William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“Owen, buddy, it is okay,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Did he get lost?”
“He is in the bag, William,” Marsha said, her voice rising slightly. “Let the boy rest. He had a long weekend.”
“I checked the bag, Marsha,” I said. “It is empty.”
Marsha did not answer, her fingers resuming their steady tap against her purse.
I waited until we reached the red light at the corner of Maple Avenue, then turned the mirror down so I could see Owen’s face clearly.
“Where is he, Owen?” I asked.
The boy’s shoulders hitched, and he rubbed his bare left wrist where the red finger marks had finally faded to pale white.
“Grandma put him in the fireplace,” Owen whispered, his voice so high and thin it was barely audible over the hum of the heater.
My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly the vinyl creaked.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“She said he was dirty,” Owen whispered, his eyes still fixed on the passing streetlights. “She told me on Friday. She said if I made another sound, she would burn him.”
