The first time he rode in a police car, Ryan wasn't under arrest. He wasn't even in trouble, at least not legally. In fact, the cops were trying to help him.
It just didn't feel that way.
But then, nothing had felt the way he believed it should for a long time.
The alarm rang at 6:25. Before its first insistent note ended, Ryan grabbed the clock. He smothered its sound under his pillow while his thumb fumbled for the off button. Panting and confused, he lay still for a moment, trying to catch his breath, willing away the shrill echoes.
Already, the day had gone wrong.
Ryan always woke up before the alarm. Somehow, his body could sense the instant the last gear began to click into place. At that precise moment, instinctively, he would start to rouse. His eyes still closed, Ryan would reach for the clock, preempting its clamor, preserving a pure quiet that promised everything. Slowly, languidly, he'd ease himself out of slumber, then out of bed, and into the hushed, hopeful morning.
He couldn't quite bring himself to call it dawn.
It was such a minor miracle. Still, Ryan savored it, that almost mystical confluence between his body's own rhythm and that of the world. He would never admit it out loud, not even to Theresa, but sometimes he felt like he had a small super power—not a heroic one like super-strength, or a profound one, like telepathy. Nothing major. Nothing that would enable him to save—well, anything really, except a few fragile seconds of peace.
But those moments mattered.
Ryan didn't know why his power had failed him this time.
At least he had stifled the alarm before it woke his brother. Trey hated getting up. He thrashed his way furiously into consciousness, fighting his covers, the light, the prospect of another day. All summer he lingered in bed long after Ryan, and all fall he resisted every attempt to wake him. Then, when the new semester began, he announced casually, "I don't got to get up early anymore, Mom. First period I got study hall. Nobody gives a shit if you don't show. It's not like it's a class or anything."
"Huh," Dawn muttered. She was painting her nails, a sliver of pink tongue protruding as she squinted in concentration. "Yeah, whatever, Trey. . . Shit, this cheap polish streaks like crazy." Peering at her cuticles critically, she missed Trey's silent sneer. "I guess Ry can get you up before he leaves for school. You can do that, right, baby?"
Trey threw an arm around Ryan's shoulders, fingers digging an order into his skin. "Sure, he can do that. Can't you, baby?"
Ryan said nothing. He just ducked under his brother's arm and retreated into the bedroom. Trey followed, sidling inside before Ryan could close the door, and flung himself onto his unmade bed.
"So what class do you really have, Trey?"
Head propped on his elbow, Trey blinked innocently. "You are getting so fucking suspicious, LB. What, you think that I lied to Mom?"
"No," Ryan said. He gazed out the window, then glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. "I know you did."
For just a moment, Trey's eyes glinted before he burst into laughter. "Fuck, you are learning, little brother. About time too. Yeah, I got social studies with No-Tits Testa first period. But shit, it's not like I got to study how to be social, right? I have got that subject down." He growled the last word, pumping his hips and grinning lewdly. "Or, you know, up."
Ryan shrugged. There was no point in responding.
Eventually, he knew, Dawn would discover Trey's latest deception. Something would slip past his surveillance—some phone call, or letter, or surprise visit from the attendance officer. Dawn would receive the news stoically, all folded lips and wounded eyes. Then she would confront Trey. While Ryan watched, allegiance stretched taut between them, they would rage at each other, hurling vicious recriminations. Finally, one of them would storm out, slamming a door, and its impact would shake the unsteady structure of the Atwood family.
It had all happened before. It would happen again.
In the meantime, though, the first moments of each day belonged to Ryan alone.
His eyes fluttering open, surrendering the last raveled shreds of sleep, Ryan stumbled toward the bathroom. He yawned, taking one blind step inside, his hand already tugging the waistband of his pants, when Dawn's voice cracked the silence.
"Hey, hold it, baby. I'll be out in a minute, okay?"
Instantly awake, Ryan jerked back. His skin prickled, crawling with embarrassment and alarm.
"Sorry. I didn't . . ." he stammered.
