Downstairs, the television is still playing. Mom’s probably engrossed, and well into a bottle of wine by now, the alcohol thatmy parents never allow me to drink. Even though I’m of age, I’m still treated as a child.
Suddenly, I freeze as I hear footsteps outside my room. It’s not feet encased in the light slippers Mom wears. It’s something heavier.
No, not now, Dad.
But it’s not my door, he stops outside. It’s Trip’s.
I’m on my feet in a second, tears wiped away. I exit my door and run to place myself in front of Dad, stopping him from going into Trip’s room. I can read his intention in his eyes.
Knowing I’m risking him again lashing out, I hiss, “Not him. He’ll scream. He’ll fight you.”
The bastard tilts his head to one side. Then he says with a short laugh, “Maybe you’re right. I’m not prepared. Not as I was with you. He can wait until tomorrow night. He’ll like the hot chocolate, just like I used to make for you.”
Oh fuck no.I know exactly what he’s planning to do.
But not on my watch. As he turns and walks back to the stairs, I know the only course of action I can take. I need help, and there’s only one person I can ask. Though I have no right to expect him to follow through.
My hands shaking, I take out my phone and call up Short’s number.
