Sandpiper Cove

by Irene Hannon

  “It’s my life. I can do what I want.”

  She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. She might hate conflict—but she was not going to let her son throw his life away, like she had. Maybe she hadn’t had much backbone when Jerry was around. Maybe she still didn’t. However, on this one point she would stand firm.

  “Brian!” She tried to twist the knob.

  It was locked.

  “Open up. Now.”

  “I’m not going to school!”

  “I don’t have time for a debate. I’m already running late for work. Open up.”

  She waited, hands clenched. What if he didn’t comply? At five-seven, he was bigger than she was now. One of these days, he was going to defy her outright . . . and then what would she do?

  Please, let that not happen today!

  The knob rattled, and her shoulders relaxed a hair. At least this was one battle she wouldn’t have to . . .

  Sweet mercy!

  Her stomach bottomed out as she took in her son’s black eye, swollen jaw, and puffy, split lip.

  No wonder his speech had sounded slurred.

  “Oh, Brian!” She reached out to him, but when he backed off, she let her hand drop to her side. “What happened?”

  “I got into a fight.”

  And came out the loser, by all appearances.

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  His halfhearted answer wasn’t convincing.

  She took his arm, propelled him toward the twin bed in the small room, and urged him down onto the mattress. “What else is wrong?”

  He shrugged.

  “Answer me.”

  “I have a bruise.” He touched his side.

  She leaned over, lifted the edge of his T-shirt . . . and sucked in a breath.

  A black and blue contusion as large as her hand stretched around his torso, its angry fingers extending toward his ribs.

  “Oh, baby.” She let the shirt drop back into place and gently touched his uninjured cheek. “Who did this to you?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “You’re not fine. I need to get you to a doctor.”

  “No. I’m putting ice on it.” He gestured to a makeshift ice pack he’d rigged up from a towel and a Ziploc bag. “Once the swelling goes down, I’ll be okay. But I’m not going to school today.”

  In light of his condition, she gave up that fight.

  “Fine. Missing one day won’t hurt.” She twisted her wrist. No way around it—she was going to be late.

  “Go to work. I have this under control.”

  “If you’re getting into fistfights, you don’t have it under control. What started this?”

  “I got into an argument with someone. It’s no big deal.”

  “No big deal? Have you looked in a mirror?” She planted her hands on her hips. “Who did this?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does. Was it another student at school?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, I do. I can’t stand by and let someone hurt you like this.”

  “Why not? You let Dad hurt you—and he was your husband. This guy was just a friend.” He glared at her.

  “Your father never beat me up like this.”

  “He slapped you around.”

  “Only at the end.”

  “But he beat you up in other ways. He slept around, Mom—and instead of confronting him, you buried your head in the sand.”

  That was true.

  It was not, however, a subject she wanted to discuss with her son.

  “That’s history.”

  “He’d still be doing it if he hadn’t walked out after he found someone with more money—and you’d be letting him.”

  “That’s enough, Brian.”

  “You should have thrown him out years ago.”

  “A boy needs a father.” The excuse sounded pathetic even to her ears.

  Disgust flattened Brian’s features. “That is so lame. He sucked as a father. You just didn’t have the guts to tell him to get lost.” He gingerly stretched out on the bed. “Go to work.”

  “We’ll talk when I get home.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you need anything before I leave?”

  He closed his eyes. “Nothing you can give me.”

  The edges of the scene in front of her blurred, and she turned away. Stumbled toward the door. Fled the decrepit trailer they called home.

  But as she climbed behind the wheel of her car and drove toward Coos Bay on autopilot, she admitted the truth.

  Her son was right—about everything.

  She should have dumped Jerry as soon as she recognized him for the callous con man he was.

  Better still, she should have listened to the persistent warning that kept looping through her mind while they’d been dating.

  So what if you’re thirty years old and no beauty queen? So what if there aren’t any other husband prospects beating a path to your door? Don’t be desperate. Don’t settle for a smooth talker who makes you feel like somebody until you know what he’s like inside. Don’t let him rush you.

  Had she taken that sound advice?

  No.

  And she’d been paying the price for her mistake ever since.

  She blinked to clear her vision. If only she’d been smarter and stronger. If only she’d taken Brian and left long ago. Maybe that happy-go-lucky little boy with the perennial smile wouldn’t have grown into a surly teen who got into street fights. Maybe they could have done a lot better on their own.

  If, if, if.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  The story of her life.

  But it was too late to change the past. All she could do was try and cope with the mess she’d made of everything.

  So tonight she’d talk to her son, ask him again to answer the questions he’d evaded a few minutes ago.

  And if that didn’t work?

  She didn’t have a clue.

  Two miles north of Hope Harbor, Lexie slowed the patrol car at Randolph Road and hung a right off 101, heading inland. During her tenure as chief, they’d had a few peace-disturbance calls from the low-end mobile home development at the far edge of town, but none had escalated to serious charges. For the most part, no one who lived there had caused any serious trouble.