He couldn't make sense of the sight of his mother. She stood by the sink, slack and indistinct in the watery light. Only her mouth moved, her lower lip quivering slightly as she stared into the mirror, pinned to her own reflection. It seemed to Ryan that Dawn couldn't look away, that if she broke that connection, she'd collapse, crumple weightlessly to the floor.
"Mom?" he asked, his voice hushed and wary, "are you all right?"
Dawn didn't answer, and the sick feeling in Ryan's throat thickened.
"Mom?" he repeated, the word freighted with urgency. "Did the alarm wake you up? 'Cause I'm sorry . . ."
Dawn tilted her head, still scrutinizing her image with bleary intensity. "Wha--?" she murmured. "No. I don't know . . ." She licked her finger, arching her browns, and slicked them into place. With her other hand, she gathered her hair into a froth of dirty curls on top of her head.
"What do you think, baby?" she demanded suddenly, pivoting to face Ryan. Her lips stretched, wide and insistent, over her teeth.
"I don't know. What about, Mom?" At a loss, Ryan frantically searched his mother's face for clues. He braced himself against the doorjamb, one hand flat on each side.
"Me, silly," Dawn replied impatiently. "Come on, Ryan. I still look good, don't I? Hell, I'm not sayin' I'm Miss America or anything, but admit it. I still look damn good." Her mouth froze, cheeks curved like parentheses around the tense imperative of her smile.
In school, sometimes, kids who were called on to read would skip any words contained in brackets, assuming they weren't important. Ryan never did. He knew that meaning hid everywhere, in shadows, and silence, and between the lines.
His mother's smile, caught in those rigid creases, held nothing of happiness. Ryan could only see need.
Dawn was waiting, her eyes eager and expectant. "Right, baby?" she urged. "I'm not turning into an old lady, am I?"
Old.
Ryan sucked in a shamed breath.
It was his mother's birthday. And he had forgotten.
He had never done that before.
"No, Mom," he whispered. "You're really pretty. Um . . . I'll give you your gift tonight, but . . . happy birthday."
Dawn crooned a small sound, all air and soft vowels. She released her hair, letting it cascade around her damp cheeks. "Aw, kiddo, thanks," she breathed.
Just like that, the spell of the mirror broke, and there was his mother, vivid and unpredictable. She extended her arms, engulfing Ryan in an impromptu hug. He still felt uneasy in his sleep-rumpled pajamas, pressed against the thin fabric of Dawn's nightgown, but he lifted his face for her kiss. A laugh danced behind her eyes when she bent down to him. "So, baby, you got me a present?" she asked eagerly. "Is it bigger than a breadbox?"
"I don't know," Ryan stammered, covering lies with confusion. "What's a breadbox?"
"Somethin' we don't have," Dawn giggled. She nuzzled her face into his forehead, her warm, musty breath tickling his skin. "But it don't matter. I love surprises. Maybe I'll make a cake! We'll celebrate tonight, huh? Whaddya say?"
"The fuck?" Trey growled behind them.
Snared in his mother's embrace, Ryan cringed, unable to face his brother. Dawn pivoted, pulling him with her and caroling happily, "Hey, hon! What are you doin' up? Come to join the party?"
"Oh fucking shit," Trey groaned. He shook his head, grimacing. "What are you, wasted already, TW?"
"She's not," Ryan whispered, a warning and a plea. "It's her birthday, Trey."
"Yeah? Well newsflash, Ry. Normal people don't celebrate in the bathroom. And I gotta take a leak. So if you don't mind . . ." With exaggerated courtesy Trey swept his hand across his chest, pointing to the hallway.
Dawn's gaze skittered around, bewildered, before she grinned sheepishly. "Jeez, we are in the bathroom. Come on, Ry," she urged, shuffling him in front of her. "You can make me some coffee, okay?"
Ryan hesitated. His own bladder strained, painfully full, but Trey was already closing the door, and Dawn's hands gripped his shoulders, steering him toward the kitchen.
Since his body had betrayed him, letting him sleep until the alarm sounded, its needs would have to wait.
