It’s the cup that does it. I walk into the room, breathe in the faint, unmistakable reek of teenage boy. Over to the bookcase, pick up the cup, wipe off the ring of condensation with my other hand. No stain at least. Something else catches my eye—a crumpled Chipotle bag on the floor, over near his bed. I scoop that up, too, tuck it under my arm.
I take a last look around. I can still hear the shower, and who knows what other fast-food remnants are in this mess. I bend and check under the bed. No sign of trash. I move some of the clothes on the floor, just to see if anything’s buried there. Nothing, thank God.
I head to the closet next, a large walk-in. There’s a row of hanging clothes, collared shirts and button-downs and a suit. Shelves off to one side, with stacks of clothes in varying states of disarray. The top one holds everything he wears on a regular basis—jeans, a handful of solid-colored T-shirts, hoodies—all barely folded. The lower shelves are more organized—summer shorts and swimsuits on one, clothes he’s outgrown below that.
The bottom shelf catches my eye. It’s stacks of his old T-shirts, soccer and Little League and basketball. He’d added them once to a pile of old clothes I was going to donate; I noticed them and put them back in his closet. I’m not even sure why I did it. Maybe I didn’t want to concede that those days were over, that there was no going back, no finding the time to attend the games I’d missed.
There’s something on top of one of the stacks. A brown paper bag, the fast-food type, or smaller maybe—the kind I used to pack his lunches in, that year he didn’t want a lunchbox. It’s pushed to the back, almost against the wall, nearly hidden from view.
I bend for a closer look. The bag’s folded and creased, something inside.
I reach for it without thinking. There’s weight to it; it’s not trash.
And the feel of it, the shape of it—I know instantly what it is.
There’s a terrible sensation bubbling inside me, like I know what’s about to happen and I’m powerless to stop it. Like my world is intact but it’s about to be shattered.
I unfold the top of the bag. My fingers are trembling.
I pull the edges apart.
I look inside. And then I see it.
A gun.
Chapter 4
It’s a Glock 26. Like mine, but smaller. A subcompact, easier to conceal.
Zachary has a gun in his closet.
A memory fills my mind, one I haven’t thought of in years. We were at the park, Zachary and me, back when he was in preschool. I sat on a bench, reading a report, keeping one eye on him. He was wearing corduroy pants and a bright blue shirt. He was waiting for the big twisty slide, the one he loved, and a little girl in pigtails cut in front of him. An instant later he shoved her out of the way, hard; she toppled to the mulch and burst into tears. I bounded off the bench, grabbed him by the arm, led him away. Never do that! I’d yelled, my voice brimming with fear and desperation. I glanced back and she was still on the ground, sobbing as if her heart would break; her mother was by her side, comforting her, brushing mulch off her knees. I bent to Zachary, furious with him, scared at the same time. How dare you try to hurt someone like that? And then his face twisted, his eyes filled with tears, his bottom lip quivered. I’m sorry, Mommy.
Another memory takes its place. Rushing into the principal’s office when Zachary was in sixth grade, seeing him sitting there, stone-faced, kicking his heels against his chair. Beside him, another boy, another mother. The boy’s nose was bloodied, one eye already swollen shut. The mother was glaring at me. What happened? I breathed, my attention firmly on my son. He shrugged, no emotion on his face, none whatsoever. And all I could think of was his father. What if he’s like his father?
A shiver runs through me.
Why the hell does Zachary have a gun in his closet? There’s absolutely no good reason my seventeen-year-old son has a handgun hidden in his closet.
Is he being bullied? Does he feel like he needs to protect himself?
I look down at the gun again, more closely this time. Find the chamber indicator, that little square bump, protruding ever so slightly from the slide: the gun’s loaded. My hands are trembling.
He’s been distant lately, sure. A stranger, almost. But this? This?
What if I don’t know him, not anymore?
I take a shaky breath, then another, try to marshal the thoughts swirling inside me.
I have to turn him in.
I have to call the local police, tell them I found a gun in my son’s closet. What other choice do I have?
My son’s going to jail.
The shower falls silent. The sudden absence of sound makes me freeze.
I fold over the top of the bag. Move, as quickly and quietly as I can, out of his room, down the hall. Into my own bedroom, ease the door shut behind me. Then into my closet, shut that door, too.
I unlock the safe, drop the bag inside, lock it again, then sink down to the carpet.
Zachary has a gun.
A loaded gun.
Shock and disbelief slowly start to give way to anger.
I stare at the keypad on the safe until my eyes blur. Then, abruptly, I get to my feet. Leave my bedroom, walk blindly to his. Rap on the closed bedroom door, harder than I have to, fist clenched tighter than it needs to be.
How dare you do this?
“Yeah,” he says, his voice muffled through the door. It’s the same syllable I always hear from the hallway, the intonation that means I can come in.
I open the door. He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, a textbook open in front of him. Blue flannel pants and a blue T-shirt, bare feet, damp hair.
“Zachary, I need to talk to you.”
