Part Four: 4:37 A.M.
At 4:37 on Sunday morning, I woke up to the sound of the kitchen door.
I know the exact time because I looked at the clock on my nightstand. The red numbers glowing in the dark.
4:37.
I lay there for a second, my heart pounding. Biscuit was asleep at the foot of my bed. He didn’t even lift his head.
I heard footsteps in the kitchen. Small ones. Slow ones.
I got up. I grabbed the baseball bat I keep by my bedroom door. I walked down the hall in my bare feet.
I flipped on the kitchen light.
My nine-year-old son was standing in the middle of our kitchen.
He was carrying two sleeping bags. One under each arm. Dusty. Wrinkled. Dragging on the floor.
He had an orange piece of paper in one hand, crumpled.
His knees were dusty. His face was smudged with dirt. His eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted. He was wearing his jacket over his pajamas.
And one of his shoes was wrapped in a plastic Walmart shopping bag. Tied around his ankle with the handles.
“Finn?”
He looked up when he heard his name. His face was nervous. Scared.
“Mom,” he said. “Please don’t be upset.”
I set the baseball bat down against the counter.
My eyes moved to the sleeping bags.
One was his dark-blue camping bag. The other was red.
I knew that red sleeping bag. I’d seen it on my son’s bedroom floor a hundred times.
OWEN was written across the bottom in black marker.
“Where’s Owen?” I asked.
Finn lowered his gaze.
“He’s still there,” he said.
“Still where?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“Inside the car,” he said.
For a moment, I wondered if I’d heard him correctly.
“Which car, sweetheart?”
“Wade’s old Buick,” Finn said. “The one behind his garage.”
I knew the car. A silver Buick LeSabre. Fifteen years old, at least. It had been parked on the gravel pad behind Beth’s garage since Wade moved in. He said it was his grandfather’s. He said he was going to fix it up someday.
It didn’t run. I was almost sure it didn’t run.
“Finn,” I said slowly. “Why were you sleeping in Wade’s car?”
His expression changed.
He looked at me with those tired, red eyes. And he said something that made my whole body go cold.
“Because Owen hasn’t been allowed to stay inside at night,” he said.
Part Five: Eight Weekends
I stared at him.
“What do you mean?” I said.
Finn shifted the sleeping bags in his arms.
“When his mom leaves for work,” he said, “Wade tells him he has to stay somewhere else.”
My heart sank.
Beth worked overnight. Friday and Saturday nights. Seven p.m. to seven a.m.
“And you’ve been staying with him?” I asked.
Finn nodded.
“How many weekends?”
He rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Maybe eight weekends.”
Eight weekends.
Since the first Friday in September.
For nearly two months, my son had been spending his weekends in a car. In October. In Missouri. While I’d been home in my warm bed, assuming he was staying up late playing Mario Kart.
Then I noticed the orange paper in his hand.
“Where did you find that?” I asked.
“Somebody left it on the windshield,” Finn said.
I took it from him. I unfolded it.
It was a notice from the Walmart on Battlefield Road. The big Supercenter about a mile from our house.
NOTICE: Overnight parking is not permitted on this property. Vehicles remaining after 6:00 a.m. will be towed at owner’s expense.
“Why was Wade’s Buick parked at Walmart?” I asked.
Finn hesitated.
“He brought it there last night,” he said.
“While you were both inside?”
He nodded.
“He towed it,” Finn said. “With his truck. With a chain. We were in the back seat.”
I had to hold on to the edge of the counter.
“Was Wade there with you?” I asked.
Finn shook his head.
“He left,” he said. “He said he’d come back in the morning before the store opened. He always comes back before Owen’s mom gets home.”
I tried to remain calm.
I’m a pharmacist. I deal with emergencies. Drug interactions. Overdoses. People screaming at me across the counter. I know how to keep my voice steady.
My voice was not steady.
“Where exactly is Owen now?” I asked.
“He’s in the back seat,” Finn said. “In the Buick. At Walmart.”
“Why didn’t he come home with you?”
Finn looked down at the sleeping bags.
“He was worried Wade would be upset,” he said…
