Chapter 5 - Dark Thoughts and Fears
A few minutes later, the sound of rushing water echoed down from the upstairs pipes.
I stood alone in the dark kitchen, surrounded by the smell of mud and rain, listening to the steady hum of the shower.
My mind became a breeding ground for dark, terrifying scenarios.
The pieces of the puzzle were spread out before me, and none of them created a wholesome picture.
A thick stack of cash hidden in his room.
Six months of relentless work with no bicycle to show for it.
Coming home hours late, filthy, bruised, and bleeding.
Inability to explain where his cash earnings were kept.
Direct, blatant lies about his whereabouts.
What had my thirteen-year-old boy gotten himself into?
I thought about the neighborhood. While our suburb was generally quiet, the adjacent district near the train tracks had seen a rise in youth gangs and drug sales over the past year. Had an older boy recruited Evan? Was he acting as a runner, holding cash or moving packages in exchange for cut-rate pay? Was he being blackmailed or forced to pay protection money to older kids at school?
Or was it something worse? Was he stealing? Was the cash I saw on his floor money he had taken from Sal’s register, and was the fight tonight the result of a deal gone bad with an accomplice?
The thoughts made me physically sick. I gripped the edge of the kitchen sink, my knuckles turning white, tears of frustration blurring my vision.
How had I missed the signs? I was his mother. I was supposed to protect him. But I had been so wrapped up in my own grief over Mark, so consumed by the terrifying stack of unpaid bills on my desk, that I had allowed my thirteen-year-old son to slip into a dark, secret double life right under my roof.
Evan didn't come downstairs after his shower. He went straight into his bedroom and locked the door.
I walked up to his door and knocked gently. "Evan?"
"I'm tired, Mom," his voice sounded small and muffled from behind the wood. "Can we talk tomorrow? Please?"
I leaned my forehead against the cool wooden panel. I knew that pushing him into a corner tonight, while he was exhausted and injured, might only make him retreat further into his shell.
"Tomorrow morning, Evan," I said firmly. "No more excuses. You are going to sit down with me and tell me every single detail of what is going on. Do you understand?"
Silence.
"Do you understand?" I repeated.
"...Yes," came the faint reply. "Goodnight, Mom."
I walked back down to the kitchen, cleaned up the mud from the floor, and sat at the dining table until 3:00 AM.
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I made a decision. Tomorrow, I was going to get the absolute truth, no matter how painful it was. If he refused to talk, I would search his room from top to bottom. I would open that backpack. I would call the school, call the police if necessary, and figure out who was hurting my boy.
I went to bed, but rest never came.