  Until now.

  One mile in, she turned right again, past the trailer park entrance sign that was missing a few letters.

  Ocean Breeze?

  Not even close.

  The ocean was miles away.

  She maneuvered the car down the asphalt road, scanning addresses while she dodged potholes. It had taken her a good part of the day to decipher the scribbled first name on the jagged-edged scrap of paper she’d found caught in a bush at Stone’s place. Longer still to realize it was a fragment from a ripped-up math test. But at the high school, the principal had hooked her up with some teachers and she’d hit pay dirt. One of them had given her a pretty solid ID.

  And the other item she’d discovered at Stone’s place could clinch the deal.

  She pulled to the side of the road in front of a trailer well past its prime. An older-model Nissan was parked in the single slot beside it.

  Someone was home.

  Preferably mother and son.

  As she left the cruiser behind and walked to the door, she stayed on high alert. The trailer park appeared to be deserted, but eyes were no doubt watching her from behind the slats in window blinds. And while she didn’t expect trouble, it was always better to be prepared for it.

  At the door, she leaned forward and knocked.

  Seconds later, a woman answered. She was dressed in waitress attire—black slacks and red uniform blouse emblazoned with the name of the diner where she worked. Her gray-flecked hair was pulled back, her face was makeup free except for some faint, lingering specks of color on her lips, and she was carrying some extra pounds on her five-foot-fourish frame.

>   “Brenda Hutton?”

  “Yes.” Twin grooves dented the woman’s brow.

  “Chief Lexie Graham from Hope Harbor. Is your son home?”

  A flicker of fear darted across her face. “Yes.”

  “I’d like to speak with both of you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Yeah. I . . . I guess so.” She eased the door open.

  Lexie crossed the threshold and gave the living room a quick sweep. The furnishings were old, but the place appeared to be clean and there was little clutter.

  No sign of Brian, though.

  “Would you ask your son to join us, please?”

  “He’s . . . uh . . . resting. He got hurt in a fight.”

  That would explain his absence from school today.

  “We can talk in his room if he’d rather stay in bed.”

  “No! Let me . . . uh . . . see how he’s feeling. I’m sure he can come out. Give me a minute.” She scurried away.

  While she waited, Lexie circled the room. There were several photos of Brian at various ages but no family shots.

  That would suggest an absentee father, as the teacher who’d identified the handwriting had speculated.

  And missing fathers were one of the contributors to delinquency.

  The murmur of voices from down the hall ceased, and a door opened.

  Moments later, Brenda appeared, her mouth grim. A gangly teen, sporting a shiner and a split lip, shuffled after her, chin to chest.

  “Why don’t we sit?” Lexie motioned to the kitchen table, visible through a doorway.

  The boy hesitated, but his mother nudged him forward.

  Once they were all seated, Lexie pulled out the copy of the piece of paper she’d found at Stone’s place and set it on the table.

  “Do you recognize this, Brian?”

  His complexion lost a few shades of color.

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “One of the teachers at your school identified your handwriting.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “What’s going on?” Brenda twisted her fingers together on the table and looked back and forth between the two of them.

  “Do you want to tell her, Brian, or shall I?”

  The teen stared at the table and remained mute.

  “I’ll take that as a no.” Lexie transferred her attention to Brenda. “As you may have heard, Hope Harbor has had some vandalism over the past few weeks. One place was hit for the third time yesterday. This go-round, the resident’s dog was injured. I found the original of this during a search of the property this morning.” Lexie tapped the paper.

  Brenda’s knuckles whitened. “My son would never hurt an animal.”

  “Someone did. Is that your son’s handwriting?”

  She squinted at it. “I think so . . . but . . . couldn’t it have been planted there to make him seem guilty?”

  “Who would do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Brenda wrapped her fingers around Brian’s arm. “Talk to us. Were you involved in these vandalism incidents?”

  “No.”

  Lexie pulled a clear evidence bag out of her pocket and set it beside the piece of paper. “I found this too. Look familiar?”

  Mother and son regarded the unusual button.

  “Oh, Brian.” The older woman’s features crumpled.

  “Chill out, Mom.” His skin grew mottled. “Lots of people have coats with that kind of button.”

  “But I suspect this will have your fingerprints on it.” Lexie tucked the envelope back in her pocket.

  The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “Should I get a lawyer?” Brenda’s voice shook.

  “We can’t afford a lawyer, Mom.”

  “I can’t let you go to jail.”

  “I’m not gonna go to jail. I’m just a kid.”

  “Is that true?” Brenda sent her a hopeful glance.

  “Before we get into that discussion . . . is there another parent who should sit in on this?”

  “My husband is . . . he’s no longer part of our lives. Hasn’t been for six months.”

  Suspicion confirmed.

  “Then let me explain where we are with this. As far as I could tell from a quick search, your son hasn’t had any previous brushes with the law. That works to his advantage. However, hurting an animal is a much worse offense than minor vandalism. Animal abuse in the second degree is a Class B Misdemeanor with a fine of up to two thousand dollars and/or imprisonment for up to six months.”

