She realized she had never talked to Jesse about what to do if there was a thud in the night, voices, a knock on the door. Specifically, she had never told him that whatever he did, he shouldn’t answer. It could be some crazed criminal who gained entry into unsuspecting homes by knocking at an hour when people were too tired to question and instead just opened up.
She sat up. He usually slept through anything, but what if this had woken him, too? What if he was getting up right now, making his way to the door? She jumped to her feet and flew downstairs. Sneaking past the front door, she checked the basement, letting out a long, relieved breath when she found it was dark and silent. Jesse must be sleeping through the racket, thank goodness.
Eyeing the front door again, she took a timid step toward it, then another. A narrow strip of glass ran the full length of the wood frame on either side. The glass was thick, like the bottoms of soda bottles, its purpose more about aesthetics and letting in a bit of light, less about providing a clear view outside. But if she got close enough to the glass, she would be able to make something out, at least, and with the outdoor light on and the interior ones off, she would be able to see who was there without being seen herself.
Holding her breath, she stepped to the narrow window and peered out. There was a police car parked at her curb—its lights weren’t flashing, but she could easily identify their silhouettes on its hood. A police officer, his dark uniform distinguishable even through the thick glass, stood on the doorstep, his arm raised, ready to bang again. Markie was flooded with relief.
Until she opened the door and got a clearer look at the squad car: there were two boys in the backseat, and one was her son.
Chapter Fifteen
Five of them, including Jesse, had been caught spray-painting Levin Pharmacy, a few doors down from the sandwich shop. Markie couldn’t believe it. Not only the illegality of the act, but the incongruity of it. Their first week in the bungalow, they had met the Levins, a lovely older couple whom Jesse, true to form, opened up to immediately. He had even offered to make trips to the pharmacy himself when they ran out of paper towels or soap or milk.
“I don’t mind,” he insisted. “Mr. Levin’s funny, and Mrs. Levin’s like a grandma—you know, a typical one, always friendly and happy to see you and handing out cookies and stuff.” Not like Lydia, in other words.
The pharmacy was a stand-alone building, and they had managed to tag three of its four sides before the squad car pulled up. Jesse’s handiwork was confined to the pharmacy’s alley-facing back wall, behind a dumpster. His tag—one straight line about six inches long—might have gone unnoticed, the officer told Markie, as Jesse might have himself, had he not walked to the front of the store, hands up, when he heard the police arresting his friends.
The officer asked Markie to follow the squad car down to the station. Jesse was released into her custody that night, with orders to return on Monday morning to speak to the judge. Because of his age and the fact he’d never been in trouble before, he was likely to be treated under the juvenile code, the officer explained. With luck, he’d get a warning, and his file would be destroyed. The same was true for Trevor, who also had a clean record.
“Judge Hegarty usually gives kids one free pass,” the officer told Jesse. “But don’t ever show up in front of him again.” He pulled Markie aside and said, “Keep him away from the other three guys. They’re always on our radar, and that’s not a place your kid wants to be.” Those three would be almost certain to get probation, since this wasn’t their first time at the station. They’d be ordered to make restitution to the Levins for the damage, too. The oldest two, both juniors and clearly the ringleaders of the operation, might even face charges as adults.
Driving home, Markie tried to loosen her death grip on the steering wheel, to relax the taut muscles that strained so tightly her forearms were shaking. She took deep breaths, held them for a count of four, and let them out slowly while she told herself to wait, calm down, take the time to get home and into the driveway before she let him have it. If she started in on him now, when her rage was at its peak, she might not be able to stop herself.
She watched him as he sat slumped against the passenger-side door, his mouth trembling, his left hand covering his eyes. Was it true remorse or an act? The thought that he might be faking made her want to let go of the steering wheel with her right hand and smash him, a solid backhand to the chest. It’s what her father would do. Not sure how to express your disappointment? Show it.
She had never struck her son before, but God, it was tempting right now, and it would spare her the task of having to sort through the hadron collider of thoughts racing around in her mind, smashing into each other and against the inside of her skull. What was he thinking, sneaking out in the middle of the night with a bunch of teenage thugs? Vandalizing that lovely couple’s property? When had he turned into that kind of person?
He wasn’t the only subject of her rage, though. She was furious with the other boys, too, for coming up with such an asinine plan and dragging her son into it. He was an idiot to go along with it, but that’s all he had done—gone along, and probably because they let him know if he didn’t, he could find another group to hang out with. They had preyed on his new-kid status, and she hated them for that. Pick on someone with your own criminal background.
And then there was Kyle. Unreliable, selfish, non-child-support-paying, good-for-nothing Kyle. The image of her ex-husband made her chest and neck burn with ire—now there was a guy who deserved a good clobbering. Their son needed a strong, responsible father figure, especially now, and what he’d gotten was a useless, spineless man-child who couldn’t keep a single promise. And it wasn’t only how Kyle had acted since the divorce. It was everything he’d done leading up to it—everything he’d done to cause it. How could he expect their son to operate within the boundaries of his mother’s house rules—let alone the law—when Kyle himself had cheated, lied, and stolen his way out of his own marriage?
And what about Markie herself? Didn’t she belong at the top of her own hit list? How stupid could she be, putting an angry teenager into a room with an escape window and assuming he’d only use it in an emergency? Letting him trot off with kids she knew nothing about, accepting his “nothing” and “nowhere” answers? If her son deserved a dressing-down for choosing the wrong friends, for going along with their illegal schemes, didn’t she deserve one, too, for her negligence in allowing him such freedom?