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Stephen swallowed hard. His lips were chalk-white. “It’s Miles,” he said. “Miles and his dad.”
“So Ray’s involved.”
“No…yes... Oh, man...” Stephen shoved his hair from his eyes. “He’s…he’s been in jail before and he…he’s the one who wanted Mr. Wells’s keys.”
“Why?” he asked, turning the information over in his head.
Stephen shook his head. “I dunno. He heard I stole the keys once and drove one of the cars. Miles told him, and then Miles dared me to do it again and bring him the car and keys, but I didn’t. I messed up, stole the keys but didn’t get the car and…and... Well…I decided I couldn’t be a part of whatever it was, so I didn’t turn over the keys. I thought I’d get rid of ’em, but then Mr. Wells disappeared and...”
“And what?” J.D. demanded. The kid couldn’t clam up on him now.
“I…I just hid ’em. Miles got real mad. Beat me up. Told me he and his dad were going to hurt Mom and Chrissie if I didn’t give ’em the keys, and then the police came and…and I got in big trouble.”
J.D. held Stephen at arm’s length and looked him straight in the eye. He felt a connection with this boy, his brother’s son, who was so much like him. “Well, Stephen,” he said, his jaw rock-hard, “I think it’s time to get you out.”
* * *
Carrying a sleeping Christina, Tiffany tried to open the back door, but it was locked.
“What in the world?” she wondered, balancing her daughter as she fumbled in her purse, fishing for her keys. Stephen should have been home hours ago, and J.D. was normally around at this time in the evening. She glanced around the driveway and noticed that his Jeep wasn’t in its usual spot.
Good.
Then she wouldn’t have to deal with him.
A part of her ached to be with him, to relive the lovemaking they’d shared, and yet she still needed time to think, to sort things out.
Christina yawned and opened her eyes.
“We’re home, sweetie,” Tiffany said as she found the key and managed to unlock the door. “Stephen?” she called, but no one answered. “Great.” She glanced at the table and saw no note but didn’t panic. Not yet.
“Let’s get you upstairs and into bed,” she told her daughter, and for once the little girl didn’t protest. Within twenty minutes Christina was washed and tucked into her bed, snoring softly and sucking her thumb as Tiffany turned out the lights.
The house seemed empty without her son.
And without J.D.
She walked outside where evening had settled and down the flight of steps to Mrs. Ellingsworth’s apartment. The door opened after the first rap of her knuckles against the panels. Curlers were wound through the older woman’s gray hair, and her face, devoid of any makeup, appeared older than usual. “Sorry to bother you, but I was looking for Stephen.”
“Isn’t he here?” Ellie frowned thoughtfully.
“Not that I can tell.”
“Well, he was. He and that other boy—you know the one I mean, the hooligan—well, he looks like one—”
“Miles Dean.” Tiffany’s heart nearly stopped. There was more trouble simmering in the summer night. She could feel it.
“The older Dean boy, if that’s the one,” Ellie said, nodding. “Never can keep those two straight. Anyway, he and Stephen were here earlier. I saw them through the kitchen window.” She pointed to the window in question. Though her unit was on the lowest level of the house, it still got natural light as the lot sloped sharply on the north side.
Tiffany tried to forestall an inevitable feeling of dread. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Oh—” She snapped her fingers. “Did you ask J.D. where Stephen went?”
“He’s not here, either.”
“Isn’t he? Funny, I thought I heard his Jeep earlier. Oh, well.” They chatted for a few minutes more, then said good-night. Tiffany, lost in thought and worry, walked up the steps and was rounding the corner to the backyard when she caught sight of Luke Gates locking the door to his upper-story unit of the carriage house.
He offered her a slight smile. “Evenin’.”