After three sips of well-sugared coffee, Dawn stood up and stretched. "Thanks for rememberin' my birthday, kiddo," she purred. Her hands fell onto Ryan's arms, and she rubbed them, propping her chin on his head. When she spoke, the words wafted, wistful and thin, through strands of his hair. "You know, your dad always used to . . . Well, shit, never mind that. Guess I'll just . . . go back to bed. Love you, baby."
At the rare mention of his father, Ryan stiffened. He swung around, his whole body a question, but Dawn was already shambling out. The limp ends of her untied sash slithered after her. For another minute, Ryan sat, absently smoothing the chipped edge of a coffee cup. Then he tiptoed back into his bedroom.
"Trey?" he whispered. His voice, still unreliable, emerged in a smothered squeak.
One of Trey's eyes opened to a milky, malevolent slit before shutting again.
"Come on, Trey. I need to ask you something."
Trey's leg kicked out, his heel connecting with Ryan's hip, then ricocheting into the corner of the dresser. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, shoving himself into a sitting position and rubbing his foot. "You are such a little shit, Ry."
Ryan took a defensive step back, but he stared down his brother's indignant glare. "I have a question," he insisted.
"God! What?" Trey snapped. His hand clawed the air before it tightened into a warning fist.
Ryan swallowed. "It's about dad . . ." Abruptly, a curtain closed over his brother's face. "Trey, please? You remember him better than I do."
"Not. Better," Trey muttered.
The words, almost inaudible, echoed with old hurt, and for one moment Ryan could see himself reflected in his brother's unguarded eyes. He sucked in his breath, moving gingerly, until he was sitting silent and patient on the edge of his bed.
At last, his expression shuttered again, Trey prompted dully, "Shit, say it, Ry. What do you want to know?"
"Just . . . did Dad do anything special? For Mom's birthday, I mean? 'Cause she . . ."
"The fuck!" Trey blurted. "This is about her?"
There was something savage in the way he bared his teeth, and Ryan flinched, shifting away. "I suppose," he admitted.
Gradually, the fury in Trey's face seeped away, leaving it empty and exhausted. He dropped his head back, bumping the wall once, twice, three times. "Why the fuck do you keep doing this, Ry?"
"Doing what?"
"Just . . . trying to hold on to stuff. Dad's gone, all right? And Mom? Well, hell, she might as well be."
Ryan shook his head. "She's just lonely," he argued softly.
"Lonely," Trey scoffed. He yanked his pillow from underneath him and pounded it in his lap. "Shit, LB, Mom's always got some son of a bitch in her life. Or at least her bed."
"Yeah, Trey. I know." Ryan's fingers plucked at his rough bedspread. He didn't dare look at his brother. "But she could still be lonely."
Trey snorted his dissent and Ryan surrendered. He didn't know what he had hoped anyway. Gathering his books, he headed for the door when his brother's voice stopped him.
"The sun," Trey mumbled.
"What?"
Trey hunched one shoulder, gnawing his lower lip. "Dad used to give Mom something with a sun on it," he recalled. "A necklace or something. Because, you know, she's Dawn. How fucking lameass is that?"
"Pretty lameass," Ryan agreed automatically. He slipped his hand in his pocket, fingering his father's chain.
Although he tried, he couldn't remember his mother ever wearing jewelry shaped like the sun. Probably it had all been broken, or lost.
Or maybe it was too precious to squander on everyday wear. Maybe Dawn was waiting for some special occasion.
Maybe she was waiting for his dad to come back.
"We could--" Ryan began. And stopped even before he heard his brother groan.
"Fuck, LB. If you think you're gonna make Mom happy by buying her some cheap, sorryass sun charm or something--"
"No, I know," Ryan said miserably. "I can't anyway. I've only got, like, eighty-five cents. But it's her birthday, Trey. We should do something . . ."
"I am doin' something," Trey announced. "I'm goin' back to sleep. You do—I don't know, fuckin' whatever, Ry." Flopping onto his stomach, Trey burrowed face down into the rumpled pillow.
"You're not going to school?"
