Page 87 of Head Under Water

The sound slices through the air like a blade.

Across the kitchen, Will’s phone vibrates on the counter. The tension shatters at our feet, the apartment suddenly too cold. Too quiet.

Reality crashes back in.

Will gives a regretful look, but we both know it could be about Margie. He has to check it. There’s no choice. He brushes my hand with his as he steps away, keeping his eyes on me until the moment he checks the screen.

My heart pounds like I’ve just run a marathon, though I suppose turning my world on its axis was an equal amount of work.

I’m in a daze as Will answers the phone, not really listening to a word he’s saying, and when he hangs up, his face is pale. As if he, too, realizes the mess we’ve just put ourselves in.

With true feelings hanging between us, out in the open, I’m not sure we’ll ever go back to what we were. I’m not sure I want to.

“That was Cory. He’s on his way back to your mom’s after Richie’s soccer practice, and he got a flat. He tried to call your mom, since she’s closer, but…she’s not answering.”

I check the clock. It’s not late enough for her to be asleep yet. Panic seizes my ribs, erasing all other thoughts. “We have to go.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

But when our eyes meet—just for a second as we slip out the door—everything we almost said, every line we almost crossed, is still there.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

PRESENT DAY

On the way to Mom’s, nothing matters but getting there as quickly as we can. Will is silent in the passenger seat staring out the window, one elbow resting on the door and his hand pressed to his chin. His shoulders are tight, body completely still. Every so often, his gaze darts to the rearview mirror as if he expects to see something terrible there.

He’s as worried as I am but trying not to show it.

I’m angry, too. Mom should’ve called me. She promised she’d call if she was alone. Cory was supposed to be back any minute when I left. It’s been hours.

If anything happens to her⁠—

A dry ache tightens in my throat. Glancing my way, Will puts a hand on my leg.

When we pull up outside the house, the living room light is on, as well as a light in her bedroom. I slip out of the car and jog across the porch, bracing myself for the worst. Will reaches past me to grab the door, holding it open, and together we make our way inside.

She never locks the door. Why doesn’t she ever lock the door?

My stomach knots.

I remember, even when I was a kid, Mom always bragged about how we live in one of those places where you don’t have to lock your doors. For a long time, she’d lost our house key and never bothered to make a replacement. Even as I got older and asked her to lock it to make me feel better, it was as if she couldn’t bear the thought, as if she was proving a point to herself.

To feel safe, she needed to know the door could be kept unlocked.

It infuriated me then as much as it does now.

“Mom?” I call, listening to the silent house. The quiet outside presses against the windows, and every sound—the hum of the heat kicking on, the scratch of a branch outside against the pane—makes my pulse spike.

Will meets my eyes as he moves in the direction of her bedroom. All at once, we both freeze.

Soft footsteps are heading toward us.

I hold my breath, trying to think. Before I can search for a weapon, the bedroom door is pulled open, and Mom appears in the hall. She’s dressed in her pajamas and a robe, her hair tucked back behind a cloth headband.

Her eyes dart between us, wide and frantic.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” She hurries forward with purpose, wringing the hem of her robe.