His eyes are pleading, verging on tears. ‘Not here. Only at my apartment. I’m sorry. Really, you need to go.’
‘Can you take me with you? Please? Please. I ain’t had nothing to eat all day.’
I blink down at him. He looks young, perhaps eleven or twelve. He looks a little grubby too, like he could do with a shower.
‘Who looks after you?’
‘I take care of myself.’
My heart is racing. I don’t know what to think. I can’t leave him here, all vulnerable, not when it’s dark out. A thought occurs to me, one that I don’t immediately dismiss. I wouldn’t have to call the police, but I could contact Child Protective Services. He’s clearly a minor. And if he wasn’t a child, I would walk away.
Just call the police, my head says.
‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ I say.
I turn and walk back toward my car, and hear quiet sobs behind me as I go.
My car is a compact, royal blue with a sizeable dent in the rear fender. I sit in the driver’s seat and stare through the windshield. I grip the wheel, because of the voices objecting in my head.You left him there. He needed help, and you left.
I’ve never been good with guilt, and so I make a spilt-second decision, and I reverse my car.
I don’t know what I’m thinking of. Helping a young runaway wanted for car theft. My father would kill me. I don’t even want to think about how Evelyn would react.
But, in a way, they’re part of the reason I want to do this. I’ve never forgiven them for what they did. I tell myself I should just drive away, but instead, I switch off the engine again, open the driver side door and get out.
‘Are you there?’ I whisper as I walk back into the alleyway, checking over my shoulder. My heart hammers.
‘I’m here,’ Noah’s voice whispers back, as he scrambles to his feet. He’s a little taller than I imagined he would be, yet still scrawny. It’s the helpless look on his face that ultimately tugs on my heartstrings. ‘If you come with me, I’ll get you something to eat and get you cleaned up.’
‘Seriously?’
His voice switches from low to high when he speaks, like it’s in the process of breaking.
‘Look, don’t try anything funny, okay?’ I tell him. ‘I could lose my job for helping you. I guess I… don’t ask me why, okay? My car is just there. Get in. Maybe crouch down… or get in the footwell or something.’
‘You’re not gonna turn me in?’
I swallow. I know that I should. ‘No.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘I just told you not to ask me that. Now, come on, get in, hurry up.’
He peers out toward the parking lot. ‘The police cars have gone,’ I remind him.
He narrows his eyes at me, like I could be lying.
‘You can trust me,’ I add.
Without another word, he darts out from between the dumpsters and races to my car. His movements are lightning fast; it’s no wonder he gave Canyon P.D. the slip. He yanks open the rear passenger door and dives into the back, and I swallow the lump in my throat.
Alarm bells are going off in my head.
When I close the car door, I take one more look around and start the engine. It’s only a ten-minute drive from Sunset Pines to my apartment in Eastvale, northeast of Boulder Creek, and on the northern side of Electric Hills, the place I’ve lived on and off since I first arrived here as a grumpy adolescent from southwest London.
‘Where do you live, Noah?’ I ask as we drive, keeping my eyes peeled for any police patrols.
‘Not here,’ his muffled voice comes back. ‘How about you?’