“Sure, but if I tell you you might report me,” she said with a wink, and was relieved to see him crack a small smile.
She turned onto Sycamore Street and made a right into her driveway on the corner. She waited for the garage door to open and rolled her car inside, relieved to keep curious eyes from seeing the boy she brought home. She had a bit of notoriety in her community, being on TV occasionally and all. Living in a more established section of town, her middle-aged neighbors kept a closer eye on their street.
Okay, they were nosy.
She hated to be mean, but there it was. They were nice and all. Brought her food, checked on her, and treated her like one of their own children. With that, though, came loads of unsolicited advice on men, dating, the right age for marriage, and having children.
It was a bit like having her mom’s eyes on everything she did.
She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and led Skyler inside. “I’ll show you around, show you your room, and set you up to take a shower, if that’s all right. While you’re in there, I’ll make us some omelets. Sound good?”
He swallowed hard. “With fresh eggs?”
The slip back into the boy eating dumpster food just about bled her heart dry. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, nodded, and smiled. “Fresh eggs, ham, mushrooms, and cheese. Sound good?” she asked, ruffling his greasy brown hair.
He gave her a small smile, revealing shallow dimples. “Sounds good.”
She showed him into the bathroom and got him towels, a wash cloth, and an extra tooth- brush. Who knows how long it had been since he’d brushed those teeth of his.
After he jumped in, she looked for something he could wear. The best she could do was a pair of University of Central Florida sweats and a black Rolling Stones T-shirt. Listening at the door, she made sure the water was still running so she didn’t walk in on him. Then she lay the garments over the foot of the bed for him before heading to the kitchen to make food.
She prepped the ingredients and waited almost thirty minutes for the water to shut off, letting her know that he’d be out soon. After seeing what he considered dinner, she wanted that omelet landing on his plate straight from the pan the minute he stepped foot into the room.
His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning who’d just found everything on his list piled under the tree. The look of wonder on his face, as if he hadn’t seen fresh food in ages, tore at her. He should have that look over something special like a trip to Disney or meeting his favorite celebrity, not eggs.
She’d reach out to a few contacts to make sure he was well taken care of. She couldn’t bear to see him fall into the cracks like so many other kids.
She quickly threw her omelet together and joined him at the table. “Do you like milk? Or maybe you want water or juice?”
He gulped around the food he’d shoveled into his mouth. “Milk is good.”
He’d rolled her pants up on the bottom where they had been too long, but other than that the clothes worked. He’d slid the dirty sneakers back onto his feet.
“You could take your shoes off and stay a while,” she said after swallowing her first bite of food.
He shrugged, and chugged half the glass of milk, dragging his arm across his mouth when he was done. “I guess you want me to spill my guts now, since you fed me.”
Guilt niggled at her. She wanted him to spill, but not in return for food. “The food is free. You needed it and I was happy to make it. Whether or not you tell me what you saw, that’s up to you.”
He fiddled with the fork lying on his plate, scraping it over the ceramic. “There were a lot of people there. Surrounding the guy. I didn’t understand what was happening until…”
“Until?”
He tucked his chin against his chest and seemed to shrink in on himself. “Well, until it happened.”
“It?”
“When they shot him. They made the girl watch, too. I thought boys were supposed to protect girls.”
She tamped down the anxious reporter in her who had a hundred questions. “What girls?”
“They had these girls there. They didn’t have much on. The guy, the one who died, he got mad, said they weren’t what they’d agreed on. I don’t know what he meant by that.”
Now that made a hell of a lot more sense. Cullen Shepherd was buying or trafficking women. At least that’s what it sounded like.
“Do you think you could describe the people you saw if you were asked by the police?”
“I guess,” he whispered.
