“You’re where?” Tiffany sagged against the kitchen wall for support. Dear God, this couldn’t be happening.

“I said I’m down at the—”

“I know what you said, but how did you get there? Are you all right? What happened?” A jillion thoughts raced through her mind, none of them good. when she considered her thirteen-year-old son and his recent knack for getting into trouble.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?” She wasn’t convinced.

“Yeah. The officer wants to talk to you.”

“Wait, Stephen, should I come get you—”

“Mrs. Santini?” an older male voice inquired. “I’m Sergeant Pearson.”

Tiffany’s throat was dry, her heart a beating drum. “What’s going on? Is my son okay?”

“Aside from a shiner and a sore jaw, I think he’ll be fine.” The sergeant’s voice was kind but did little to soothe her jangled nerves.

“What happened?”

“He and another kid, Miles Dean, got into a scuffle down at the Mini Mart.”

“A scuffle?” she repeated, anxious sweat causing the back of her blouse to cling to her skin. The older boy’s father, Ray Dean, had been in and out of jail and it looked like Miles was following in his old man’s footsteps. What in the world was Stephen doing with him this time?

“The boys got into a quarrel. One thing led to another and a couple of punches were thrown. The clerk gave us a call and we picked ’em up. All in all, your boy’s fine.”

Relief caused her shoulders to droop but she rubbed at the headache pounding in her forehead. “And Miles?”

The officer hesitated and Tiffany felt a niggle of dread. “Miles always manages to get himself out of trouble.”

Nervously she twisted the telephone cord in her fingers. “Are there any charges filed against Stephen?” she asked. Despite a breeze gently lifting the curtains as it slipped in through the open window over the sink, the temperature in the kitchen seemed to have elevated to over a hundred degrees.

Tiffany stretched the cord and looked outside to see that her daughter was still busily making mud pies in the dirt.

“None against your son.”

“And Miles?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Can I come and get him now?”

“Actually, an officer will bring him home. They should be there in about ten minutes.”

“I don’t have to sign anything?”

“No—but just a minute.” Pearson’s voice was muffled as he spoke to someone else. “Yeah, she’s waiting for him. Now listen, Stephen, no more horsing around, right?”

“I won’t,” her son mumbled as if from a great distance.

“I mean it. The next time it could be real trouble. And I’m gonna have to report this to your juvenile counselor.”

There was another muffled response that Tiffany couldn’t discern. A second later Sergeant Pearson was on the phone again. “Okay, he’s on his way.”