“Where is Kenneth?” I ask carefully. This time, she doesn’t laugh. Her lips purse, distant irritation knitting between her brows.
“No, no,” she mutters, fingers smoothing over the edge of the paper. “He’s not quite Kenneth, not always. There’s something wrong with his head. He told me about them.”
Rhys shifts slightly, his silhouette creeping closer until I hold up my hand to keep him in place. We can’t risk breaking her concentration.
“About who?” I coax. Suddenly, finally, my mom’s black eyes lift to mine. She stares as if she’s clawed her way up through layers of broken memories. As if she’s really trying to be present for me.
“The voices.” Her face tightens, a ripple of unease crossing her features. “He tries to quiet them. He talks to block them out.” A chill slithers down my spine, and I throw a quick glance at Rhys. His face is the picture of murder and malice. My mom relaxes back into her armchair, her limbs going limp as the window captures her attention again. “Such a sweet boy. Is he coming to the trial today?”
“Mom, what’s wrong with him?” I reach over and shake her arm. “Where would he have gone? When is he coming back?” Desperation leaks through me, my hold on her fragile arm becoming too much, so I pull back. She’s drifting, floating to a place I can’t follow. Scrubbing a hand over my face, I drown in a wave of uncertainty. Her words echo in my head, unravelling old wounds and raising a thousand new questions.
For a moment, I just watch her, wondering how much she’s still holding onto and how much has slipped into that unreachable place. Kenneth has been tangled up in this for longer than I realized. When we started at Waversea, he introduced himself as if it was our first meeting. But he knows me, probably better than anyone.
Pushing to my feet, I call it a day. I refuse to push her to the point of detriment. She has an escape from this world, I can’t fault her for that. Stoking her hair, I lean down and place a kiss on her forehead.
“Take care mom. I love you.”
“I love you, Jellybean,” she answers vaguely, not looking up. The bite of a choke raises, my eyes stinging. I leave before a tear can fall, the sting of rejection reopening old wounds every time she calls me by any name except my own. Rhys is right behind me, his tone flat and unimpressed.
“Real good job. We’re still nowhere closer to?—”
“You think I don’t know that,” I snap. My body moves before thought, every frayed edge of fear and fury finally snapping free. I spin on my heel, grab two fistfuls of Rhys’s jacket, and slam him against the hallway wall hard enough that the framed evacuation plan rattles. His breath punches out of him, his head tipping back against the plaster, eyes blazing with challenge instead of surprise.
“You think this is easy for me?” I snarl, getting right in his face, the breath shaking as it leaves me. “Lying to her is never easy, and it isn’t fair. Her mind isn’t something I should be toying with.” Preparing to release him, the vibrations of Rhys’ chuckle tremble against my hands.
“If you weren’t such a fuck up, maybe she’d remember you in the first instance.”
No thought takes place as my forehead connects with Rhys’ cheek. His chuckle doesn’t lessen, not even when my hands tighten in the cotton of his T-shirt to the point of strangling him. I can’t stop myself this time, the pent-up emotion from seeing my mom needing a release. Rhys has presented himself as a punching bag, but I refuse his pity. I want his pain.
"You don't even know your mom, so don't make judgments on mine." The words are out before I can stop them, a visceral slap lashing between us. Rhys goes quiet, the red patch blooming on his cheek having no comparison to the sting deep within. I wanted to hurt him, and I’ve succeeded. With more restraint than I expected, Rhys calmly peels my hands free of his T-shirt.
"You're right. I apologise." Turning, his shoulder barges against my chest, and I watch him walk away, my mouth hanging open.
"You...you what?"
"I'm not saying it again," Rhys calls back. His shoulders are set back, his arms swaggering with far more authority than he actually has. Rhys is the king of every domain, or at least, he is in the delusion that lives in his mind. For a second, all I can do is stare after him, my mind reeling. The anger inside of me splutters out, the fight hollowing out and leaving the echo of words I can't take back. Huffing, I follow him down the length of the hallway, catching up before we turn into the lobby.
We walk shoulder to shoulder, our footsteps tapping against the soft linoleum. Overhead, fluorescent lights banish shadows, the drifting scent of disinfectant and perfume lingering. It never changes, no matter how long I leave between my visits.
“Okay, well, maybe this wasn’t a total bust,” I offer, trying to find a hint of a silver lining. All I know is, I’m not walking out of here without anything more than a new bruise on Rhys’ face. “We now know where Kenneth got the sedative. And how far back he goes with my mom. Maybe we can pass it on to the police and let them actually do something useful for once?”
Rhys comes to a standstill, his jaw working. I look up to see what has stalled him, the flash of red and blue glimmering across the glass doors.
“Talking of police,” Rhys growls. Beyond the doors, the receptionist is giving a wonderful performance of crying into a handkerchief. The second she spots us, her eyes go wide, theatrically horrified, and she turns her head to make sure the officers notice. They do.
Upon spotting us, a few officers raise their guns and holler for us to come out with our hands up. More uniformed cops are raiding the hire truck, confiscating our bags and the stolen casefile. Rhys and I exchange a loaded glance. He says, I’m going to kill someone for this. Mine says, don’t make a scene. Both of them say, we’re screwed.
Chapter Nine
“Another one to you,” Kenneth smirks, resetting the Scrabble board. No matter how many times we play, he doesn’t seem to get bored. I, on the other hand, would have begged to stop playing three rounds ago if I weren’t busy studying him. It seems like the only card I have to play, becoming as familiar with Kenneth as possible in hopes of gaining his trust or being able to predict his next move. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to gather anything useful just yet.
Through his constant chatter, all I keep catching glimpses of is the gangly college kid I knew. His flame-red hair is tamer in his attempt to push it back, revealing a square jawline I hadn't noticed before. But it's his eyes that draw me in. Though brown on the surface, there's a flickering light behind them, as if he's drowning in grief and fighting to break free. It's a feeling I know all too well.
At his insistent look, I lean forward and neatly place my tiles along the squares on the board. Kenneth scoffs into the mic clip on his T-shirt, wrinkling his nose up.
“Zorilla isn’t a real word. You're just messing with me now.” He rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn't fade.
“It's similar to a skunk and native to Africa. Where’s your phone? You can look it up,” I say as casually as I can.