"No, I'm not going to school! I said I'm goin' to sleep! If you ever leave me the fuck alone."
"Okay," Ryan whispered. "See you later? Right, Trey?"
With a visible effort, Trey raised his head. "Aww, shit," he sighed wearily. "You make me crazy, you know that, Ry? In my jeans pocket. There's five bucks you can have."
"Really?" Ryan asked, eagerness vying with shamed distrust in his voice.
"Fuck, yeah, really. But I am not singin' any sappy birthday song, got it?"
Ryan fished out the wadded bill, holding it reverently. "No singing," he promised. "And Trey? Thanks, man."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Outside the dollar store, Ryan loitered uncertainly, scanning the jumbled window display. Everything looked disposable, like cheap imitations of whatever items they were supposed to be. Of course, cheap was the point; where else would he be able to buy a birthday present for only five dollars and ninety-three cents? Ryan jammed his hands into his pockets, searching for any coins that might be snagged in a seam, but found nothing except the familiar coil of his father's chain.
Cool and solid, it twined around his fingers.
There was a pawnshop across the street. In the time it took for the "Walk" sign to flash, Ryan considered the idea. It wouldn't be selling the chain, not really, he assured himself. He could always redeem it later, when he had the money.
Determined, he turned toward the curb, but the "Don't Walk" sign throbbed an admonition and Ryan froze.
He couldn't do it. That chain had been his birthday present from his mother, the one possession that still tethered him to both his parents. It would be wrong, like he was disowning them, if he exchanged it for money—for anything—even temporarily.
Besides, somewhere inside Ryan prowled a persistent fear he refused to recognize. The pawnshop owner might look at the chain and laugh. He might declare that it wasn't worth anything, and wave Ryan away, offering nothing except a gesture of pity or scorn. Or maybe both.
Ryan couldn't risk that. He pushed open the door of the dollar store and stepped inside. A bell tinkled and the cashier glanced up from some magazine that he immediately shoved under the counter
"Can I help you?" he asked sharply.
Ryan understood the code. Under the pretense of service, the clerk was warning, "I'm watching you, kid. You can't get away with anything here."
"Um . . . I'm looking for a birthday present for my mother."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"I don't know." Ryan shrugged, his nose wrinkling slightly. The whole place smelled stale, filling his lungs with dust and despair. "She likes suns—I mean, you know, things shaped like the sun? But I don't have much money."
"Huh. Tell me something I don't know." The cashier corkscrewed a finger into his ear. "There's some dish towels over in the next aisle. I think they got a sun design. Pretty sure anyway."
Dish towels. Not earrings or a necklace. Nothing, really, for his mother at all.
Ryan nodded reluctantly. "Thanks," he murmured. He followed the cashier's pointing finger, but he barely glanced at the stack of towels with their grinning sunflowers—not suns at all—before a wink of tarnished gold beckoned him across the aisle.
One metal ashtray sat like an incongruous asterisk in the middle of an assortment of waddling puppy figurines. Gleaming cheaply, it resembled a plump, primitive sun that might smile in the sky of a child's drawing. Ryan picked it up, wincing as one of the rays stabbed his palm.
"Hey, kid? You want that?" the clerk called.
Ryan hesitated. The ashtray was tawdry, a parody of the gift he'd wanted to buy. But it cost just $4.59. With Trey's five dollars, he could afford it, and maybe this one time a gesture alone might suffice.
"Yeah," he sighed. "I'll take it."
With the plastic bag dangling limply from his wrist, Ryan paused outside the store. In the short time he'd spent shopping, the afternoon heat had intensified. Now it wrapped constricting coils around his body. Ryan stretched his t-shirt away from his throat, pushed back his tangled bangs and started to trudge home. His eyes fixed on the shattered sidewalk, but his mind drifted, seeing something else: an expanse of white sand, an unbroken horizon, blue sky meeting blue water, all of it glittering and pure.
"Ry! Hey! Ry, over here!"
Trey's voice, unexpected and almost unfamiliar, jolted Ryan out of his daydream. He blinked, briefly disoriented. Then a slow, wary smile tugged the corners of his mouth, as he recognized his brother lounging in the passenger seat of an idling car.
