So much for his good mood.
The police arrived to clear the house, and Tom was finally able to step inside, with Cypress holding his trembling hand. The entire home had been completely torn apart, and nothing was spared. Even the drawers in the fridge had been pulled out, their contents strewn across the floor.
Tom felt sick, angry, and he didn’t want to touch anything. He didn’t know who had been inside his house, and it all felt dirty now.
Fox was on the way, and Tom had no idea what to tell him.
“Do you think it was Junior?” Cypress asked quietly, hovering next to Tom in the kitchen.
“Who else?” Tom said, fumbling through the cabinets to find some form of alcohol. His desire for a drink outweighed his discomfort about touching things some stranger might have. He could feel the whispers of Mrs. Dresser creeping into his ears, and the ache in his chest was back, and it was hard to breathe.
“Hey, come here,” Cypress urged, taking Tom’s fumbling hands in his.
“I’m trying to—”
“Stop,” Cypress said firmly, waiting until Tom met his eye to speak again. “Listen to me. Everything is going to be all right. Breathe for me.”
“I am breathing,” Tom argued.
“No, come on. Take a big breath for me.” Cypress pulled him close, gently pushing Tom’s head against his shoulder. “Come here.”
Tom had been so focused on finding a drink that redirecting his attention on his breathing made him gasp. He didn’t realize how worked up he was, and he had to fight to draw a long and shaking breath.
He took another, dangerously close to a sob when he exhaled again.
Someone was in here. Someone was going through all my stuff, and fuck, I feel so violated. I want to throw everything away. This is bullshit. Oh, shit. What if I’d actually been here, what if I hadn’t been at work…
“Breathe,” Cypress said firmly.
Tom took a deep breath, listening to the stern tone of Cypress’s voice. It washed over him like a soothing wave, and he was able to calm down. He felt himself relax, sagging against Cypress’s chest.
“There.” Cypress rubbed his back. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Cypress kissed the top of his head. “Now, what do you need? What can I get you?”
“Liquor?” Tom asked hopefully.
“You are in luck,” Cypress replied. “I stopped by the store on my way back to the funeral home. It was going to be for dinner… well, it still can be. Wait here.”
“Okay.” Tom hugged his arms around himself.
“You’re going to be fine.” Cypress smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be right back.”
Tom watched Cypress leave and sighed, glancing around at the floor. He didn’t know what else to do with himself, and he kneeled to start picking up the spilled food.
He’d about gotten it all into the trash when he heard footsteps. He looked up to see Cypress, with Fox right behind him, and his stomach lurched.
At least there was a bottle of wine in Cypress’s hand.
“Hey, Tom,” Fox said, glancing briefly around to all the mess. “You okay?”
“Yes. No? I don’t know.” Tom smiled miserably. “Little freaked out.”
“We thinking this is Junior?” Cypress asked, picking up a corkscrew from the clutter on the floor where one of the kitchen drawers had been tipped.
“I don’t understand why he’d trash everything,” Tom complained. “I don’t have anything worth a crap.”
