Guilt.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m the one who took him there.”
“Took him where?”
He struggled to get the words out. “Jake wanted to go to the skate park. I wanted to ride the rails at the business park. I taunted him. Called him a mama’s boy. I talked him into it. And now…”
Kyle broke apart. “Now he’s gone.”
I dragged a hand down my face, barely able to contain myself. Kyle had lied in the police interview. He’d told them it was Jake’s idea. My jaw locked. Angry words lined up on my tongue, ready to spill. No. I can’t. He was trusting me with this. Kyle needed me to be his father. Not just Jake’s, but his. I forced myself to slow down.
“You don’t get to put this on yourself,” I said.
He shook his head.
“Kyle, listen to me,” I said, keeping my voice steady even though everything in me wasn’t. “You’re twelve. What you said or did—it doesn’t matter. The man who took Jake chose to do evil. That’s on him. Not on you. Never on you.”
Kyle hunched forward, sobs shaking his shoulders. I pulled him in, let him cry against my chest until there was nothing left. When he sat back, he pressed the skull ring into his palm like he needed the pain to match the guilt.
“I don’t want you sleeping in here anymore,” he said, catching me completely off guard. “I just… I can sleep by myself now.”
I wanted to believe him, but trauma like his wasn’t something you just got over.
“Okay, well, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m currently homeless.”
Kyle wasn’t swayed. “You were sleeping on the couch before.”
“Yes, and that’s why I now have the posture of a jumbo prawn.”
He let out a quick laugh, such a beautiful, if short-lived, sound. “The truth is, you snore.”
“I don’t sno—”
“And fart,” he cut in.
“Right, because your digestive system is a well-oiled machine.”
“Doesn’t matter. Mine don’t wake me up. I have enough trouble sleeping without you playing the butt trumpet all night.”
I sighed, already seeing the couch in my future again. I wasn’t sure I trusted that Kyle was strong enough now to sleep alone, but I needed to believe he was. I stood.
“Fine. I hear the Thompson Boulevard overpass is nice this time of year.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. You can sleep in Keith’s bed. He climbs out of his window every night anyway. Don’t tell him I told you that.”
Right, so, Keith was my second stop.
I pushed his door open. No knock. With him, I had a feeling a surprise attack was the only way in. But if the intrusion rattled him, Keith didn’t show it. He just looked up, rolled his eyes, and went back to sniffing shirts—apparently trying to decide which one reeked the least.
“Going somewhere?” I asked.
“I’d already be gone if Mom was still doing laundry.”
“You could do it.”
“Me? I know less about washing machines than Aunt Mel.”
“I want you home tonight.”
