Free A Family Kind of Gal by Lisa Jackson

that Tiffany couldn’t discern. A second later Sergeant Pearson was on the phone again. “Okay, he’s on his way.”
    â€œGood.” Or was it?
    â€œLook, Mrs. Santini, this incident at the Mini Mart, well, it doesn’t amount to much more than a couple of kids getting into a difference of opinion and taking a swing or two on a hot afternoon. However, the way things are today, we tend to worry. If either of the boys had pulled a weapon—a gun or a knife—this could have turned out bad.”
    Her thoughts exactly. A chill slid through her despite the heat. Guns. Knives. Weapons. She had moved to the small town of Bittersweet to get away from the gangs and violence of the city, but it seemed that no community was immune. Not even a little burg in southern Oregon. In this part of rural America, boys were given hunting knives and rifles routinely about the time they hit the age of ten or twelve, as if the owning of a weapon was a rite of passage from childhood to becoming a man. “I’ll talk to Stephen.”
    â€œDo that,” Pearson advised. “I think a ride in the squad car and having to come down to the station probably gave him a scare.”
    â€œLet’s hope so.”
    She was ready to hang up, to wait for Stephen and see that he was okay, then read him the riot act if necessary, but Sergeant Pearson wasn’t finished.
    â€œThere is something more, Mrs. Santini,” he said, and there was a solemnity in his voice she hadn’t heard before. She was instantly wary, her fingers tightening around the receiver.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œAs I said, the boys were fighting about something—who knows what, maybe even a girl. At least that’s what the clerk at the Mini Mart thought she heard, but there was some discussion about Isaac Wells.”
    Tiffany froze. “Pardon me?”
    â€œThe man who disappeared. Owned a place on the county road just out of town.”
    â€œI know who he is,” she said, trying to keep the irritation and, well, the fear, from her voice. Deep inside she began to tremble. “I just don’t see what he has to do with Stephen.”
    â€œProbably nothing. But when we emptied your son’s pockets—just part of procedure, you know—he had a set of keys on him.”
    â€œKeys?” she repeated, having trouble finding her voice. “To my house,” she said, but knew she was only hoping against hope. Stephen had one key. Only one. No set.
    The sergeant hesitated. “Maybe. But the chain is unique and engraved.” She closed her eyes because she knew what was coming. “Initials I.X.W. I’m thinkin’ it could be for Isaac Xavier Wells.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œTalk to your boy.”
    â€œI will,” she promised as she hung up and felt as if the weight of the world had just been dumped upon her shoulders. None of this was making any sense. Why was Stephen still hanging out with Miles Dean? What was he doing with that set of keys? What was the fight about? And, what could Stephen have to do with the old man whom he’d worked for, the man who’d disappeared?
    She walked to the back door and noticed John Cawthorne’s wedding invitation on the counter. By the end of the week her father—well, if that’s what you could call the snake-in-the-grass John Cawthome—would be getting married. But Tiffany couldn’t think of that now. Suddenly she had more important dungs to consider.
    â€œMommy!” Christina shouted from the backyard.
    Tiffany managed a tight smile as she opened the window over the sink. “What’s up kiddo?”
    All smudges and bright eyes, Christina, standing beneath a shade tree, proudly showed off her latest creation of mud and grass piled high in the tinfoil plate that had once held a chicken potpie. A clump of pansies had been thrown on to the top for color. “Lookie!”
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” Tiffany