He watches me, his expression even. Waits for me to say something else.
“What, Mom?” he finally says.
“What do you think?” I hear the sarcasm in my voice. I’m so worried and scared I can’t think.
Another pause. He’s eyeing me carefully. Suspiciously, almost.
He has his father’s eyes.
The thought feels like a slap. It has every time it’s crossed my mind, ever since he was a baby. Because he’s mine. I raised him.
In my mind I see him again as a child, his face lighting when he saw me walk into his daycare room. Running over, wrapping his little arms tight around my neck, giving me sloppy kisses. I see him picking me a sticky bouquet of dandelions from the patch of grass in our backyard. Presenting his Mother’s Day card, a crumpled sheet of construction paper with crayon-scribbled hearts.
That’s my Zachary. That sweet boy.
He wouldn’t have a gun.
But there’s a gun in his closet.
“You’re hiding something from me, Zachary.” The investigator in me says the words, even as the mother in me doubts them. What if he’s not? What if there’s some other explanation?
What if it’s not his?
His eyes don’t leave mine. He starts to towel his hair.
“And I know what it is.” It’s the investigator talking again. The mother in me is waiting for the confusion, the blurted denial.
Because of course that gun’s not his. It can’t be.
The color drains from his face. He looks away.
No.
When he glances back at me, there’s guilt all over his face.
Shit.
The investigator in me feels satisfied, justified. The mother in me, devastated.
I stare at my son.
Zachary, what have you done?
Chapter 5
I flinch as the guilt in his eyes hardens into defiance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mom.”
Don’t lie to me. “Yes, you do.”
Silence. He holds my gaze, says nothing. His expression looks bland. His face looks like his father’s.
&nb
sp; I reach out a hand to the doorframe, steady myself. “Tell me why you need it.”
His brow furrows. “What?”
“The gun.”
He blinks. “What are you talking about?”
“Why do you need a gun, Zachary?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit.” Still, uncertainty unmoors me. He looks perplexed now, genuinely so. But in my mind I see his smirk at the dinner table. I’m a good actor.
“Are you afraid of someone?” I ask.
“No!” His brow furrows deeper. He pulls his eyes away from me, looks around the room. In a helpless way, almost, like he’s searching for an answer, a way to respond. Like he’s truly confused.
And his eyes never reach the closet. Wouldn’t they, if he knew the gun was there? Wouldn’t that be reflexive? A natural instinct?
I’m a good actor. “Just tell me why,” I insist.
“Why don’t you believe me?” He drops the towel, shuts his textbook, hard. Gives me a look that’s even harder.
The question stings. The betrayal on his face stings. I’m his mother; of course I should believe him.
But he’s hiding something. I saw the guilt on his face.
“Zachary, just tell me the truth.”
He shakes his head. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looks genuine. He sounds genuine.
But he said himself he’s a good actor. He had time to recover from the initial accusation, prepare himself for the next questions. I’ve questioned proficient liars; I know how convincing they can sound.
The fact of the matter is, there was a weapon in Zachary’s closet. And if it’s his, if he’s planning to hurt someone, I need to go to the police. I need to stop him.
But what if it’s not his?
What if he really, truly doesn’t know the gun was there?
What if someone else left it there? I don’t know who his friends are anymore. I don’t even know who he’s had over.
What if that’s what he’s hiding? The fact that he’s associating with people he shouldn’t. That he’s brought them into our home.
“Mom?” he says.
We stare at each other. I wish I knew the thoughts running through his head right now. I wish I knew him better.
“Why do you think I want a gun?”
Want a gun. Not have a gun. The word choice isn’t lost on me. It’s that sort of mistake that tends to trip people up, that helps make the distinction between the guilty and the innocent. I’m trained to spot those mistakes.
“You’re not leaving this house, Zachary, until you tell me why you have a gun.”
“I don’t have a gun!” He says it with an incredulous laugh, like I’ve gone mad. His eyes don’t leave mine, and his pupils don’t change.
I believe him.
My instinct, my training, tell me that he’s being honest, that he doesn’t know there was a weapon in his closet.
He’s hiding something. And he lied to me about it. But the gun? He seems truly confused.
Prints. I’ll bring the Glock into the office, dust it. Figure out who’s—
Three knocks at the front door make me freeze. I’ve always tensed when someone approaches my home. It’s my profession, maybe. Or my past. Enemies exist; I know that all too well. And no place is truly safe.
An image flashes through my mind, just for an instant. I’m in that wood-paneled office, and those hands are on my arms, fingers digging into my flesh.
And then, just as fast, another memory takes its place. I’m in the car, speeding down the barren stretch of highway, eyes on the rearview mirror, hands tight on the wheel. I hear Zachary’s small voice from the backseat. Are we safe, Mommy?
Three more knocks downstairs, louder this time, more insistent. I’m not expecting anyone. I don’t think Zachary is, either. He gives a petulant shrug.
“Stay here. We’re not done.”