"Trey? Hey man, what are you doing here?" Ryan switched the thin bag, slick with sweat, to his other hand so that he could grasp the one his brother extended out the car window.
Abruptly, Trey yanked Ryan into a hug, mashing his face against the side-view mirror. He flinched, stunned by the surge of affection until he identified its source in the sweet, heady smell of his brother's breath.
"Trey--" he began, but the driver of the car cut him off.
"Hey, Atwood! This family reunion is fucking sweet, but what say we get going?"
"Shit, hold your water, Lukach." Trey reached behind him and opened the back door, then jabbed a finger at the boys already sitting in the back seat. "Shove over, you two. We'll give my little brother a ride. Hop in, Ry."
Both boys glowered, shifting over scant inches, and Ryan wavered. His eyes darted between them and Trey, weighing the rare invitation to join his brother against their lack of welcome.
"Gimme a break, Atwood," Lukach growled. "We ain't runnin' no babysitting service here."
Ryan stiffened. Before he could protest, Trey's rebuke sliced the thick, humid air. "Yeah, well, Ry's no baby, shithead. It's fucking hot out and we're gonna give him a ride. Get in, LB."
This time it was an order. Ryan slid inside, wedging his body against the door. He had barely settled before the car peeled away, its tires squealing, its radio blaring. Trey didn't bother to introduce him to anybody. In fact, the instant the car moved, he seemed to forget Ryan, all his attention concentrated on the blunt he was smoking possessively.
Fragments of conversation fought through the dense tangle of music, but Ryan didn't listen. He sat back drowsily, lulled by the secondhand smoke, trying to recapture his daydream, to picture a family, maybe his, on that perfect beach. Then the car careened around a corner, and he blinked.
Nothing outside looked familiar anymore.
"So I'm thinkin' we check out that new place, Russo's," Lukach suggested. "Heard they don't give a fuck about I.D. You can flash anything—bus pass, school I.D, whatever. Shit, I know one guy got in with a library card."
"You are so full of it," the guy beside Ryan chortled. "You don't know nobody with a fucking library card."
Ryan leaned forward, nudging his brother's arm. "Trey?" he said. "I thought we were going home."
Trey's head lolled back and he inhaled deeply, his cheeks hollowing and his eyes closed.
"Trey?" Ryan repeated, and stopped.
Why ask a question when he already knew the answer? His brother had only offered him a ride. Not a destination.
"Yeah, right, LB. Soon," Trey replied vaguely. "We're just gonna make one stop first. Right, guys? We won't be long."
Ryan gritted his teeth, his nails slicing through a fold of the plastic bag, but he said nothing. When the car finally stopped he got out with the others, trailing them as they headed for a nondescript door unmarked by any sign.
One of the boys elbowed Trey and he wheeled around, squinting at Ryan, who was backlit by the sun. "Aw, fucking shit," he groaned. "Look, LB, I forgot—you can't come in here."
Ryan's lips twisted. "You sure?" he asked pointedly. "I got a library card."
"Whoa!" Lukach exclaimed. "Baby brother's got him some balls." He snickered, scratching his groin. "Let's give it a shot, Atwood. Maybe we can pass him off as a midget."
"Shut the fuck up!" Trey growled. Lukach staggered back, palms raised defensively, but Trey ignored him. "Okay, Ry, just . . . I don't know, hang out here by the door. We're just gonna play a couple games of pool, that's all."
Grinning a grudging apology, Trey extended a hand, but Ryan jerked away and slid down onto the hot, unyielding pavement. Trey waited, flexing his fist. When Ryan remained silent, refused even to look up, he shrugged. "Well then, screw you, little brother," he muttered, and followed his friends inside.
For a while, Ryan sat rigid, fingering the points of the ashtray through the plastic bag, counting the times the traffic light changed, trying to decode muffled sounds that seeped from inside the bar. Eventually, though, boredom deflated him. His eyes drifted closed, and a kaleidoscope of sunlit colors twirled hypnotically behind his eyelids.
