And there was a fresh graze all down the side of his face, from his cheekbone to his jaw.
I said: Finn! What happened?
He would not look at me.
He said: I fell.
I said: where?
He said: near the creek. I slipped down the bank. It’s fine.
He was already moving towards the stairs. I stepped in front of him.
I said: your jacket’s ripped.
He said: I told you. I slipped.
Something about it did not fit. The creek is not on the way home from the diner. It is not on the way home from anywhere.
So I asked him the only other thing I could think of.
I said: where’s the money you earned today?
He stopped. Dead, on the bottom step.
And he looked at the floor.
He said: I put it somewhere safe.
I said: somewhere safe where?
He said: it’s fine, Mum.
I said: what does that mean?
And he finally looked at me — and his eyes were wet — and he said:
Can I please just have a shower?
And then he went upstairs, and I stood in that kitchen with my coat still on and listened to the water running.
By then my imagination had turned on me completely.
The hidden cash. The lies. The torn sleeve. The creek. The bike that never appeared.
What if somebody older had got hold of him?
What if the diner was not the whole story? What if my grieving thirteen-year-old had got himself into something he could not get out of, and was too frightened to tell me?
I hated myself for every one of those thoughts.
And I could not make the pieces go together any other way.
I decided I would sit him down on the Sunday and make him tell me.
I did not. I lost my nerve on the Sunday and again on the Monday.
On the Tuesday I was at work, and my phone rang. A number I did not know.
An older man’s voice. Careful. Tired.
He said: is this Finn’s mum?
I said yes, who is this.
He said: my name’s Gus. I own the diner where your lad works.
My stomach went.
He said: I need to talk to you about your son.
I said: has he done something wrong?
There was a long pause. A very long one.
And then Gus said: honestly, love, I don’t know how to answer that.
