“Maybe we should get some pizza,” Michael tries to interject. Neither Carmen nor Holly acknowledge him, and he slowly backs away.
“Wrong is wrong,” Holly says, crossing an arm over her torso. “There is no justifying it. Just admit it. You’re in it for the money, even if that means letting criminals roam the streets.”
“I believe in second chances. I believe we all make mistakes, and in the depths of failure, we aren’t in the right headspace to find our way out of it. That’s where I come in.”
“Hey, guys,” I say, loud enough to gain control of the conversation. “We’re about to cut the cake if you want to head over there.”
“Please,” Carmen says. She’s not one to turn down a good debate, even if we are at a one-year-old’s birthday party. As she’s about to hand Ava to me, I spy a cluster of people hovering by the front door.
“Put her in the high chair for me? I’ll be right back.”
I step outside, propping the door open with my foot. The afternoon heat hits me all at once.
“We’re hosting a private party,” I explain. “If you want to come back in an hour—”
“Is there a Sarah Paxton here?” a man asks.
Only then do I register their dark clothing. Their badges. These are police officers. I look behind him, spying a trio of squad cars, their lights blinking.
“I don’t know anyone with that name,” I say, wondering why there seems to be so many officers on the scene.
The man looks to the person next to him. They’re both wearing sunglasses, so it is hard to read their expressions. Something tells me they were expecting that response.
“And your name?” asks the second officer, his uniform tight across his shoulders and chest. The Shack is big with the local police department. I think I’ve seen him before, but it’s hard to tell.
“I’m Marion Sams. I own this restaurant. I don’t know a woman named Sarah Paxton.”
“How about Eileen Sams?” asks the first officer. I’m sure he picked up on the last name.
My stomach clenches tight. Mom? What could they possibly want with her? All these men wouldn’t show up for a simple traffic violation. And their overall tone, combined with their sheer quantity, makes me think this is serious.
“Can you tell me what is going on?” I ask, my voice calm, practical. “I’m hosting my daughter’s birthday party.”
“I need to know if Eileen Sams is on the premises. We have a warrant—”
“I’m Eileen Sams,” Mom says, standing behind me. She looks between me and the officers, her face as surprised as mine.
“Step outside, ma’am,” says the officer.
Mom looks down, obeying his order. From inside, I can hear Des.
“Marion, are we doing the cake or what?”
I don’t answer her. I’m following Mom outside. With the front door closed, they ask her to turn around. They’re placing her hands behind her back and reaching for handcuffs.
“Sarah Paxton, you have the right to remain silent—”
“What are you doing?” I push the arresting officer’s arm away. “I just told you I don’t know a Sarah Paxton. This is my mother.”
The second officer, the one with the tight uniform, steps forward, pulling me back. “Miss, we’re going to need you to step away—”
“Not until you tell me what is going on. You’ve got the wrong person.”
“Marion?” Mom’s voice is broken, as though she has been underwater too long, and struggling to gulp air. I sense she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. Or can’t.
“Mom, tell them who you are.”
Mom starts breathing fast and heavy. Her gasping continues as they walk her toward a police cruiser, opening up the back door. She’s having an anxiety attack. I’ve seen her have them in the past, but it has been years since the last one. Not since I graduated high school. I’m back in that moment, watching my mother turn fragile, feeling unequipped to do anything.
The second officer still has a hand on my arm, trying to keep me from approaching the car. “Miss, if you’ll go back inside—”
“Stop with the miss and ma’am routine,” I shout. I can feel my blood running hot beneath my skin, feel my heart thud faster and faster. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know Mom is in trouble, and there’s nothing I can do about it. “Tell me what’s going on. Why are you arresting her?”
The officer takes a step back and holds up both hands. “Fine.” He walks to another officer, this one wearing a navy suit, and takes a folded stack of papers. He hands them to me. “This is the warrant. Everything you need to know should be in there.”
I hold the bundle in my hands, staring ahead. I watch, helplessly, as the squad car carrying Mom drives away.
2 MarionNow
Out here, beneath the burning sun, I’m frozen. My mind is thawing, slowly familiarizing to this new world, the one where my mother has been placed in handcuffs and driven away in a police car.
A breeze whooshes past, carrying with it the scent of the sea, and crinkles the papers clenched between my fingers. I look down. The warrant. I’m too rattled to begin reading. Around me, more officers descend upon the parking lot. I see them clearly, but can’t grasp their reality, like they are a mirage, a side effect of the desperation and fatigue washing over my body.
“Marion. Are you okay?” It’s Carmen. Her heels smack against the pavement, the volume increasing as she approaches like a crescendo. The sound pulls me out of my own thoughts, back to the present.
Des is only a few steps behind her. “Where’s Eileen?”
“They took her.” My words drift without purpose, like I’m in a dream, a nightmare. I’m disconnected from this life that feels nothing like the one I was living ten short
