Chapter 7 - Chaos at the Diner
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.
"What are you talking about?" I whispered, my mouth suddenly bone dry. "What lie?"
"He isn't saving for that bike," Sal said. "He's never been saving for that bike."
"Then what is he doing with the money?!" I screamed into the phone, tears finally breaking free and streaming down my cheeks. "Where is he taking it?!"
Before Sal could answer my question, loud shouting erupted in the background of the call.
I heard muffled voices arguing over the clatter of stainless steel. Then, clearly echoing through the receiver, I heard my son’s cracked, desperate voice.
"Please! Don't tell my mom! Please, Sal! Don't call her!"
I shot straight up out of my chair. "Evan?!" I screamed. "Evan!"
In the background, another adult shouted—a cook or a manager. Then came a violent, terrifying noise—a deafening crash of heavy ceramic plates shattering across a hard floor, followed by a thumping sound and frantic shouting.
"Evan!" I was shouting hysterically now, holding the phone tight to my ear with both hands. "Sal! What's happening down there?! Is he hurt?!"
Sal came back onto the line, breathing heavily as if he had just been running.
"Ma’am, you need to get down here right now," Sal rasped into the receiver.
"What happened to him?!" I cried. "Did he fall?!"
"Your son tried to do it again," Sal said, his voice shaking with raw emotion.
My entire body went numb and cold. "Do what? Sal, please, speak to me!"
"Please," Sal pleaded softly. "Just get here. Fast."
The line went dead. Click.
I dropped the phone. I didn't grab my coat. I didn't turn off the kitchen lights. I grabbed my car keys off the counter, burst through the front door, and sprinted to my sedan.
The drive to 4th Street was a blur of terror. I ran two red lights, my hands slick with cold sweat on the steering wheel, my heart pounding so hard against my ribs it felt like it would break.
Every nightmare scenario I had constructed over the past twenty-four hours returned with terrible force.
Had Evan stolen money from the diner?
Was he mixed up with dangerous people who were coming to collect money from him?
Had he been hurt in a fight?
Was the money in his room dirty cash?
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"Please God," I prayed aloud, sobbing over the hum of the engine. "Please let him be okay. Please let my baby be okay."
I pulled into the parking lot of Sal’s Diner, screeching to a halt across two parking spaces. I threw the car into park, slammed the door shut, and ran straight through the front entrance.