Maybe he fell asleep.
All Ryan knew for sure was that he was wrenched into awareness when someone twisted the bag out of his grasp mumbling drunkenly, "Well, well. Let's just see what we got here."
Instantly, he was on his feet, wrestling with some stranger who was waving the ashtray above his head.
"Give it back to me, asshole," Ryan snarled.
"Fucking piece of junk. You want it back? Yeah, you can have it, little bitch. Here—fetch!" The man holding the ashtray flung it like a Frisbee toward the street. Ryan leaped after it, but the man extended a leg, chuckling as Ryan tripped, one ankle twisting under him, both palms scraping the cement as he tried to catch himself. "Tha's for calling me a ash--asshole, kid," the man slurred. "Somebody should fucking teach you to respect your elders."
He spat, the glob of saliva landing next to Ryan's hand, then shambled away.
Dazed, Ryan lay sprawled on the sidewalk, squinting after the stranger's disappearing form. Finally, slowly, he rolled onto his side, just as Trey and his friends barreled out of the bar, heralded by peals of laughter. At the sight of Ryan pushing himself to one knee, eyes glinting with fury and unshed tears, they stopped abruptly.
"Ry! What the fuck happened?" Trey demanded. Guilt and concern and irritation chased each other across his face. "You get in a fight?"
Behind him, Ryan heard a car pull to a stop. "No. Stay away from me, Trey," he snapped. To his surprise, Trey obeyed. He even withdrew a few steps, propping one leg up against the wall of the bar and starting to pick his teeth nonchalantly. Ryan hoisted himself upright. He winced, staggering, and a hand caught him under the elbow.
"Steady there, kid. You hurt?"
Ryan's gaze darted sideways furtively, registered the dark blue uniform, the gun, the tone and stance of authority.
Cops. No wonder Trey had retreated.
"No," Ryan claimed, gritting his teeth. "I just—I fell, that's all."
"Yeah? You fell? Nobody pushed you? Those guys maybe?"
Instinctively, Ryan shook his head. He could see Trey and his friends watching, slouched and indifferent, like random strangers. "They weren't even here," he muttered bitterly. Shaking off the cop's hand, he turned to retrieve the ashtray, then stumbled, gasping with pain.
"Hold on. I've got it." The policeman steadied Ryan with one arm while he stooped to pick up the ashtray. It was bent, and its mangled rays curled like a dead spider's legs. "This what you wanted, kid?"
"Yeah," Ryan mumbled. He stretched out his hand, but the cop held the ashtray just out of reach, forcing him to move closer. His breath hissed as his weight came down on his left foot.
"Okay, son," the policeman said. "Sit down. Let's take a look at that ankle."
"No!" Ryan blurted. "It's fine. I'm fine." He forced himself to stand solidly, defiance erasing the evidence of pain.
There was the one inviolable rule. Whatever happens, don't involve the cops.
"Look, kid" the policeman urged patiently, "if you have a problem, we're here to help--" The words were directed at Ryan, but the man's eyes raked past him, to Trey and his friends, challenging them for the truth.
"No problem," Ryan claimed. Trey nodded almost imperceptibly, one thumb jerking up in approval. "Some guy just tried to take my--" His voice faltered, and he shrugged, finishing weakly, "my mom's birthday present. He's gone. But it's ruined anyway."
"Your mom will understand." It was a different voice, female. The policeman's partner had joined them, and she was smiling at Ryan, compassion warm in her voice and her eyes.
For some reason it hurt, that concern and confident prediction, scalding his bruised flesh and feelings like antiseptic on an open wound. Ryan's lips trembled, and he swiped a hand across his face, willing the cops not to notice, reminding himself that he was twelve. Too old to cry.
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
It felt like a trap. Ryan circled the question warily, finally answered, "Ryan Atwood."
"Well Ryan Atwood, where do you live?"
Ryan hesitated, holding his breath, waiting for Trey to volunteer—something. He wasn't sure what. Finally, mechanically, he recited his address.
