“Let’s go for a coffee and talk about it. I’ll tell you everything I did all week—every single day, hour by hour. And you can tell me why you’re so sure it was me, okay?”
He sounds sincere, like he really doesn’t understand what I’m talking about. I look at the road, the piles of snow starting to settle on the center line. I’d have to run to catch the bus, and if I miss it, the next one isn’t for thirty minutes. Maybe it would be good to hear what he has to say. If it was him who broke in, I can scare him about getting caught and he’ll stay away from Mom.
“If you take me anywhere else, I’ll call the cops—I have my phone in my pocket.”
He holds his hands up. “Okay.”
I take one last look down the road, then climb inside.
We’re quiet in the truck. He turns the heat up and I glance around, notice the big container of gum in the ashtray. I’m stabbed with another memory, the beer he used to drink at the job site, then he’d pop gum into his mouth before we drove home. He sees me looking.
“Want a piece?”
“It doesn’t work, you know. Cops can still tell.”
He glances at me and I think he’s going to be mad, but he sounds calm as he says, “I’m not drinking, Sophie. I’m never touching a drop again. I missed it at first, but I don’t think about it anymore. I was just using it as a way to cope with my emotions. I don’t want you to worry.”
“Doesn’t matter to me.” I turn away and stare out the window, see my reflection, my wet hair. I think about Mom and how angry she would be at me right now. I have to hear his explanation. She doesn’t think I can see through him, but if he’s lying, I’ll figure it out.
The Muddy Bean is full and noisy, the air smells of damp clothes and coffee, and freshly buttered toast that makes my stomach growl. I order a cheese scone and coffee at the counter and pull out my wallet, but he insists on paying. It’s strange, feeling him standing beside me, his arm brushing against mine. It seems like such a dad thing to do, paying for my lunch, but it also reminds me of how Mom was broke for so long. We rarely got to do things like going out for lunch together, unless you count a hot dog in the food court at the mall.
We sit down and I tear off a piece of my scone, shove it into my mouth. Partly from hunger, partly to buy myself some time before I have to speak.
“Good?” he says.
I nod. He’s fiddling with the handle of his mug and leaning forward in his chair. He keeps looking at my face, waiting for me to talk.
“Why did you break into our house?” I say.
“If I did something stupid like that I could go back to prison.” He leans forward even farther, his upper body almost on the table. “I spent ten years in there, Sophie. I know you can’t imagine what that’s like, but it’s hell, okay? The prisons you see on TV and in movies? That Lockup show or whatever. Those are country clubs compared with the place I came from.”
His explanation makes sense. Why would he risk his freedom? But who else would have broken in and not taken anything? “You were really angry Mom divorced you.”
“I was pissed off for a long time, but I understand why she didn’t want to be with me anymore. I was mostly mad at myself. I screwed things up, I told you that. But I’m not going to walk out of jail and start messing things up again. Are you sure anyone broke in?”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen, I know your mom is angry at me, and she has good reason, okay? But maybe she also wants to make sure you stay mad at me.”
“She wouldn’t lie. Someone opened all her bills too. And there was a book beside her bathtub, with candles. She was really scared.”
He frowns, leans back in his chair with his head to the side like he’s thinking. His eyebrows are pulled together. It makes him look tough, mean. “It sounds like someone is messing around with her. I don’t like that, especially when you’re living there. She needs to get an alarm.”
“We have one. I forgot to set it.” Maybe it wasn’t him. Why would he tell us to get an alarm? I don’t know what to think anymore. Could it be one of her creepy clients? Or that girl who used to work for her? She quit because Mom was giving her a hard time about getting back together with her loser boyfriend and missing work.
“Does she think I want to hurt her?”
We’re holding gazes and I can feel the scone sticking in my throat and I have a gut cramp and want to run out the door and get far away from him. How can I look at him and say what I’m thinking? He doesn’t seem angry, though, more like he’s not really surprised. I don’t answer.
“Right.” He takes a breath and runs his hands through his wet hair. He has dark pouches under his eyes and I think he must be tired. “Did your mom ever tell you about my family?”
“A little.”