There’s no time to lose. I tiptoe down the dark hall. As well as being suspended from school, Owen’s grounded. This makes searching his room a challenge.
Luckily, after dinner, he went downstairs to watch a movie with Chad. Dana’s in bed with a headache. She barely touched her food.
I left the girls in Zoe’s bedroom, both glued to their iPads. All my good mothering intentions have gone out the triple-glazed windows. What’s some extra screen time compared to your mom going to jail? When all of this is over, I’ll make it up to Ruby. We’ll bake cookies and read together. We’ll visit museums.
I fear Owen’s door might be locked, but it’s not. I slip inside and lock it. His room smells like a thrift shop, musty and stuffy. I flick on the light.
I brought latex gloves, just in case, lifted from the nursing station at school. I tug them on and wiggle my fingers. My hands look pale and creepy.
I’m not sure where to start. I scan the neatly-made bed and a tall bookcase. Its bottom shelves are full of mostly sci-fi and natural history. The upper shelves display plastic models of monsters, Lego spaceships, and a chess set, while the middle shelf bears Owen’s weird wood carvings. The sight of them sets my fury refizzing. Dana even lied about the murder weapon so I’d be less likely to suspect Owen.
A dozen mobiles hang from the ceiling, some bought and others handmade from wire and natural objects. They sway in a light draft, casting shadows, rustling, and ticking. The sound is unsettling.
I walk to Owen’s desk, stacked high with books, papers, and comics. I leaf through them and find a sheet of paper in a physics textbook. I turn it over. Jesus. It’s a pencil sketch of a man with a knife in his chest. Blood spurts everywhere. Owen’s done a fine job with the shading. Detective Shergold would be orgasmic.
I fold the drawing and shove it into my jeans. I slow down and leaf through every paper. Nada. Maybe I’m wrong, and there’s nothing here. Owen probably tossed the knife, although he’d have wanted to keep it. He’s a hoarder. I walk to the chest of drawers.
I start at the bottom. The lowest drawer holds ancient stuffed animals. I pull out a lumpy dog, which reminds me of one my dad gave me when I was small and how fiercely I loved it. I shove the dog back in the drawer.
Next come old Lego catalogs, picture books, and music sheets. There’s a drawer full of shells, pebbles, and twisted wire for his mobiles. Another holds playing cards, stickers, and broken electronics. He’s got enough to build a bomb.
I check my watch. It’s been twenty minutes. I’m worried Owen will tire of his movie. Throat dry, I move to the closet.
I find a half-smoked joint and a Bic lighter in his raincoat. No surprise. I shove the joint into my back pocket and keep looking.
When I’m done with his hanging clothes, I grab his desk chair and carry it over. A shelf at the top of his closet holds hats and folded sweaters. I climb onto the chair. My fingers wiggle between layers of wool. Nothing.
Behind the sweaters stands a blue plastic tub. I tilt it, hearing the instantly recognizable rattle of Legos. Keeping the box tilted, I use my other hand to rake through the sharp blocks. Something smooth finds my fingers.
It’s long and hard, wrapped in plastic. I hold my breath and extract a knife. It’s shaped like a dagger. The tip is curved. Holy shit. There are flecks on the blade. I can’t believe it. Could he really have failed to wash it? It’s inexplicably stupid.
As a teacher, I’ve seen plenty of teens make dumb choices. Teenage brains suck at risk assessment. Apparently, their prefrontal cortex remains undeveloped. But this— My breathing quickens. Still balanced on the chair, I glance toward the door.
Who in their right mind would keep the knife they’d used to stab their father? I am Owen’s teacher at school. He’s far from stupid. Is this some sick sort of trophy?
My eyes dart about the room. Have I misjudged him entirely?
I push the knife into my hoodie’s pocket. My hands are clammy. It feels vital to leave this room ASAP. I clamber down, feeling shaky.
Dana and I have been luckier than we deserve. No. She’s been luckier than she deserves, considering her lies. If the cops had thoroughly searched Winderlea, our lives would be over. They’d get the truth out of Owen. I’m as jittery as his mobiles.
Dana was blind about her husband. Why not her son? I should have guessed sooner.
I drag Owen’s chair back to his desk and switch off the light.
Before opening the door, I listen hard. All’s quiet but for my heartbeat and the click of his mobiles.
I look both ways down the dark and empty hall. I can just make out a trio of Stan’s heinous abstracts. All in brown, they look like shit.
I creep quietly past Dana’s bedroom.
I’m descending the staircase when I see Owen coming up. The knife in my pocket feels heavier. The staircase seems much too narrow.
I must look odd because he shoots me a suspicious frown. I will my voice to sound normal: “You off to bed then?” It comes out croaky.
This boy, now within feet of me, killed his father.
“Yeah.” He frowns. “Why are you here?”
I don’t think he just means here right now. But here in his house, with his mother. I stop walking. It’s a good question. “I . . . I’m going,” I say.
As soon as I say it, it’s obvious. I’ll pack up and leave. I’ll sever all contact with Dana.
All those years and all those lies—I can’t take it anymore. I don’t need her. Everyone has a limit. I’ve reached mine.
Owen shrugs. Maybe that’s not what he meant after all. “Goodnight, Jo.”
“Goodnight.”
I stay where I am until I hear his bedroom door shut. I feel the knife in my hoodie’s pocket.
Back in the guest room, I shove clothes and toys into my suitcase. I’ll take it out to my car, then come back for Ruby. Leaving tonight, while Dana’s asleep, feels essential.
Above all, I must not panic. I need a good plan. One that doesn’t involve Dana.