The policewoman's eyes narrowed, but her words were still soft with sympathy that Ryan couldn't bring himself to trust. "That far? How did you get here?"
"Walked," Ryan mumbled. "I like to walk." He locked his gaze on the sidewalk, unable to meet the cops' eyes, certain he'd see their disbelief, or worse, accusation.
The policeman snorted. "Well, you're in no shape to walk back, kid. You can't tell me that ankle doesn't hurt. Your hands too."
Ryan blinked at his hands in surprise. For the first time he realized that they were raw, etched with a thin map of blood.
The policewoman knelt next to him, a first aid kit open next to her. "This will sting a little," she warned as she sprayed something cold and astringent onto his palms. She blew lightly on his skin, before wrapping gauze around each hand. "My kids say that helps," she explained when Ryan looked at her quizzically. He ducked his head, ashamed of his quick tears, wanting to remind her that he wasn't her child. "Come on, sweetheart. We'll drive you home."
"No! I mean, thanks, but . . . "
"Hey, kid," Trey called. Ryan's eyes, dark with hope, flashed to his brother, but Trey remained slumped against the building, scratching his neck idly. "You should take them up on that. You know, ride home in style. Who knows? Maybe they'll even run the siren for you."
Trey's friends laughed and pounded his shoulder, imitating the shrill alarm.
"Punks," the policewoman muttered. She slipped an arm around Ryan. "Lean on me," she urged, steering him toward the squad car. Reluctantly, he limped beside her, but he glanced back over his shoulder, seeking his brother, his expression desolate.
Trey lowered his head. Touching a finger to his lips, he pulled it away in a kind of warning salute, waiting until Ryan nodded a promise: he wouldn't say anything to the cops. Or even to Dawn. Satisfied, Trey smiled slightly and sauntered down the sidewalk with his friends.
That was it then.
Trey had been smoking pot and probably drinking. Of course he would keep his distance from the police. And if that meant disavowing Ryan—well . . . maybe even the bonds of brotherhood had their limits.
Lost in a maze of disillusionment, Ryan realized suddenly that they had stopped walking. The backdoor of the police car was open and the cops were waiting for him to get in. He swallowed hard, took one halting half-step closer.
And froze.
The last time he'd been this close to a black and white, his father had been sitting, handcuffed and steel-faced, in the backseat. Moments later, the police car had vanished.
His father had vanished.
Suddenly Ryan couldn't breathe.
"Come on, kid." The policeman's voice was faintly impatient. "Let's get you home to your mom."
Ryan's gaze flickered and fell, before it could reveal anything. He slid in wordlessly and perched on the edge of the seat. Then he flinched and looked up, eyes desperate. "There are no door handles," he whispered.
The policeman grinned. "Noticed that, huh?"
"Come on, Ed," his partner reproved. She turned around, smiling reassurance. For the first time Ryan noticed that her hair was a riot of untidy blond curls, almost like Dawn's. "It's okay, sweetheart," she promised. "We'll let you out."
Automatically, Ryan nodded. He knew that.
Huddled in the corner of the car, he slid a hand in his pocket, gripping his father's chain, letting himself acknowledge how much he knew.
The police would let him out, and he would be left to answer Dawn's questions, her anger and accusations. Her disappointment.
It didn't matter that the police would explain that he had done nothing wrong. Ryan knew exactly what would resonate with his mother: the sight of a black and white pulling up in front of the Atwood house; the cops' solid footsteps; neighbors staring, whispering behind their cupped hands; the image of Ryan locked in the backseat, just as his father had been.
Like some warped memory.
Or maybe an omen.
And he would have to face Dawn empty handed. With a flush of sudden shame, Ryan realized that when the policewoman had bandaged his hands, he had set the ashtray aside. Somehow, he had forgotten to retrieve it. Of course, it had been ruined anyway, but he might have been able to fix it, to straighten the rays and polish the tarnished gold.
Now it lay abandoned, one more piece of garbage littering the street.
Ryan had nothing to offer his mother on her birthday.
He couldn't even give her the truth.
