“It was Owen. He’s at work, had some trouble with his truck,” I lie. “He needs me to come get him. It’s only a few blocks. I won’t be gone long; can I borrow the keys?”
“Oh, poor kid. Here, let me just turn the stove off. I’ll come with you,” she says, my stomach starting to fill with the drumming beats of my heart, the heaviness of stress weighing me down more.
“No, no,” I start, and she pauses, tilting her head in that way, the same way she did before when she caught me looking at pictures of Gaby. The face she makes says she knows, just not everything. “You’re in the middle of cooking. And I’m really looking forward to tonight. I don’t want to stop you, or to mess any of this up,” I say, this time not really a lie. “Let me go. Let me do this. Please.”
Please.
I say the same word Owen said, hoping it resonates. Something does, but my mom waits for a few long seconds before nodding her head toward the keys on the counter.
“If the speed limit is thirty, you drive twenty, okay?” she says. I smile and cross my heart, trying to keep it light, inside wishing I was a better driver so I could be there as quickly as House would be.
He called me. He didn’t call House.
That thought…it feels….
I’m careful as I buckle myself into the car, tossing my wallet and phone into the passenger seat. I maneuver down the driveway, onto the road and to the end of our block, and then I shut my eyes while I sit at the stop sign, not a single car coming in either direction. Which way is Eighth? Which way?
My gut tells me to turn right, so I do. I’m rewarded by street names that count down from Seventeenth to Sixteenth to Thirteenth and soon Tenth. When I find Eighth, I actually laugh out loud with the kind of glee I didn’t think was real.
“I’m coming, Owen,” I whisper to myself.
I see the main grocery store near the strip mall in the distance, and despite my mother’s best warnings, I punch the gas, skipping part of the curb as I pull into the parking lot, and my tires squeal as I move down the main lane through the mall. I can see the small security vehicle and the squad car parked next to it, the lights flashing like there’s an emergency.
I park right next to the cars, grab my things, and rush into the small gift shop where Owen is sitting, his hands cuffed.
“Owen! I’m here. What’s…” I pause when I see his dejected face. His hands are pulled tightly behind his body, and everything about him looks tired and defeated.
“Miss,” the officer says.
“Kensington,” I say to him, my full name. This feels like I should be formal.
“You know this young man?” he asks.
“Yes. We’re friends. He’s my neighbor,” I say, not really sure what the right definition is for our relationship. I want to say whatever makes this better for Owen.
“We were sort of expecting a parent,” the officer says, tipping his glasses down and looking at Owen with an intense scowl.
“I told you. My mom is working. I don’t have anyone else. And I didn’t do anything wrong!” Owen says, his temper showing its familiar flare.
“I’m sorry. Could someone explain what’s going on? How can I help?” I interrupt, my hands shaking while I move to a small folding chair across from Owen and an older man.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” the man sitting next to him says, his white hair tufting on either side of his head, his eyes framed with thick black-rimmed glasses. “This young…hooligan…tried to pocket this charm bracelet while he was emptying out the trash! That’s what’s going on.”
The man waves a small, silver bracelet toward Owen, and it jangles while he shakes it to emphasize his opinion. I look to Owen, looking for confirmation that this is false. But there’s a part of me that wonders, the part that knows how dangerous Owen can be. This…this would be such a small thing for him—not even a thrill from the crime.
I wait while he shuts his eyes and shakes his head, and I’m not sure what he’s feeling. “I told you, I bought it this morning, from the girl who was working here,” Owen says, and my chest fills with air, my body washed with relief.
“There, see?” I say, standing, practically demanding and proclaiming him innocent.
“Then where’s the receipt, you little piece of shit?” the old man yells, standing and smacking his hand down on the seat he just abandoned. I look to the officer, who stands silently, his pen already armed to take down the guilty report.
“We’ve done this already. I can’t find it. But maybe it’s in my truck. Just let me look,” Owen says, his voice trailing off because he knows the response he’ll get.