2020-07-16 - Do You Know Where Your Children Are?

Riiiiing. Riiiinnnnnnnggg.

The phone was pounding on Alexander's head. Wait. No. Alexander's head was pounding. The phone was just ringing. Which did not make anything better.

He reached over and fumbled at it until he could drag it to his ear. He was alone in the bed. Isabella was up already, so he didn't bother trying to be quiet when he croaked, "What?"

"Alexander, thank God. We heard you were arrested!"

He groaned, pulled the phone away from his ear to blearily look at the time. He'd overslept. His head hurt. "'m not arrested, Ma. If I were arrested, it'd be in the crime blotter."

"Mrs. Jacoby is saying that you murdered people! A dozen people. Did you have an incident?"

He scrubbed at his face with his free hand. "Do you think I'd murder a dozen people, Ma?"

It was a mistake to ask. The silence went on just a heartbeat too long, and when the denials came tumbling out from her mouth and tripping down the phone line, they were just a little too shrill. His heart clenched, and so did his jaw. It took effort to keep his voice from snapping as he pointed out, "If I murdered anyone in public, I'd be in jail. I'm not in jail, I'm not under arrest. I didn't murder anyone. I just got in the way."

There was a relieved puff of air from the other end, and then a muffled argument between his parents that he could nonetheless hear quite well: <<I told you he didn't do anything wrong>> <<then ask the boy what the hell he was doing there in the first place>> <<i was getting to that!>> His mother's voice came back into focus, worry warring with disapproval. "Alexander, you haven't been playing police again, have you? You know that's dangerous."

He took a breath. He held it. He let it out, slowly. Considered pointing out that he'd been a hostage and nothing more, but it was still humiliating to think about, and he didn't think he could handle his parents' pity on top of everything else. So he just said, slowly, "I was just in the neighborhood, Ma. I didn't have anything to do with it."

"But Mrs. Jacoby said--"

"Mrs. Jacoby is eighty years old and can't see anything more than five feet in front of her face unless she thinks it'll get someone in trouble. She's filled with spite and doesn't know anything of worth."

"Alexander." His mother's voice was scandalized. "Don't take that tone with your mother. And Patrice is a wonderful person, so you apologize right this instant."

"No," Alexander said, flatly. He tried to soften it by adding, "I love you both, and I'm sorry I didn't call as soon as I got out. I should have known someone would tell you. But I'm okay, and I didn't kill anyone. I promise."

There was silence, and then his mother said, "Are you sure you're okay, Alexander?"

Alexander thought about that. He didn't like to lie to his parents, but he'd learned a long time ago that the truth never ended well. So he said, "I'm sure, Ma. You and Dad don't have to worry about me." He tried to put a smile in his voice, and ignore the fact that it felt like a tiny, evil person was using a power drill on his temple. "I'll come by for dinner one night, soon." Once the gunshot healed. "And I'll bring Isabella."

"Isabella's still there? Oh thank God. Mr. Stevenson said she'd left town!"

He closed his eyes, and wished, just for a moment, he could direct the collateral damage of the darkness in this town in very specific directions. Instead, he said, "She had to go back to England to finish her dissertation defense, and she's been doing some work. But she's here. I'll bring her by, sometime. But right now I'm going to back to sleep."

"But, darling, it's almost--"

"Don't care. I love you." He hung up, turned over in the bed, and buried his face in the pillow. Maybe he could just call Stewart and tell him that, no, he actually planned to go to the police with every single bit of evidence he'd been able to scrounge up on Monaghan over the years.

At least it would cure his headache.