Page 98 of Obsessed Heir

Abigail

Dad hadn’t been home in over a week. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. And I didn’t know what to do.

I spent those long, lonely nights terrified of the shadows in every darkened corner. But I couldn’t keep the light on too long because the bill would be too high.

Every time footsteps passed by our door, I froze. I’d prayed to hear the key in the lock. But the steps would fade away, leaving me with the ache of disappointment in my chest.

Where was he? What happened? Did he get hurt? Was he lying in a hospital bed somewhere, alone? Was it something even worse? Not knowing was a constant worry.

Normally, we scraped by, only buying enough groceries to get us to the next week. During the bad times, I learned to fix half the cup of ramen noodles at a time to make them last. Otherwise, I’d have a soggy mess left for the next meal…whenever that was.

After so many days, there wasn’t any food left. I was ashamed to have eaten the noodles that should have been Dad’s. What if he came home and there was nothing at all for him to eat?

I checked every nook and cranny of the tiny apartment, desperately hoping to find a forgotten dollar or even a few stray coins. Nothing. If school was in, I could at least eat breakfast and lunch there, but that wasn’t the case, so I was on my own.

For two endless nights, the shadows growled menacingly. When I was awake, I knew it was the sounds from my empty tummy. But when I was dreaming, I didn’t recognize them, and I would end up having nightmares.

Desperation finally drove me to something I never imagined I’d do. With my stomach cramping painfully, I walked into the neighborhood grocery store and pretended I bought a loaf of bread.

If I’d had any sense, I would have chosen a small item. Tuna would have fit in my pocket. Bologna would have lasted longer. Instead, I went for the cheapest thing I knew of. I rationalized that taking something cheap wouldn’t be as bad.

I should have stopped to think about the consequences. Deep down, I knew it was wrong to shoplift, and I’m still self-conscious over it today. But having an empty stomach for days makes you daring in a way nothing else can.

Of course, I got caught. I was lucky Bonnie Bustos, the daughter of one of Miss Opal’s tenants, happened to be in the store. She saw me dragged into the office by the furious manager.

Bonnie recognized me right away and pleaded with the manager to go easy on me. She paid for the bread and bought me some actual food.

I wasn’t off the hook. The manager had already called the police, and they were on their way to pick me up.

Then I had another problem. I didn’t know what to do when the officer arrived. Dad had warned me, time and again, that we’re not supposed to talk to the police—about anything.

So I waited in terrified silence, hugging the bag of groceries to my chest so tight I flattened half the loaf of bread.

Bonnie waited there, too, keeping me company and promising everything would be okay. My stomach was rumbling so loud, she heard it. But I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything because I was so scared I was afraid I’d throw up.

When the police officer arrived, Bonnie took him aside to explain the situation while I shrank back, wishing I could disappear.

She gently described me as a scared, hungry child who had made a foolish mistake. She begged him not to arrest me and ruin my future, and to let me go with a warning.

But because I was a minor, he couldn’t release me on my own.

He wouldn’t take another step without talking to my parents. With Dad gone, I didn’t know what to do. The only person I thought of having him call was Miss Opal, even though I hadn’t seen her in months.

And she sent her son to collect me.

I still remember the hate in his eyes, the anger when he looked at me as I sat in that hard plastic chair.

How could he, the son of a man with all the money in the world, understand what it was like to be so hungry your stomach hurt?

Barron thanked Bonnie. He smoothed things over with the manager. He thanked the officer for not hauling me down to juvenile detention. Then he pledged a big donation to their annual drive for underprivileged youth, on behalf of the store.

In typical Barron fashion, he spun it so everyone got great press out of what happened.

With the situation defused, he walked me out of the store and herded me into the back seat of his sleek luxury car. He didn’t say a single word to me, but I saw the white-knuckle grip he had on the steering wheel.

The drive to Miss Opal’s passed in agonizing silence. I worried about facing her after what I did. What would she think of me after I’d gotten myself in trouble?

The moment Miss Opal saw me, likely looking as pathetic as I felt, her face melted into an expression of pure compassion. She opened her arms wide, enveloping me in their warmth as I pressed myself against her and broke down into great, heaving sobs.

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