there,” he suggested, but I shook my head.
    “Yeah, man, maybe we should get you looked at,” Brett said. I’d almost forgotten he was still there.
    “Not yet. I need you guys to catch the piece of shit who hurt my sister,” I blurted without thinking.
    Calling Cassie my sister had seemed like the smart thing to do. I knew from watching TV shows that if you weren’t related, people didn’t give you information. She was important to Jack, which meant she was important to me, so I needed to know everything there was to know about her situation.
    Santos sat down across from me before giving his partner an order. “Lance, go grab the camera, please.”
    “You’re going to record this?” I asked, assuming he was going to film my statement.
    “Photograph. It’s standard procedure. We need evidence of all your injuries.” He glanced at Brett. “Do you have any injuries, or is that blood all his?”
    Brett shook his head. “It’s all his.”
    “We’ll still photograph your shirt,” he said as Officer Candalle came back carrying a digital camera similar to Cassie’s.
    “Can you point out your injuries?” he asked, and when I pointed to the top of my head, he snapped a few photos.
    He studied me, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Does your face hurt at all anywhere?”
    “No, why?” I looked at Brett, wondering why he was asking.
    Candalle shook his head. “Nothing major. Just a few superficial cuts. Can you tell us what happened while we take the rest of the pictures?”
    He snapped away, taking pictures of my head, my face, and Brett’s shirt, while Santos typed quickly on his laptop.
    “We were walking toward campus,” I said, “on our way to the softball fields, when some guy came out of nowhere and attacked my sister. She was behind us, so no one noticed at first.”
    I felt light-headed, so I put my head between my legs for a moment. The room was quiet, and the officers waited patiently until I could continue.
    “When I turned around, I saw her head fly to the side. He’d hit her. We all started running back for her at that point, but he hit her again. Then the next thing I remember was the guy telling me he had a gun, asking me if I wanted to die, and then I woke up with Brett carrying me across campus. But I’m sure more happened after I passed out. You have to ask my sister.”
    “Can you describe the assailant?” Santos asked, still typing.
    “He was about five foot eleven, but skinny. Looked like he weighed maybe a buck fifty, not muscular in build, but quick. He was damn fast on his feet,” I said, searching my mind for other details. “Oh, he had dark blond hair that went to his shoulders. It was stringy, and looked dirty. That’s all I remember.”
    Candalle nodded and set aside the camera. “That’s great, really helpful. Anything else you can think of? Did he have any distinguishing marks that you can remember? Any tattoos? Scars?”
    “Not that I recall,” I said, feeling like a failure.
    “What about you, Brett. Did you get a good look at him?”
    Brett shifted on his feet. “I didn’t, actually. I just saw Dean fall to