Judah's mouth moved. Not quite a word.
“The crash,” I said. “The table.” I pressed the door frame with my shoulder. “I thought—” I stopped. I didn't know what I'd thought.
Billy looked between us. Then he picked up his glass and the bottle and stood with the casual ease of someone who'd been excusing himself from other people's silences for most of his adult life.
“I'm going to find the kitchen,” he said. “And see what damage I can do in there.” He stopped beside me in the doorway, and his voice dropped an inch. “He’s not what you think he is, doll.”
I looked at him.
His eyes were steady and a little sad and more sober than they should have been given the evidence. “He doesn't mean most of the things he does in ways that hurt people. That's not a defense.” He patted the door frame once. “It's just a fact.”
Then he was gone down the hall, the bottle in one hand, the glass in the other, moving through the dark like he knew every floorboard of this house.
I looked back into the study.
He looked at me. I looked at him. Neither of us said the things.
There were a lot of things.
I pushed off the door frame.
“Go to sleep, Judah,” I said.
I turned and went back up the stairs.
My feet were still cold. The bedroom ceiling had its faded fresco — the same one it always had, figures I'd never been able to fully make out in the dark. Robes and outstretched hands and some gesture that might have been mercy or might have been something else entirely.
I got into bed.
Downstairs, the record player stopped.
The footsteps came at just past two.
Not Billy's — Billy moved through spaces like he had a sponsorship with noise. These were slower. Softer. More careful. The footsteps of someone who knew exactly how loud the third board from the landing was and was stepping over it anyway.
I was awake. Had been for most of it, scrolling through the local tabloid page on the web — and yes, St. Francisville had one. She was hip. She was now.
Shewasthe moment.
The door opened.
He stood in the doorway. Still dressed — the same shirt, the sleeves pushed to the elbow. He'd lost the shoes somewhere. His eyes found me in the dark without searching.
I didn't sit up — I barely turned my head. I stayed where I was, on my side, the sheet pulled to my waist, and I watched him stand there in the doorway of his own bedroom.
“What?” I asked.
He didn't come in.
He put one hand on the frame, just resting it there.
“I'm going to fix it,” he said. His voice was low. Rough and bone-tired. He wasn't looking at the floor or the window or the middle distance he sometimes retreated to when a room got too honest. He was looking at me.
He didn't say what.
I said nothing.
He stayed in the doorway. His hand on the doorframe, still. His eyes on me.