  Any color that remained in the two faces across from her leached out.

  “But . . . but Brian is a minor.”

  “That’s why the juvenile court will handle this—if it goes that far.”

  “Look . . . I didn’t hurt that dog, okay?” The defiance in the teen’s demeanor morphed into fear.

  “Are you saying there was someone else with you?”

  “I’m not saying anything.” His surliness surged back.

  “Then here’s what happens next.” Lexie folded her hands and locked gazes with him. “Because there have been multiple offenses during this vandalism spree, and because I have evidence you were on a victim’s property, I’m going to send a report to the county juvenile department. A counselor will be assigned to your case. He or she will meet with you and your mom and decide whether to proceed informally or to press charges. You may or may not end up in front of a judge.”

  Tension radiated off mother and son.

  “This is a nightmare.” Brenda kneaded her forehead. “How could you do this, Brian?”

  “I didn’t say I did. And what do you care?” The quiver in his voice undermined his attempt at bravado. “You’re never around. You’re always at that diner.”

  “I have to work.”

  “You wouldn’t have to work as much if you hadn’t let Dad spend all our money and sink us into debt.”

  “I’ll admit I made some mistakes, but—”

  “Hold on.” Lexie stepped in before the exchange degenerated into a shouting match. “At the moment, we need to focus on the current situation.”

  “That stuff you found . . . it’s all circumstantial.” Beads of sweat popped out on Brian’s brow. “You can’t prove I did anything wrong.”

  “At the very least I can cite you for trespassing.”

  “That’s not as bad as the other stuff.”

  They were getting nowhere with this discussion.

  Time to switch tactics.

  “What happened to your face?”

  “I . . . I had a fight.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  Silence.

  “Brian . . .” Brenda leaned toward him, posture taut. “Don’t make this worse than it already is. Answer the chief’s questions.”

  More silence.

  But the boy’s hands were shaking.

  That was a positive sign. The kids who weren’t afraid were much harder to reach—and help.

  “You know, Brian”—she adopted a more conversational manner—“attitude is a big factor in how juveniles are dealt with. Cooperation will work in your favor. You can wait and talk to the counselor instead of me—but I’ll be having a conversation with whoever is assigned to you, and they’ll take into consideration what I tell them about our exchange.”

  “Brian.” His mother touched his hand again, features strained, tone urgent. “Be honest. Don’t dig yourself any deeper into a hole or go farther down the road that led to that.” She swept a hand toward his bruises. “If you did wrong, admit it and take the consequences. You’re young enough to start fresh. This doesn’t have to ruin your life.”

  A shadow of indecision darkened his irises—and Lexie held her breath.

  When his shoulders slumped, she exhaled.

  “Okay. Yeah. I was involved in all those incidents. But I didn’t hurt that dog. It was an accident. The guy I was with was trying to scare
him, and the rock ricocheted off the ground. I wanted to take him to a vet, but my friend said we couldn’t or we’d get into trouble. I said I was going to anyway. We had a fight. He won.” Brian swallowed. “Is the dog all right?”

  “Yes. A vet treated him last night. Who’s the other kid?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “So you’re going to take the rap alone—and let a guy who says he’s your friend get away with beating you up? There are consequences for assault too, if you want to press charges.”

  His lips remained locked together.

  Fine. She had what she needed for today. The juvenile counselor might have more success getting an ID on the other kid.

  “Why did you do this, Brian?” Brenda searched his face.

  “My friend . . . he said it would be fun.”

  “Was it?”

  Brian hung his head. “No. It felt wrong to wreck stuff and leave other people to clean up the mess.”

  “So why did you keep doing it?”

  “I didn’t want him to think I was a dork—and I didn’t want him to dump me.”

  “Dumping you would have been a favor. You don’t need friends like that.”

  “He was nice to me, okay? All of the kids were already in groups when we moved here. But he talked to me, and after that, other kids did too. I don’t want to sit by myself at lunch anymore.”

  “Oh, honey.” Brenda laid her hand over his, her features contorting. “I’m sorry the move’s been hard on you. I thought it would be better if we started over in a new place. I guess that was a mistake.”

  “Seems like all we do is make mistakes.” His voice wavered.

  This was what Lexie had been hoping to get—insight into the kid’s motivation, and some sign of remorse. Those would be in her report too . . . and hopefully, the counselor would go the informal route and give Brian a chance to make restitution.

  She had some ideas on that score too, which she intended to pass on.

  “Mistakes can be corrected.” Lexie rose. “I don’t need anything else today. Expect to hear from the counselor as early as Monday. I’m going to ask them to expedite this.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” Brenda stood too and followed her to the door, closing it gently behind her after they stepped onto the stoop. “For the record, I didn’t know about the fight until this morning.” She wrung her hands. “He’s in serious trouble, isn’t he?”