“Probably went to the snack machine. He can only sit in here for so long before he gets restless.”
Dad moves to bend over Mom in the bed. He kisses her forehead, on a spot that’s unmarked by wounds. Then he whispers something I can’t make out.
Eventually, he turns to me and removes his jacket, which he hangs on the back of a chair.
“What happened with the cops?” I ask as he sits down beside me.
“Exactly what you’d expect. They asked me a lot of questions, so I called my brother when I started to feel like a suspect.”
Silence rises between us while I struggle to consider what this might mean. “Is he going to help you?”
“Of course. He’s looking after things today because ...” Dad pauses and lays a hand on my knee. “I don’t want to worry you, but the detectives got a search warrant for our house.”
My pulse skitters. “What?”
“Arthur’s there now,” he assures me, as if that makes this news less terrifying. “Everything’s going to be fine because I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why is everyone accusing you?” I ask desperately.
“Because some people crave drama,” he explains. “That’s theonlyreason. I swear it. And when the detectives finish their investigation, they’ll come to that same conclusion because it’s the truth. Yes, Mom and I argued, but it was bad luck that made the wave come over the rocks when it did.” He turns to look at her in the bed. “I wish we’d never gone there. I should have just taken her to lunch.”
I look at Mom as well and can’t shake the anger I feel, which is still directed at my father.
At 8:30 p.m., I’m scrolling mindlessly through TikTok videos on my phone when a nurse enters the room.
“You three should go home and get some rest,” she says. “Your mom’s stable, but we’ll call you if we need to.”
“Thank you,” Dad says politely.
She leaves, and I turn to Dad for a decision. He checks his watch, and I suspect he’s worried that the police might still be at our house.
“Do you think it’s safe for us to go home?” I ask.
“Arthur texted an hour ago and said they’re finished, but they left a mess. And there are still reporters on our street.”
Connor shrugs. “I don’t care.”
“We could go to a hotel,” Dad suggests.
I shake my head. “No, I want to sleep in my own bed and change my clothes. And maybe Becky could bring Oscar back,” I suggest.
Dad reaches for his coat. “Why don’t you text her and ask. I’ll tell the nurse that we’ll be back in the morning. Grab your stuff, and we’ll head home.”
He moves to bend over Mom, whispers in her ear, and nuzzles her cheek. I truly hope his affection for her is genuine.
Twenty minutes later, we pull into the driveway. The house looks unfamiliar with all the lights off, because Mom always leaves a lamp on in the front room.
Dad shuts off the engine and unbuckles his seat belt. “We should prepare ourselves for the worst because the investigators had no obligation to put anything back in place after they disturbed it.”
“Do you think they went in my room?” Connor asks, disconcerted.
“I don’t know,” Dad replies.
“My Xbox better not be missing,” Connor says with ire as he gets out of the car.
We make our way up the steps, and Dad unlocks the front door. He pushes it open, and we all enter. He turns on the light, and the front hall, at least, is undisturbed.
I walk to the kitchen and family room. We turn on more lights and discover that half the books from the bookcase are spilled out, and papers are scattered on the table, which the police must have used as a surface to sort through our stuff.
