GOD HAD A SENSE OF HUMOR; LANCE WAS SURE OF IT. IN THE last ten years, he’d spoken of Clayton as part of his testimony. It was the place that had represented promise, then failure, the last stop before his life took a turn for the worst. He’d always felt like an outsider here, but for a time he’d been welcomed into houses like this.
Lance gazed at the Woodses’ home as he came up the tree-lined walkway, remembering the first time he’d seen the inside of such a house. His schoolmate had laughed when Lance called it a mansion. “This is small compared to a few streets over,” his friend had said.
Lance had wondered what he’d say if his friend saw where he lived. Only once did he invite friends over—and only because they insisted—and he took them to a great-uncle’s condo, where he sometimes stayed. No one saw his real environment. Even he wanted to forget it at times.
Lance noticed that the grass at the Woodses’ home was under-watered and overgrown, and weeds choked the flower beds. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the owner had taken an extended vacation and left the house unoccupied. He rang the doorbell, then rang it again. Seconds later he looked at his watch. Hadn’t he said Wednesday evening at six? He’d had a late-afternoon photo shoot and had come directly after.
The door was opened finally, partially, by a young Caucasian woman with multicolored short hair. She wore shredded denim shorts and a crop top with a great deal of midriff showing. She blew a bubble beyond her dark red lips. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Trey Woods.” Lance stepped back and checked the number by the door. “Is this the right house?”
Another bubble stretched big and wide, then popped to reveal an amused smile. “So you’re the babysitter?”
Lance was confused about everything in this picture. “Excuse me?”
She stepped back inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. “Trey, get the door,” she called. “Trey!”
Lance shook his head. He’d been intrigued by Mr. Woodses’ offer and told him he’d take a look. But based on the first thirty seconds . . .
The door opened again. A guy with a white T-shirt, low-riding jeans, a lopsided Afro, and scraggly facial hair stood before him, holding a bag of Doritos.
Lance blinked. “Trey?” He hugged him. “Hey, it’s good to see you.”
“I look a little different from that youth group kid, huh?”
Lance smiled. “Only a little.”
Trey had always been the best-dressed kid in youth group. Clean-cut, nice jeans or khakis, collared shirt. But he’d filled out, too, more muscle on his over-six-foot frame.
“Come in, I guess,” Trey said.
Lance could hear music from the lower level when he stepped inside. He glanced at the young woman as she looped her arm through Trey’s. Next to him, she was short, but the hair, the combat boots, and the gum she hadn’t stopped popping made her a spunky short.
“I’m sorry,” Lance said, extending his hand. “I didn’t get your name. I’m Lance Alexander.”
She shook with a firm grip. “Molly.”
“Good to meet you.” Lance shifted his gaze. “How are you, Trey? I’ve been praying for you.”
“Look, I don’t really want to hear about your prayers. I’m not gonna pretend I’m up for this.” Trey dug out a chip and popped it into his mouth. “I know what my dad is up to,” he said, speaking through the crunch. “He’s bringing in an overseer, and if I don’t shape up, he’ll kick me out. But it’s his house, so do what you feel.”
“Trey, I’m not planning to be anybody’s overseer.” Even as he said it, it was clear to Lance that the house needed overseeing, if not the residents. He could see stains on the living room carpet, a hole?—he did a double take to be sure—in the hall off the entryway, and junk in various forms everywhere. “I’m just here to check out the place because I need somewhere to stay.”
Trey shrugged. “Knock yourself out.” He motioned to Molly, who followed him down the hall.
Lance stared after him. Trey’s attitude and conversation were more foreign than the new look. “So . . . I should just show myself around?”
Trey turned, walking backward. “Yeah, pretend it’s an open house.”
Trey opened a door. The music got louder, and Lance heard another voice before they disappeared, closing it.
He blew out a sigh. Mr. Woods had practically begged him to move in. Said he trusted Lance—with his house and his son—and believed his presence would make a difference. But Trey probably had people in and out of the house—at all hours, no doubt—and that wasn’t how Lance wanted to live. He’d grown up like that and had come to appreciate home as a place of peace and quiet. He could continue praying for Trey, get together with him from time to time if he was willing, but he couldn’t see himself living here.
The front door opened behind him and two guys walked in, strolling past Lance and heading directly downstairs. They proved his point.
Lance didn’t need to see more. He headed for the door, but the sound of angry voices rose suddenly, making him pause. If a fight was breaking out, especially with a woman present, he couldn’t walk away. He walked toward the lower level as the voices grew louder. The new arrivals had left the door open.
“You’re paying up,” one guy said. “Today.”
“Timmy, why are you tripping?” The voice was Trey’s. “Just pay them their money.”
“Do you not understand the nature of this rip-off?” another voice said. “They charge half the price on the street for the same product. Why do students get the overinflated prices? And I buy in bulk! Squeeze somebody else.”
“I warned you yesterday,” the first guy said. “Remember what I told you, Timmy?”
Lance heard a sound like a punch as Molly shouted, “Dillon, stop!”
Lance hustled downstairs, where the smell of weed hit him. In the dim light he saw a guy on the floor, arms raised to block the next blow. Trey was mediating still—“Timmy, just give them the money”—while the other two stood over him.
Lance entered the fray, stepping between them and raising his phone. “My finger’s on emergency, and I’m calling the police if you don’t get out now.”
“Man, you can’t call the police,” Trey said. “That’s so lame.”
Lance would’ve said so, too, back in the day. If Trey only knew . . . His first instinct was to knock these dudes out.
“I’m not going anywhere until I get my money.” The main aggressor stepped toward Lance. He was a big guy, but Lance was taller and more muscular. “It would take a few minutes for the police to get here anyway,” the guy said. “If I were you, I’d head back upstairs.”
Old wiring kicked in. Lance closed the gap even more between them. “Or what?”
Timmy broke just then, scrambling to his feet and running out the back door. The other guys took off after him.
“Trey!” Lance called.
Trey stopped, turning slightly, poised to keep going.
“Why are you caught up in all this?” Lance asked. “This isn’t who you are.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Trey said. “You never knew the real me.”