"You’re going to break your leg before you break that door,"Brooks’ voice, low but steady, cuts through my panic like a tether.
I whirl around, mortified, and of course—of course—there he stands, leaning casually beside Jasper like he hasn’t just watched me completely fail.
"How long have you been standing there?" I demand.
"Long enough to know you’re definitely not the action movie type," Brooks smirks, folding his arms as his eyes dance with amusement.
Jasper snorts quietly. Traitor.
I plant my hands on my hips, glaring at Brooks. "Got a better idea? Or are you just here to enjoy the show?"
Brooks pushes off the wall with a shrug, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. "Actually, yeah. I do."
He steps past me, so close his shoulder brushes mine, and kneels in front of the doorknob.
"You carry a crowbar in there or something?" I ask, watching him fiddle with the door like it’s no big deal.
"Better," he murmurs, sliding a beat-up bank card between the door and the frame.
I blink. "Seriously? That’s your master plan?"
Brooks doesn’t answer. He wiggles the card with practiced ease, and within seconds, there’s a soft click.
The door creaks open under his hand.
I stare, stunned and slightly annoyed.
"There," he says simply, standing up and sliding the card back into his wallet like a magician who just finished a trick. "You’re welcome."
I cross my arms, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "Show-off."
"Better than dislocating a knee trying to be a hero," Brooks quips, giving me a sideways grin as he pushes the door open wider.
Inside, the room is dim, dust floating in the slant of sunlight through the curtains. The air feels heavier now that the door is open, like all the unspoken grief in the house has been trapped behind these walls.
Brooks’ smirk fades as his eyes adjust to the scene, his whole demeanor shifting from cocky to serious.
I step in behind him, my heart pounding as I search the room for Mom, and try not to think about how, for one brief second, Brooks actually had my back.
The drawers are pulled open, clothes spilling out like forgotten memories, and the bed is covered in framed photos, faces turned down like they’re ashamed to be seen.
Mom stands in the corner, clutching something to her chest like it’s the only thing holding her together.
"Mom?" I say softly, the sound catching in my throat as I take a slow step toward her. "What’s going on? Are you okay?"
She doesn’t move. "I’m fine." The words are sharp, brittle, like glass about to break.
Behind me, I hear Jasper shifting nervously, but he finds his voice before I do. "Why was the door locked? You could have at least said something, Mom. We thought—"
"I said I’m fine," she snaps, raising her face to meet us with wild eyes. "Who opened that door?"
I glance at Brooks, who stands a little closer now, his arm brushing mine in a way that somehow steadies me, even when everything else is unraveling.
"I just want to know if you’re okay," I say again, ignoring her question, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.
She clutches the shirt tighter to her chest—Dad’s old flannel—and I realize now it’s the one he always wore when he fixed things around the house.
"He’s not coming back," she whispers, but the words slice through me like a butter knife.
