This Is My America(56)

I hang up the phone and dial 911 while repeating to Dean what Steve said. His brows furrow and his jaw clenches, and then he swiftly moves past me as I talk to the 911 operator.

“Dad!” Dean yells, then hops over to the counter, enters a passcode on the gun safe, and pulls out a shotgun. He grabs a handful of shells and grips them, two by two, locking the gun back in place.

“What are you doing?” I block Dean from moving, my hands trembling.

“Stay here.” Dean points his finger at me in such a demanding way I almost slink back.

“Dean. No.” I’m hyperventilating, wanting Dean to stop and wait for the cops.

He doesn’t stop; he jogs out the front door carrying the shotgun. I quickly give the store address to the operator and chase after Dean. When I step outside, an alarm goes off upstairs. I breathe out a sigh of relief that this’ll scare him off. But it doesn’t stop him.

“Dean, it’s not worth it,” I yell after him, and run out to the alley.

Dean is halfway up the outside staircase to the office on the second floor, gripping the banister as he looks down at me. I’m shaking in place. He takes one step up, looks at me again, and stops. Mr. Evans runs out the door, followed by Mrs. Evans.



She’s not going to like this.

“What is going on?” Mr. Evans quickly makes his way to Dean.

“Someone’s breaking into the office upstairs.” I avoid eye contact so I don’t have to be the one to explain more to Mrs. Evans.

“Get downstairs, Dean,” Mr. Evans’s voice booms.

Mr. Evans is a few inches shorter than Dean, but he makes up for it with his commanding presence. Dean’s foot hovers over the next step up, pausing. Then he backs down and meets us in the alley. He keeps watch on the door, expecting the guy to come down any second.

Mr. Evans grabs the shotgun from Dean and posts with it at the bottom of the stairs. This is the only exit and entrance to the loft. We watch from afar. Nothing is moving Mr. Evans out of his place, his boots firmly on the ground.

Mrs. Evans has her I-told-you-so face on, with eyebrows raised. This will be trouble for Dean. I mouth, Sorry, to him.

A police car arrives, then another. They park between the alley and the front of the store, and then meet Mr. Evans at the stairs. He must have turned off the blaring alarm, because it’s finally silent. After ten minutes, officers go in and out. The guy is nowhere to be found. Either he hopped the fence and never made it upstairs, or he scaled down one of the windows from the back room of the office.



Dean leads his mom and me upstairs, where we meet Mr. Evans and three officers. One of them is Officer Clyde, the silver-haired officer from the Pike.

At first glance the room looks the same, except a window’s open. The closed file boxes in the back have been tampered with. I know for a fact they were sealed, since I taped them shut myself.

The officers walk around. I study them. Watch how they open up the boxes, sifting through and pulling files out. I make a noise with my throat to catch their attention. Mrs. Evans is also examining the loft. Her mouth is tight, disapproval on her lips. When she heads back downstairs, I can’t help but feel relief that we won’t have to tiptoe around her anymore.

“What you say your name was?” Mr. Evans steps up.

“Clyde,” the silver-haired officer responds. “Not sure what we’re looking for. You saw an intruder?”

I hope he doesn’t recognize me, but my hopes are dashed when I feel his recognition laser in on me.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “This is the second time we’ve caught him out here. The first time with binoculars looking up into the office when I was helping the tenant move in. We’ve got a license plate from before.”

I grab a photocopy of the SUV’s license plate and hand it to Officer Clyde. The other officers continue rifling through the boxes. Another officer stands in front of the massive board that Steve’s been working on. They take photos of the boxes, pulling out files and reading through Steve’s notes. Then they take a photo of Steve’s board. They don’t seem too concerned about a robbery.



“Well, I don’t think there are any valuables here,” Mr. Evans says, beginning to usher the officers out. “But I’ll be sure to check in with my tenant. I’ll be in contact if he identifies anything missing.”

“Didn’t know you had a tenant,” Officer Clyde says.

“Yip. Things been slow, so thought I’d try and make a little more money.”

“You filed the appropriate paperwork to rent a space? You know how the city is about pop-up establishments. You never can be too careful who you bring into town.”

“I’ve got the paperwork. Nothing to worry about here, Officer Clyde,” Mr. Evans says.

The cops finally exit, and Mr. Evans shuts the door behind them.

“What do you think?” Mr. Evans asks us.

“That was weird, right?” I say. “The breakin? The cops?”

“Small town. Folks don’t like new people coming in and being nosy,” Mr. Evans says.

There’s being nosy, and there’s conspiring against the investigation. Someone was looking for something. The question is, what?



* * *





Two hours later, Dean and I jolt at the sound of the key jingling in the door. Steve carries his briefcase in with a weary look of exhaustion.