I decided that whatever it was, I was going to sit him down that weekend and get the truth out of him, one way or another.
I didn't get the chance. His boss called first.
Part 3: What Sal Showed Me
I was at my desk at work when an unfamiliar number lit up my phone.
"Hello?"
"Is this Evan's mother?" The voice was older, gravelly.
"Yes. Who's calling?"
"My name's Sal. I own the diner where your son works." My stomach tightened before he'd even finished the sentence. "I need to talk to you about him."
"Did he do something wrong?"
A long pause. Too long.
"I honestly don't know how to answer that," Sal finally said.
"What does that mean?"
Another silence. Then a question I wasn't prepared for. "Do you know what your son does with every paycheck?"
"He's saving it. For a bicycle."
Sal exhaled slowly, and when he spoke again, his voice had changed — gentler, and heavier at the same time.
"Ma'am, you should probably sit down. Because everything that boy has told you about that money is a lie."
"What are you talking about?"
"He isn't saving for a bike. He never was."
Before Sal could say another word, I heard shouting in the background — and then, unmistakably, Evan's voice.
"Please! Don't tell my mom!"
I was on my feet before I'd decided to stand. "Evan?!"
Something crashed. Someone else shouted. Sal came back on the line breathing hard.
"Ma'am, you need to come down here. Now."
I didn't grab my coat. I grabbed my keys and drove faster than I should have, running through every terrible possibility a parent's mind can produce in the space of ten minutes. Had he stolen from the register? Gotten into a fight? Was someone hurting him? Was the money even his to begin with?
I pulled into the diner's lot and ran inside to a kitchen gone completely quiet. A few employees stood near the dish station, not saying anything, and in the middle of the room stood Evan — backpack open on the floor at his feet, its contents spilled out beside it.
Papers. Receipts. Several small, carefully wrapped packages.
And taped to the inside flap of the backpack, half-hidden until I crouched down to look: a photograph of an older man I didn't recognize, sitting on a folded blanket near the creek behind the diner, and beneath it, in Evan's handwriting, a name — Walt — and a running list of dates.
