“Our house,” he says.

His house?

I look at his wife. I look at the child. I immediately look at the picture frame by the door. That picture is of her. And the little boy in the picture is in her arms.

“This is your house?” I ask the man.

“Yes.”

“You own it?”

“Yes.”

“Is Samson your son?”

The man shakes his head. “We don’t know him.”

I look back at the picture. The one Samson said was of him and his mother. Did he lie about that, too?

I’m shaking my head in complete and utter confusion when my father rushes through the door. “Beyah?” He glides across the room, but comes to a halt when one of the officers puts a hand on his shoulder and steps between us.

“Can you wait outside the door, please?”

“What happened?” my father asks. “Why are they being arrested?”

“Your daughter isn’t being arrested. We don’t believe she had a part in this.”

“A part in what?” I ask.

The female officer inhales a slow breath like she doesn’t want to say what she’s about to say. “This house belongs to this family,” she says, motioning in the direction of the man, woman, and child. “Your friend didn’t have permission to be here. He’s being charged with breaking and entering.”

“Son of a bitch,” my father says through clenched teeth.

I can feel the tears burning behind my eyes. “That can’t be right,” I whisper. This is Samson’s father’s house. He even set the alarm last night. You can’t break into a house when you know the alarm code. “This has to be some kind of mistake.”

“It’s not a mistake,” the officer says. She puts her notepad in her back pocket. “Do you mind coming with us to the station? We’ll need to file a report and we have a lot of questions.”

I nod and stand up. They might have questions for me, but I certainly don’t have answers.

My father steps forward, waving a hand in my direction. “She had no idea this wasn’t his house. I’m the one who allowed her to stay here last night.”

“It’s just a formality. You’re welcome to meet us at the station, and if everything checks out, she’ll be free to leave with you.”

My father nods. “Don’t worry, Beyah. I’ll be right behind you.”

Don’t worry?

I’m fucking terrified.

Before I exit the house, I grab both Samson’s and my backpacks that are still sitting by the door and hand them to my father. “Can you put my stuff in the house?” I don’t tell him one of the backpacks belongs to Samson.

He grabs both of them and looks me firmly in the eye. “Don’t answer any questions until I get there.”

TWENTY-FOUR

The room is so small, I feel like there isn’t enough air for the four of us.

My father is sitting next to me at this tiny table, so I’m leaning to the right to try to preserve my own space bubble. My elbows are digging into the table and my head is in my hands.

I’m worried.

My father is just angry.

“Do you know how long he’s been staying at that house?”

I learned the female officer’s name is Officer Ferrell. I don’t know the man’s name. He hasn’t said much. He’s just taking notes and I don’t really feel like looking up at anyone.

“No.”

“Beyah just moved here in June. But Samson has been in that house since at least spring break. That’s when I met him, anyway.”

“You don’t know the owners?” the officer asks my father.

“No. I’ve seen people there, but I just assumed they were renters. We live in Houston most of the year, so I don’t know many of the neighbors in our area yet.”

“Do you know how Samson bypassed the alarm?” This question is directed at me.

“He knows the code. I saw him enter it last night.”

“Do you know how he got the code?”

“No.”

“Do you know of any other houses he’s stayed in?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he stays when the owners occupy the house?”

“No.” I don’t know how many different ways I can say no, but I haven’t known answers to hardly any of their questions.

I don’t know where Samson is from. I don’t know the name of his father. I don’t know his birthday, where he was born, where he grew up, whether his mother is actually alive or dead. The more questions they ask me, the more embarrassed I become.

How can I know nothing about him, yet feel like I know him so well?

Maybe I don’t know him at all.

That thought forces me to lay my head on my arms. I’m tired and I want answers, but I know I won’t get any until I get to speak to Samson. The only answer I really want to know is whether or not he actually grew a heart bone. If he did, is his breaking right now?

Because mine is.

“She really doesn’t know anything else,” my father says. “It’s late. Can you guys just call if there are more questions?”

“Sure. Let me check on something real quick before you leave. We’ll be right back.”

I hear both officers leave the room, so I finally lift my head and then lean back in the chair.

“You okay?” my father asks.

I nod. If I say I’m not okay, he’ll want open dialogue. I’d rather not speak.

The door is open, which gives me a good view of the activity outside this room. There’s a man who is obviously strung out on something being detained in a room across the hall. The whole time we’ve been in this room, we could hear him making unintelligible noises for no reason. Every time he would do it, I would flinch.

I should be used to that behavior because it was so common in my house. My mother mumbled to herself all the time. Especially in the past year. She’d talk to people who weren’t even there.

I almost forgot what it’s like to live with an addict. It makes me sad seeing that man here. Jail isn’t going to help him with his addiction, just like it never helped my mother. If anything, it made it worse. Being locked up and released over and over is a cycle that gets stronger with every arrest.

My mother was arrested several times. I’m not exactly sure what she was arrested for, but it was always drug related. Possession. Intent to purchase. I remember a neighbor coming to get me in the middle of the night and taking me to her house to sleep a few times.

My mother needed more help than I was capable of giving her. I tried on more than one occasion, but I was in over my head. Looking back now, I wish I’d done more. Maybe I should have reached out to my father.

I don’t think she would have been a bad person if she wasn’t sick. And that’s what addiction is, right? It’s an illness. One I’m susceptible to but determined never to catch.

I wonder what she could have been like had she not been addicted to drugs. Was she like me in any way whatsoever?

I glance over at my father. “What was my mother like when you met her?”

He looks jarred by that question. He shakes his head. “I don’t really remember. I’m sorry.”