Prologue

Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me. ~Matthew 25:37-40 NIV

I sat bolt upright, not quite sure what had roused me. Did I hear voices and a slamming door downstairs or just imagine them?

The sirens screaming in the distance were real. The alarm clock glowed 4:15 AM. in neon red. I lay wide awake with no sleep left in me.

Climbing out of my bed, the November chill sent shivers down my arms. I inched the bedroom door open. Night sconces cast shadows in the darkened hallway, fingers of light reaching down the wall. Thick carpeting absorbed the noise of my steps. The sirens still shrieked their warning call somewhere far off. My stomach churned. I held my hand over it to ward off that sick feeling.

Lights on the first floor sent a softer glow up the stairway. Reaching Edwin’s door, I rotated the knob. Light didn’t penetrate into the dark room, but small fissures from the gap in the door confirmed an unused bed, still made from yesterday, neat and smooth, pillows plumped like Leticia always left them. How could he be out at 4:15 in the morning? My heart raced, my mind grabbing at any possible explanation. A choked sob arrived from below. I hurried toward the stairs. As I stepped down the wide, curved staircase, my hand gliding on the smooth, polished surface of a massive wood railing, Leticia appeared at the bottom.

“Go back to bed, Scott.” Red eyes and a husky voice betrayed her as she climbed toward me.

“Where’re my mom and dad?” Where was Edwin? Leticia touched my shoulders to turn me around and motion me back upstairs. I lay awake until daylight, my pulse racing, unable to still my trembling hands.

~*~

I didn’t see my parents in the morning. They made poor Leticia break the news to me. How typical. The second person to tell me was the morning news anchor. After a cheerful “good morning” and a wide-angle shot of a brilliant fire-orange sunrise, he affixed a somber expression for the next segment on his scripted card.

“Edwin Harrington, sixteen-year-old son of the prominent defense attorney Charles Harrington, was found dead last night from an apparent overdose. A man from the night cleaning company discovered Harrington’s body under the bleachers of the Ravenwood High School’s football field.”

I waited to hear my name. But he didn’t know. He couldn’t, because no one did. I took my secret and hid it deep inside my guilt.