She’s never looked at me like she did in that hallway.
Like I betrayed her.
Like she loathes me.
I can’t figure out why.
I take the elevator to the eighth floor of the east tower, checking out my hand on the way. Gingerly, I make a fist. I stretch out my fingers and rotate my wrist. My knuckles are swollen, and my whole hand hurts like a bitch, but there doesn’t seem to be any serious damage. It was infinitely stupid, though, hitting that guy. The confrontation could have escalated into a full-on fight. I could have fucked up my hand permanently.
But god, it felt good.
When I walk into the apartment, something’s off.
The kitchen counter looks a lot like the one at Hudson’s, littered with bottles. Except the mostly drained liquors here look like they’re top-shelf. There are three—two rums and a tequila—along with an unopened two-liter bottle of Sprite and most of a jug of orange juice.
Dad started mixing drinks, then settled on booze neat?
My Pumas stick to the floor as I move into the kitchen. The fridge is wide-open. I bump the door closed. There are a few glasses in the sink and a half-eaten pepperoni pizza on the table. A slice with one bite taken from its crust is sitting on the tabletop.
Jesus H.
Where the hell is Davis?
I trudge to the back of the apartment. At my bedroom, I pause to toss my phone onto the bed, which looks pretty freaking appealing right now. Then, aggravated—why can’t Dad be anadult tonight of all nights?—I head for his room.
The air stinks of sweat and vomit. His bed’s disheveled but empty.
My pulse vibrates through my body.
Where is he?
My heart crash-lands when I spot him. First his feet, then his legs, supine on the floor, sticking out of the bathroom doorway.
I bolt toward him.
He’s breathing, but he’s out cold, white as the porcelain tub. There’s puke in the toilet bowl, running down its side, splattered on the floor. And shit, there’s blood. Enough to make me light-headed and positive I can’t handle this on my own.
Dad’s phone sits on the countertop. I grab it and punch in the code he shared with me weeks ago—the month and day of my birthday—to unlock the screen.
Instinct says to call 911, but I force myself to take a breath, to take stock of the situation. Because what if I’m overreacting? There’s puke, but drunk people throw up sometimes. It’s probably good that he’s getting the alcohol out of his system. There’s blood, but not so much that he’s going to bleed to death, and I still can’t see any cuts or scrapes. Do I really need a parade of paramedics traipsing through the apartment?
He gives a jolt that looks painful, then rolls onto his side and spits up foamy liquid. The back of his head is busted, the skin split and oozing. His hair’s matted with blood.
My stomach turns over.
I call the only person I can think of who will definitely knowwhat to do.
I’m surprised when Tati answers. As far as I know, she hasn’t spoken to Dad since their fallout. But it’s late, and she’s practically a parent. She must have a sixth sense when it comes to things going wrong in the dead of night. I barrel into a hoarse description of what I see.
“I’ll be right there,” she tells me.
She knocks on the door not three minutes later, hair in a ponytail, wearing leggings and a Blue Wahoos T-shirt. She hurries to Dad’s room. I stand in the bathroom doorway while she hovers over him. She’s all business, evaluating the gash on the back of his head, pressing two fingers to his neck to feel his pulse.
“How much did he drink?” she asks when she’s done counting.
“I don’t know—I wasn’t here. But the kitchen…a lot, I think.”
She bites her lip, studying Dad’s pallid face. “Do you know how long he’s been out?”
