No answer.
I climb the stairs to my old room. It's exactly how I left it—bare mattress, empty closet, a few books on the shelf. I drop my duffel on the mattress and sit beside it.
My phone is dark. No messages from Zeus. No missed calls.
I wonder if he knows I left yet. If so, does he know where I went?
Probably. On both accounts.
My chest aches with a deep hollowness. I press the heel of my hand against my sternum and force myself to breathe.
I made the right choice. I'm protecting him from the burden of me—from the constant reminder of a man who betrayed him. An ex-friend he was forced to kill.
I made the right choice.
So why does it feel like I'm dying?
Shuffling sounds pull me out of my spiral.
“Mom?” I call again.
No answer.
I head to the first floor and check the living room and the kitchen. Empty. Then I notice the basement door is ajar, a strip of yellow light bleeding up from below.
"Mom?"
I descend the stairs one step at a time. The partially finished basement comes into view—the old sectional couch, the TV mounted on the wall, the stained carpet Greg never replaced. And my mother, crumpled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket despite the warmth of the house.
She's shaking. Not a subtle tremor—full-body shaking that makes the couch frame rattle against the wall. Sweat darkens her hairline and plasters thin strands of hair to her gaunt face. Her arms are exposed, and she's scratching—dragging her nails up and down her forearms in frantic, repetitive strokes that have left angry red welts.
"Mom." I rush to her side and crouch. "What's wrong? What's going on?"
"Baby." Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. She grabs for my hand and misses, her coordination shot. "Thank God you're here. Thank God."
The moment she spots me she grabs her phone from beside her. Her thumbs fly across the screen, texting with a speed that contradicts her shaking hands.
I can’t figure out what’s wrong. Is she ill? Why is she behaving like she’s having drug withdrawal symptoms? That can’t be the case. It doesn’t make sense.
"I need it." Her teeth chatter. "I need it so bad, London. You don't understand. My whole body is—it's like bugs under my skin?—"
My heart sinks.
“Mom, you just got out of the hospital." I grip her wrist gently. "You were in a coma for weeks. You detoxed. Unless?—"
Unless she started using again the moment she got home.
The realization hits, along with a wave of disappointment.
"Mom." I release her wrists and lean back on my heels. "Who have you been getting Raven from?"
Her phone buzzes on the cushion beside her. She lunges for it, and again, her fingers move with uncanny speed considering her condition.
"Mom. Who are you texting?"
She doesn't look up. She types faster. Sends the message.
"Mom!" I grab for the phone.