I slip out of his room and head for the safe in my closet. Unlock it, pull out my Glock, check to make sure it’s loaded. Walk downstairs with it at my side. Paranoia, maybe. I’m certainly jumpier than usual tonight.
A third image materializes. The hand, resting on the small of the woman’s back, guiding her away like she belonged to him, everything bathed in flashes of red and blue.
I peer through the peephole, and it’s a face I recognize. Scott. I exhale, fear draining from my body, replaced with a different kind of tension. Scott’s an agent I once dated, once believed I loved, back when Zachary was in elementary school. It lasted a couple of years, the longest relationship I’ve ever had, the only one I wish hadn’t ended. He married a schoolteacher a year after we broke up, has three beautiful kids now. And he’s a damned good agent.
I press the yellow button on the security panel, unlock the door, open it. “Scott,” I say. His hair, once jet black, is now salt and pepper, and it makes me wistful. I offer him a smile.
He doesn’t smile back.
He has that uncomfortable look I recognize, that one I’ve worn myself, all those times I showed up at someone’s door with terrible news. About to start a conversation they didn’t want to have, one that would change their lives. My mind darts to Zachary, a jolt of panic racing through me. He’s upstairs; he’s safe. But the gun. The gun.
“Steph,” Scott says with a nod. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and I see the discomfort in his eyes. Whatever this is, I’m not going to want to hear it.
“What is it?” I ask. And my mind works to place his current position. Washington Field Office. Domestic terrorism squad.
“Steph—it’s about Zachary.”
Chapter 6
It’s about Zachary.
I process the words, try to make sense of them.
The gun. Scott knows about the gun.
He peers around me, and I lean into the space between the door and its frame, narrowing his view into my home. It’s instinct, really. Scott’s gaze settles back on me, and this time I see more than just discomfort. I see judgment.
I know that look. I know the feeling behind it. Before I moved to internal affairs, back when I worked crime. When I’d stand in front of someone’s parent, and I’d remind myself that no matter my failings, no matter what I’d done wrong in my life, at least I hadn’t raised a lowlife.
I see that look on Scott’s face now: At least my kids are decent. At least I’ve raised them better.
My hand tightens on the edge of the door. I listen for sounds behind me, but it’s quiet. Zachary’s still in his room. Please stay there.
“What about Zachary?” I ask Scott.
His eyes shift back to the sliver of space beside me, the opening into my home. “Is he here?”
I’m intensely aware that he could bound down the stairs any second. “Yes.”
“Steph—can I come in, so we can talk?”
How can I say no to that? Why would I say no to that, if Zachary’s done nothing wrong?
I open the door wider, even though the move feels dangerous. The cold air sends a chill through me. Scott steps inside. Catches sight of the gun at my side, gives it a long look, then shifts his eyes to my face.
I hold his gaze. He knows my past; some of it, anyway. I don’t need to explain, and he’s not going to ask.
He hesitates, then walks past me, into the living room, like he knows the place. He does know the place.
I can smell his cologne as he passes. It’s not the one he used to wear when we were together. Something his wife picked out for him, probably.
I follow him into the living room. Place my gun on the end table, sit down on the couch.
“How’ve you been, Steph?” He sinks down opposite me without removing his coat.
“Fine.”
I should offer him something t
o drink. An IPA—that was always his drink of choice, too. I wish I wasn’t in my workout clothes. Wish I could think of something to say. Wish I could stop thinking about that gun in my son’s closet.
“What do you want to talk about?” I fight to keep my voice measured. Fight to keep my eyes from drifting to the end table, to my own Glock. It has to be the gun. Why else would he be here?
“Look, I want to keep this informal, Steph. And private, for now. That’s why I came alone.”
“What do you want?” It comes out more combative than I mean it to, and I see his face harden, just the slightest bit, and I know that look, too. The realization that these people aren’t going to cooperate. That they have something to hide.
“Scott,” I say, “this is Zachary we’re talking about.” But my voice betrays my fear. I believe my son, but there was a weapon in his closet. And now the FBI is at my door.
“You know him,” I add. I remember Zachary perched atop his shoulders to get a better look at the Fourth of July parade, the two of them striding side by side into Camden Yards in matching Orioles jerseys. I used to believe Zachary was one of the reasons our relationship would last.
“Why are you here?” I ask. I want to hear the answer, need to hear the answer, but I’m terrified. I can’t lie to Scott. I won’t lie to Scott. But at the same time, I can’t get that look on Zachary’s face out of my mind. That genuine confusion when I brought up the gun. The stunned laugh in response to my accusation. My son didn’t know that gun was there.
“Look, Steph, we’re friends….” Scott clears his throat, and I just want him to spit it out. I grit my teeth to stay silent. “Zachary’s a good kid.” The words ring hollow, like he knows they’re what I need to hear. Like he doesn’t believe them, not at all. “But he made a mistake, Steph. A very serious mistake.”
A mistake. Yes. Every kid makes mistakes. Lord knows I did.
Scott works domestic terrorism. Domestic terrorism.
Keep You Close Page 3