Chapter 7: David Reid
The police non-emergency line transferred me to a detective named Paulson.
I called from the school parking lot while Sandra stayed inside with Anita and the principal.
I told him everything in the same order I'd told Mr.
Garfield.
He asked me to slow down twice.
He asked me to spell David Reid's name.
He asked whether I had the screenshots saved somewhere other than a phone.
"I have printed copies and they're also backed up to my email," I said.
"Good," he said.
"Don't delete anything.
Don't contact David Reid directly.
Can you come in this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Bring everything you have.
Printed and digital."
I went back inside.
Sandra was in the hallway outside Mr.
Garfield's office.
She handed me a coffee from the machine down the hall.
I didn't ask how she knew I needed it.
She just did.
"Paulson," I said.
"Detective.
I'm going in this afternoon."
She nodded.
"Anita wants to come."
"She should."
We stood in the hallway drinking bad coffee from paper cups.
Through the office window I could see Leo still sitting at the round table with Ms.
Okafor.
They were talking.
Leo was doing more of it than I expected.
"He looks like he's been waiting to talk to someone," Sandra said.
"I think he has been," I said.
We were quiet for a moment.
"Chloe cried for two hours after I called you last night," Sandra said.
"Not because she was upset.
Because she said she finally felt like someone believed her." She looked at her coffee cup.
"She'd been worried that people would say she was overreacting.
Because Leo had been her friend.
Because our families know each other."
"She wasn't overreacting."
"I know that.
But she's fourteen.
And she'd been carrying it alone for two weeks." Sandra looked up.
"I'm glad you came in today.
I'm glad you brought him."
"He needed to be here," I said.
"He needed to say it out loud to people it affected."
"Yes," Sandra said.
"He did."
The afternoon at the police station was long and procedural and nothing like what I'd imagined.
Detective Paulson was methodical and unhurried.
He photographed every printed page.
He had me walk him through the Discord group from the beginning — when it was created, what the pinned messages said, the pattern of David Reid's posts over four months.
"The language he uses," Paulson said, tapping one of the screenshots, "is consistent with what we call grooming rhetoric.
He's not teaching these boys to talk to girls.
He's teaching them to override refusals.
That's a specific thing."
"I know," I said.
"How old is your son?"
"Fifteen."
Paulson looked at the screenshot for another moment.
"The boys in this group are victims too," he said.
"Not in the same way the girls are.
But someone spent four months teaching them that no doesn't mean no.
That's not something a kid comes up with on his own."
I thought about Leo at thirteen.
Remembered how he'd talked about Coach Dave.
*He remembered your name.
He'd ask how school was going.*
"He coached their soccer team," I said.
"When they were thirteen.
He was removed.
Do you know why?"
Paulson wrote something down.
"I'll find out," he said.
By the time I left the station it was nearly four o'clock.
I sat in my car for a few minutes before starting the engine.
The afternoon light was flat and gray.
Somewhere across town, Leo was home.
Ms.
Okafor had arranged for him to finish the day with a counselor rather than in class.
He'd agreed without argument.
My phone buzzed.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*You need to back off.
You don't know what you're starting.
David has done nothing wrong and if you keep pushing this you're going to destroy a good person's life over your son's mistakes.*
I read it twice.
Then I screenshotted it and forwarded it to Detective Paulson with a single line: *Just received this.
Unknown number.*
He replied in four minutes.
*Save it.
Don't respond.
May you like
We'll trace it.*
I started the engine and drove home.
