Page 123 of The Five Year Lie

“Oops. My bad.” I turn around and walk away. “Buzz!” I call.

My son looks up from a mesh bag full of balls that someone has brought for the children to play with.

“Come here, sweetie.” He trots over immediately. “Listen, this is for you.” I hand him the wedge of melon. “I’m sorry, but we have to leave the picnic.”

“Why?” He looks alarmed.

“You and I are going on a little adventure on a train. But it leaves soon.”

“A train?” That perks him up.

“Right. But we’re not going to tell anyone. It’s a secret.”

He blinks. Then he takes a bite of the watermelon.

“Come on.” I put a hand on his head. “Let’s go now. Try not to drip that in Uncle Ray’s car. Where’s your backpack?”

He points to a pile of the kids’ things under a tree, and we march over to collect the bag. Then I steer him toward the car. A couple of people are watching our untimely exit, but it can’t be helped.

There’s no car seat in Ray’s BMW, but I buckle Buzz in the back seat for the one-mile trip home. My hands are practicallyshaking with adrenaline as I make a small detour to the drive-in window at the bank. It’s the kind with a speaker, a pneumatic tube, and a human two yards away on the other side of the glass. “How can I help you?” asks an older white woman through the speaker.

“I’d like to withdraw two thousand dollars. The girls and I are going to the casino this weekend.” I fashion my face into a smile while my heart jackhammers against my ribs.

Two thousand dollars is almost my entire checking account balance. But it will easily cover a few days’ journey.

“Cash card and ID, please,” the teller says, and the tube descends through its tunnel toward my open car window.

“Cool,” Buzz says from the back seat. “It’s like an elevator.”

I place my ATM card and my driver’s license into the tube, which is sucked back toward the bank.

Buzz makes a noise of delight.

A couple of long minutes later, the tube returns, and I pull out my cards and a thick envelope of cash. “Thank you,” I say, shoving that envelope into a zip pocket of my bag.

Then I drive the rest of the way to Chadwick Street. There’s a locksmith’s van just pulling away from the curb when I reach the house. But my mother’s car isn’t in the driveway. I’m taking it as a blessing, as well as a sign to move quickly.

When Buzz and I disappear, she’s going to freak out.

I stop in the driveway, pulling a wet wipe out of my bag and tackling Buzz’s sticky hands. I swipe it across the leather armrest of my uncle’s car, too. This morning is full of cognitive dissonance. Zain is dead, and I’m wiping up melon juice, because it’s crucial to tidy up the BMW while I run for my life.

I leave the key in the cup holder.

Buzz unbuckles himself and follows me up the driveway to our apartment, where there’s a shiny new key taped to the door. I use it to let myself in. Then I leave it on the countertop. I whip out my phone and summon an Uber, which will arrive in six minutes.

“Hey, Buzz? Wait here, okay? We have to go soon to get our train.” Without waiting for an answer, I dash upstairs with both our bags.

The place is immaculate. You’d never know it was ransacked yesterday.

To Buzz’s bag, I add a couple pairs of underwear, socks and three Matchbox cars. Then I head into my room, where I open my backpack. My dirty clothes get tossed into the hamper. I grab another T-shirt and clean underwear. Deodorant. I dash into the closet and choose a cardigan. What color does a stylish single mom wear when she’s running for her life? Navy blue.

Finishing up, I zip my cash and wallet into the front pocket of the backpack. My phone buzzes with a text from Uber. The car is outside.

I trot downstairs. “Buzz! Let’s go!”

On a three-by-three sticky note on the counter, I leave a harried message.

Buzz and I are still staying with some friends!