practically on top of them.
Both train their eyes on me at the same time. Peyton shakes her head slightly, as if she’s willing me to go away, but I can’t not get involved. That ship sailed a long frickin’ time ago.
“Peyton, are you okay? What’s happening? Where are you going?” I’m on edge, and it feels as if everything is spinning out of control.
“Who are you?” her mother asks before Peyton can answer me. Her tone is clipped and cautious. Up close, she could easily be mistaken for Peyton’s older sister. She is young but battle-weary.
“I’m Hank Kirby.”
Her mother gives me the once-over, assessing me. Her eyes are cold.
She says, “So you’re Hank. The boy she was staying with, right? You have no idea what you put me through. It would have been nice if you or your family had called and let me know she was all right.”
Is this lady frickin’ serious?
“The school kept leaving messages that she was absent, and I figured she’d turn up eventually. She always does. It’s not like she has anywhere else to go. But when she didn’t come home after two or three days, I started to worry. I only find out she’s okay and back at school because the principal calls me in for a meeting to discuss all the time she’s missed, and now I have no choice but to deal with it. I had to take off work today to clean up this mess.”
The inconvenience of losing a day’s pay is more important than learning that her daughter—who hasn’t been home in a week—is alive and safe? I feel my temper rising.
I pull myself up to my full height as my adrenaline surges. “You were worried about her? Concerned for her safety? Are you kidding me?”
“Hank, what are you doing?” Peyton interrupts, but I keep going.
“I’m sure that you were up each night, wondering where she was. Putting up flyers, crying yourself to sleep, filing a missing person report with the police.” I nod my head in the direction of the school. “I’m sure you probably have them convinced this was all some big misunderstanding, but it still doesn’t explain why you never called them, does it?”
“Excuse me?” Her eyes narrow to slits. “Is there some sort of problem here?”
I’m not sure where this bravado is coming from, but I run with it. “Oh, I think there is most definitely some sort of problem here. When Peyton went missing, why didn’t you call the school? You said the principal called you after she’d been out for several days. Wouldn’t you think you should let the school know in case she shows up here? I mean, since you are such a concerned parent and all.”
She’s pissed now, and frankly I don’t give a crap. Peyton deserves to have someone defend her, and I refuse to let her mom intimidate me. Mrs. Breedlove takes a step closer. “I don’t know who you think you are, talking to me like that. You should mind your own business.”
My parents had an issue of Time magazine that was in the bathroom for, like, three years when I was growing up. I read the articles over and over until I’d practically memorized the text. In one of them, there was a quote by this social rights activist dude from South Africa named Desmond Tutu. He said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” It always struck me as something a superhero might say, but I never fully understood it until right this moment.
“Peyton is my business,” I say. I shoot a glance at Peyton, who looks absolutely terrified. “There’s no way in hell she is getting in that car with you and going back to that house. I can’t let that happen.”
Mrs. Breedlove raises her eyebrows at Peyton. “Well, Peyton, you certainly did quite a number on this boy. That’s very noble and all, Hank, but you don’t have the right to tell me what my daughter can and can’t do.”
Something in the way she speaks, as if each word is as sharp as a razor blade, reminds me of my dad when he was drunk, and I reflexively ball my hands into fists. “I think Peyton should stay with me.”
Mrs. Breedlove smirks. “Oh, you think that, huh?”
“Yes.” I made Peyton a promise. I’m not going to back down.
“And why is that?”
“Because I know what happened that night. I know what I saw. You can’t do that