Thunder sounded. I’d counted the time since the lightning: six seconds.
Rain began to pelt my windshield. I was parked in my driveway, savoring the silence. After our trip to Red Hook I’d dropped Solomon off under the Rip Van Winkle Bridge, at his—characteristically bizarre—request. That had been hours ago. I’d driven all the way to Albany to get more photo paper, developer, stop bath, fixer.
I sat there and watched the rain get stronger. I didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wondered if in Solomon’s magical world there was a way to teleport directly into one’s bed and sleep forever. Or if somebody could put me in a coma so I’d never have to deal with humans ever again.
My phone vibrated in my hand. Unknown Number flashed on the screen.
I almost didn’t answer it. Everything would have happened so differently, if I hadn’t. But I did.
“Hello?” I said.
Static. Someone yelling in the background. Finally: “Ash?”
“Solomon!” I said. “Where are you? What number is this?”
“I wasn’t sure if I had your number right.”
Metal clanged, wherever he was. A loud buzzer sounded. I started to get a bad feeling. “Solomon. Tell me where you are.”
“I’m in jail,” he said, and laughed, not like it was funny, but like he could hear how ridiculous the situation was. “I’m breaking the rules right now. I already used my one phone call. But these people are pretty bad at their jobs. They just left me in the hallway where the phone is. I could make all kinds of calls. What’s the number for the Psychic Hotline, do you know?”
“In jail?” I said, too loudly, before my rational mind kicked in and I dialed back the panic. If I got upset, so would he. Emotions were contagious like that. “What happened?”
“I ran into Bobby,” he said. “At Fairview Plaza.”
“Oh, honey, no,” I said. The little psychopath who almost set me on fire—there was no way that interaction went well.
“He started it.”
“It doesn’t matter!” I said.
“Anyway I beat the shit out of him.”
“Solomon, you—”
“They’re coming,” he said. “I gotta go. I called my aunt but she didn’t answer. So I don’t know what they’re going to do with me.”
“Don’t tell them anything until you have a lawyer,” I said, finally thankful for all the awful cop shows my mother watched, which I’d absorbed by osmosis. “They have to provide one for you, even if you can’t pay for it. Better yet, just don’t speak. To anyone. I’m coming. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
“Breathe, Solomon. Don’t get stressed.”
“I’m not stressed,” he said. “And I’m not sorry.”
I had to chuckle at that. At his strength, his bravery—his ignorance, his naïveté. And then there was a harsh boom, as someone slammed the receiver down. It rang in my ears like thunder.