Winner of the Mystery Writers of America's 2011 Edgar Award for Best Young Adult Fiction American Library Association Quick Picks for Young Adults Texas TAYSHAS High School Reading List Eyewitness to two killings, fourteen-year-old Gabriel James relates the shocking story behind the murders in a police interrogation interspersed with flashbacks. Step by step, this Montana teenager traces his discovery of a link between a troubled classmate's disturbing home life and an outbreak of local crime. In the process, however, Gabriel becomes increasingly confused about his own culpability for the explosive events that have unfolded. “As with the finest interrogation dramas, like the movie The Usual Suspects , the final reveal is both satisfying and surprising, but it's the well-structured and paced buildup that's most worth relishing.” ― Booklist “The author writes intriguing and believable characters…The result is not only suspense but a memorable and believable characterization. Top notch.” ― Kirkus Reviews “Gripping . . . A rewarding quick pick for mystery fans.” ― BCCB “Price's taut thriller takes place during the police questioning of high school sophomore Gabe, who has witnessed a murder he might be partly responsible for . . . Tension builds effectively, and the final revelations, including those that involve Gabe's own family, do not disappoint. The fast pace, dark mood, and well-plotted story line should have readers hooked.” ― Publishers Weekly Charlie Price lives in northern California. He is an executive coach for business leaders and has also worked with at-risk teens in schools, hospitals, and communities. He is the author of several novels, including Desert Angel and The Interrogation of Gabriel James , winner of the Edgar Award. The Interrogation of Gabriel James By Charlie Price Square Fish Copyright © 2012 Charlie Price All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312641610 1 I STOOD AT THE BACK of a small crowd in a bleak cemetery north of the Yellowstone River, the second funeral I had attended this week. A pastor waited at the head of the grave for someone to offer any last remarks. No one did. The deceased’s father stood closest to the coffin, hands cuffed in front of him, long gray hair moving when wind gusted. A deputy sheriff stood beside him, and, farther back, the cuffed man’s daughter stood with my mother, both of them in solemn black dresses that didn’t look like they would ever be worn for anything but a funeral. There was no music. If there had been any eulogy, I had missed it. I knew other people in the crowd, some from our school, some from the Community Center. Though last week’s warm chinook had cleared snow from the surrounding hills, the ground underfoot was cold and solid, the dust bound by ice. In the distance, clouds drifted southeast toward Hardin and Crow Agency. Other than blasts of wind and people’s shoes creaking, it was quiet. Too far from the interstate to hear traffic. Too near the dead of winter for most bird songs. The pastor, a liberal theology teacher from a local college, cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I guess that’s all.” It sounded like an apology. Everybody began walking back toward the cars except the father and the deputy. I stopped to watch, wondering whether the man would throw dirt on the coffin. The deputy took a step back but the father didn’t move. He was looking straight out past the grave, out toward the Prior Mountains where a falcon circled above empty rangeland. Yesterday I had been standing in a different cemetery out the direction he was looking, where they buried another young man. That young man had killed the person being buried today. I knew there was a lot more to the story than that. I knew enough to wish that time could collapse like an old telescope, that some events once seen in greater detail would disappear from the horizon, gone for good. Gone forever. THE NEXT DAY, Monday, I walked ahead of a deputy sheriff named Childress and a representative from the Billings Police Department into an uncarpeted room in the County Annex. “We could have done some of this at your house,” Childress said. “You’re not under arrest.” I waited but she didn’t say “yet.” “I’m not exactly . . . I don’t want to talk about this at home,” I said. The concrete floor smelled stale, the room was too small and too warm. It made my concussion throb. There were a couple of chairs on one side of the table. I took the single on the other side and noticed my reflection in the wall mirror to my right. I hadn’t slept much last night and my face was dull and colorless like a specimen in bio lab. I wasn’t sure if I was headed for jail, wasn’t sure how much of this was my fault, but I’d come up with a plan. Just answer their questions. Don’t lie, but don’t elaborate. Don’t let your guard down or give them anything to use against you. It was a familiar strategy, pretty much the way I’d operated with adults since Dad left. Childress sat. The B