Knife's Edge

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Lucas snorts a laugh but otherwise stays quiet, stirring some sugar into his coffee.

"Well... that's good," I reply, still taken aback by how blasé the brothers seem to be about one another's safety. How can they make jokes about their brother being mowed down by a car, when it almost actually happened only yesterday?

Unsure of what else to say, and wanting to keep my judgement to myself, I offer up a small smile and head back towards Ellie.

Before I get the chance to return to the counter, the front door crashes open, my name being called out by a frantic boy with a battered blue backpack.

Owen's cheeks are flushed, his shoulders heaving as if he's just run the London marathon and won – but he doesn't wear the expression of a winner. His jacket hangs half off his shoulder but he doesn't bother shrugging it back on as he rushes over to me.

"Jade, Jade! It's Oscar! You've gotta do something, you've gotta – man, Stella and George are going to flip. You can't tell them, they'll go mental! This is all my fault!" Owen skids on the floor slightly and almost goes down.

I reach a hand out to stop him breaking his face on the floor. "Owen? Hey, hey, slow down – just breathe." He stops for a breath and I move him out of the way as a customer tries to get past. The woman shoots Owen a nasty look that I have to force myself not to return.

I'm aware of the eyes on us – everyone's I'm sure, with how loud Owen's talking – but I couldn't care less. Just like I don't care that Owen is skipping school again.

Something's wrong. He's really freaking out.

"What's happened?" I ask, forcing myself to keep calm. "What's wrong?"

Images race through my brain: Oscar, injured and in pain, stranded somewhere or in some kind of trouble. Maybe they skipped school together and he got hit by a car, or beaten up, or stabbed...

I try not to panic.

Owen opens his mouth again, another torrent of words streaming out. "I – he – Oscar. He got another letter, told me about it this morning. He – I don't know what it said, he wouldn't show me. I tried to tell him, to get him to tell you, and he said he would! He said he'd tell you after school and I thought he was – I–"

And, just like that, it becomes much harder to not panic.

"Oscar's gone to meet his dad?" I ask, horrified.

"Yes, yes! That's what I'm telling you!" Owen exclaims, running his hands through his hair. "Jade, you gotta help me find him. You gotta do something!"

I am doing something; I am staying calm. I am not freaking out.

"Okay, okay. Well..." I start as I attempt to push down my rising panic. It sits like a boulder in my stomach, creeping higher as it tries to work its way up my oesophagus. "Well, shit," I hiss.

The images of Oscar in my mind morph and change: his empty eyes, the haunted expression he wore the last time he saw his father.

He was so upset when we talked about his parents the other week, too quick to agree with his dad – blaming himself the same way his father does. It wouldn't take much to push him back over the edge, to turn him back into the Oscar he was when he first moved in. And we've worked so hard to find him, the real Oscar – the boy he allows himself to be when his father isn't playing the alcoholic devil in his ear.

Owen's right. I have to do something; I have to find him.

"When did you last see him?" I ask, wracking my brain for some form of a plan.