He shrugged again.
“Did you have another nightmare?” I pressed.
“No, ma’am,” he said, setting aside David’s shoes and sliding off his chair. “I’m tired. Is it okay if I take a nap?”
“Sure, baby.” I watched him go, frowning. Maybe it was time to call his doctor, see if he needed a treatment.
I started cleaning up, pulling apart my own creation and putting the pieces in their cans. I reached for Henry’s, but I stopped short, my blood going cold. Playdough David’s head had been ripped off and set to one side. And strips of red playdough crossed the abdomen like wounds.
“Sweet Jesus,” I breathed. I hadn’t even seen Henry make the gruesome changes. When the hell had he done that? I could’ve sworn that the head was still attached when he left the table.
Unnerved and concerned that Henry’s nightmares were infiltrating his waking hours, I quickly tore the figure apart and sorted the pieces into their respective color cans then sealed each container and pushed them together into a neat cluster in the center of the table.
I stared at them, my thoughts going back to the first day in the apartment and the drawings hidden away in the desk that had depicted a crazed woman with a knife and a decapitated child. I’d assumed the child was a little girl, thinking it was Addie because of the yellow curls. Could it have been David?
I pushed back my chair and started for the kitchen doorway, intending to go find the drawings and take a closer look, when something hard nailed me between my shoulder blades. I yelped in surprise and spun around just as a can of playdough hit me in the chest. I grunted, but before I could react another can flew off the table, whistling past my head to slam against the doorframe.
“Stop it!” I snapped, my fists on my hips. “Stop it right now, David! Throwing a tantrum isn’t helping anything. I’m trying—”
The doorbell rang, cutting me off.
“I’m trying,” I repeated to the empty room, softer this time. I hurried to the apartment door and opened it a crack to make sure my visitor was of the corporeal variety.
I sighed with relief when I saw who it was, then slid the chain free and opened the door. “Hi.”
Whit’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Everything okay? Should I come back later?”
I pushed my hair back from my face with my forearm and shook my head. “No. Sorry. It’s been a…weird day.”
He lifted a few grocery bags, offering a tentative grin. “I brought you dinner.”
I stared at him for a few seconds, not comprehending. “Did we…I didn’t know…” Heat flushed up my neck and burned my cheeks as I realized I was in my ripped jean shorts and a too thin tank, bra-less because of the rising temperatures as Savannah crept toward summer.
“Sorry—I should’ve called first,” he said. “I moved some of my stuff into the apartment down the hall so I can start on the renovations and wanted to proactively apologize to you and Henry for any noise.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said, still rattled by the experience in the kitchen and now taken off-guard by Whit’s unplanned visit. “Come on in.” I gestured to the kitchen. “Feel free to take the groceries in there. I’ll…uh…be right back.”
I hurried to my bedroom and stripped out of my shorts and tank, swapping them for a sundress and quickly raked my fingers through my hair before pulling it up into a messy bun so I at least looked somewhat presentable.
“Sorry,” I called, heading to the kitchen, “I wasn’t expecting anyone, so it’s kind of a mess…”
My words trailed off as I entered the room.
Every cabinet door and drawer gaped open. The refrigerator also stood wide open. A bottle of ketchup had been emptied, the contents splattered across the floor and cabinets as if someone had stood in the middle of the room and shaken the bottle indiscriminately.
“What the hell?” I breathed. I looked at Whit, who stood in the middle of the chaos looking equally baffled. “Whit?”
He shook his head. “It was like this when I came in.”
I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly to hold back the tears that stung the corner of my eyes. Apparently, David’s tantrum with the playdough was just a warmup.
When I opened my eyes, Whit had set the groceries aside and grabbed a roll of paper towels.
“You don’t need to do that,” I said, carefully stepping around the ketchup on the floor to take the roll of paper towels. Tears of frustration and exasperation and helplessness and a jumble of other emotions spilled onto my cheeks despite my efforts to hold them back. “I’ll get it.”
I tore off a wad of paper towels and ran them under the faucet. I’d just started to the counters when Whit’s hands settled on my shoulders.
“Leave it,” he said, gentle but firm. “I’ll take care of it.”
