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When my mother became suspicious about my disappearances after school, she started inventing errands for me to run that ate into all of my free time during the day.
After two weeks of that, I saw a sign in our bakery window for a kitchen prep position that went from 8pm to midnight.
I went to my grandfather and offered to take this position and let him sample the ginger lemon scones I wanted to bake exclusively for our bakery.
He was ecstatic and made a call to the division that oversaw our stores and in a matter of minutes the job was mine. I love to bake, am a night owl by nature, and this gave me the perfect cover to see Weston. He’s set to come at 10 which will give me plenty of time to do my work.
I unlock the bakery and catch the glow of a light on in the back. Curious, more than worried, I head for the kitchen.
“Hello? Is someone here?” I call and push open the double doors that lead to the back rooms. There’s no response, but the snick of a door closing, is all the answer I need.
My heart skips a beat. Marlene, the bakery manager, told me that the lock on the back door was broken but no one was worried about break-ins in Rivers Wilde.
Nevertheless, I pull out my keys and fumble for the small bottle of mace on it. I hold it in front of me and hold my breath as I yank the door open and step into the cavernous room where we store our dry supplies.
The room is completely empty. I scan the space and notice one of the huge cabinets that line the walls is slightly ajar. The sound of sharp, shallow breathing as I get closer confirms my fear.
Whoever is in there can’t be a big person. But danger comes in all shapes and sizes. At this time of night, nothing good could be lurking here.
“I know you’re there, so you might as well come out.” I nudge the door with my foot again and hold my breath.
Nothing happens.
“I’m gonna count to three and then I’m opening this door… I’ve got a gun.” I add that lie in hopes that they’ll come out slowly enough to give me a chance to bolt if I need to.
“One…two…” The cabinet door swings open and a small, pale hand reaches out from the dark recess of the industrial sized cabinet. I stop counting. The hand is joined by a skinny, freckled arm. A head, topped by a thick, unruly, wavy mop of sandy brown hair appears next and I come face to face with my trespasser.
He’s just a boy, doesn’t appear to be any older than seven or eight, dressed in a school uniform I recognize.
A few months ago, when I was still keeping up appearances, I dated a boy who attends the prestigious all boys boarding school, Blackwell Academy. I remember him mentioning a ten-year boy enrolling in ninth grade at the start of this school year. This kid looks younger than that, but this has to be him.
His face is pointed at the floor, his shoulders hunched in on himself. His little body is rigid, the hands he shoves into the pockets of his navy-blue uniform pants, ball into fists.
“What are you doing here?” I make my voice as calm as possible.
“Hiding,” comes his disgruntled, sarcastic reply.
“I got that part,” I return with the same snark.
“Then, why’d you ask?” The defiance in his voice belies his posture.
But I recognize little boy bravado when I see it. He’s hiding from someone, or something, or both.
Unfortunately, he can’t do it here. Not with Weston coming and not when putting a foot wrong could jeopardize this last vestige of freedom I’ve managed to carve out for myself.
“Okay, how about I don’t ask you anything else? How about I just call the police and let them ask you all the questions they want?” I ask, bluffing in hopes that he’ll scurry away.
?
?Wait,” he cries. His head snaps up, revealing a tear streaked, freckled face, red rimmed dark eyes magnified behind thick, black plastic framed glasses. They magnify the dark smudges under his eye. I scan the rest of his face and gasp at the fresh split in his lower lip and a smear of blood on the tip of his nose.
His eyes narrow as he takes me in, too. “You don’t have a gun.”
I raise my eyebrows at his indignant, accusing glare. “And you have no business being here.”
His swollen mouth tightens, and he winces, his tongue prods his raw lower lip and my annoyance transfers from him to whoever hurt and scared him.
“What happened to your face?” I ask him
