He sighs, swallows. “So was there a question in there somewhere?” he asks.
“What were you doing giving a stranger money at an abandoned building? Yes. That’s a question.”
“Post Malone tickets,” he says, flatly.
“What?” she asks.
“That’s a person. Like, music. A concert. Tickets were sold out and so I bought some off this guy from school,” he says.
“I know who it is. Why would you be getting them late at night in an abandoned building?”
“I don’t know. That’s where him and his friends hang out—take girls. Probably drink and cause trouble, too... before you ask, but I was just there for the tickets,” he says, and if he’s lying, he’s good at it. He didn’t know I saw him, so he has to be making this up on the spot, and what’s unsettling about that is it came to him so quickly. The details. There is no way that guy was a classmate. He had to be thirty at least.
“I saw a small backpack. You need a bag for two tickets?” He stumbles a moment at this. Then just shakes his head.
“It was dark. Maybe that’s just what you thought you saw,” he says. Okay, he’s gonna play games. Sasha won’t take the bait.
“So where are the tickets?” she says instead.
“Gave them to Roxie. They were for her,” he says, looking at the floor.
“That was nice of you,” she says, turning to take the kettle off the stove, pouring the hot water into a mug and dipping her peppermint tea bag. “You don’t have to hide things from me, you know. Like if you’re in some kind of trouble. I saw construction paper in your room—red circle cutouts the same shape as that school bomb threat,” she says, turning to him. He puts his soda down and his mouth hangs open.
“Are you actually serious? Now you’re going in my room? For your information, I was making pumpkins and bloodshot eyes and all that other crap with Chloe you asked me tohelp her with. You wanna talk about who’s hiding stuff from who?” he says, being sure to keep his tone in check because taking his phone or car away are real threats he knows she’ll follow through with.
“What does that mean?” she asks, incredulously.
“It means why do you enable him?” he says.
“What are you talking about?” she asks, still playing dumb.
“How’s Dad? Did you make sure to leave him money that you tell yourself he’ll buy food with when you know the truth?” he says, and she did not expect this.
“There’s a fine line between enabling and keeping him alive,” is all she can bring herself to say, because she’s shocked that he knows this and also feels protective of Raffy and equally protective of Drew. She doesn’t want him involved in adult matters, but he’s noticed things. He’s a smart kid.
“Okay, Mom,” he says.
“You should go see him next weekend. He asks about you,” she says.
Drew purses his lips and gives a small nod, then disappears back into the living room, where Sasha hears the dramatic music and gun sounds from his video game. She takes her mug and begins to make her way to check on Chloe before she takes her long-awaited hot bath.
After she turns on the water, she realizes she left her phone on the counter. Halfway down the stairs, she can see into the kitchen over the open banister, and there’s Drew walking in and then stopping and staring at her bag on the counter. He cocks his head sideways and looks at the paper printout of Jack that’s sticking out the top. He has a puzzled look on his face.
Then she watches him glance left and right, and he goesover and plucks the image out of the top of her bag. He stares at it a minute, then folds it roughly, shoves it into his pocket and quickly leaves the room. What in the hell would her son want with a stranger’s photo—a dead man’s photo? Unless that man is not a stranger at all. Or not dead.
Chapter Nine
Andi
A thunderstorm has rolled in, and I’m sitting in the garage on top of a Yeti cooler and staring at the meat freezer. Carson is getting the kids ready for Hallie’s birthday party this afternoon, which, despite the weather, Regan didn’t cancel because she didn’t want a hysterical ten-year-old on top of all the rest of the chaos, I assume.
Carson told me to rest while he made the kids get dressed and sign Hallie’s card, while he found a bottle of wine to bring to the party, and all the rest of it, and I’m grateful for that because I can’t seem to bring myself to calm down and act normal. I take a moment, in my Dior dress and peacoat with a wrapped gift balanced on my knees, and try to take a couple of breaths before my family comes barreling out and piling into the car. Ring footage. I thought I was done for in that moment, because I hadn’t thought of the Ring camera, butwhen I went to look through it, I realized we hadn’t changed the batteries that went out months ago. We said we should, but we live in Cloverhill Lakes, so who needs cameras? At least, that was the case only days ago. But thank God.
The lightning flashes like a strobe light through the window, and thunder cracks and startles me to my feet, speeding up my heart even more, and I stand and pace the garage floor. I guess I’m keeping watch over the damn thing to make sure nobody comes near it—I need to make sure everyone gets in the car, out the door and back home to bed before I do whatever it is I come up with next.
Morrison thought it would be better to talk to me tomorrow considering my “fragile condition,” and buying time is fine by me, but how the actual fuck do I do this? How do I move her? How do I walk around and appear normal and not at all like a murderer—a monster? I can’t conceive of how a person could pull this off, but I’m forced to figure it out. I have to.
I hear the sound of Carson telling everyone to get a move on and that I’m waiting in the car. I slip into the passenger seat before they all come bounding out the door and wonder what the hell I’m doing. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’m making it a full-time job to keep a neutral expression across my face and say normal things. That’s what I’m doing. If we canceled going to Hallie’s party, that would look strange, and I can’t do anything but appear routine, normal, innocent.
