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Her expression turned stormy. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“And Joe?”
“He’s upstairs.” Offering me a sad smile, she gestured to the staircase behind her. “After he put Mam to bed and sorted the boys out, he went into his room and hasn’t come out since.”
Thank God.
He’s still here.
He’s still safe.
“So, how was he?” I asked, following her into the thankfully empty kitchen. “When you brought him to Johnny’s place?”
She chewed on her lip nervously, clearly unwilling to betray her brother’s trust.
“Shan, come on,” I said in a weary tone. We were way past the pretenses. “It’s me.”
“I think he’s back on the… Well, the, uh, you know.”
Drugs.
She meant drugs.
“When I found him, he had stumbled out of Shane Holland’s car and was sprawled out on the road,” she added, moving for the kettle. “He wasn’t, uh, he wasn’t himself.”
No shit.
Because that bastard had sunk his claws into a vulnerable lad with a grade 3 concussion, three cracks in his skull, and a lifetime of abuse under his belt.
“How bad was he?” I forced myself to ask her.
“Tea?”
“No thanks. Back to Joe. How bad was he?”
“Not that—”
“Don’t lie to me, Shan. Not about him.”
After a long pause, Shannon tossed her soggy tea bag in the sink and blew out a strained breath. “He was the worst I’ve ever seen him.”
I already knew it, but somehow, hearing her admit it made it all a million times worse. Because Joey was the master of concealment. He buried everything from his siblings—the fear, ache, and pain—desperate to protect them. If Shannon and Tadhg were both seeing the cracks in Joey’s meticulously masked world, though, then they were as wide as the Grand Canyon.
Fuck.
“Okay.” As a tsunami of concern and fear crashed over me, I abruptly turned on my heel and moved for the door. “I’m going up there.”
“Wait.” Hurrying toward me with what looked like a ham sandwich on a small plate, Shannon thrust it into my hands. “Can you give this to him?” With her eyes full of unrestrained panic, she shrugged helplessly. “He had a little dinner earlier, but he just looks so…gaunt.”
I didn’t have the words to make her feel better—Joe was the only one I’d ever seen manage his sister’s anxiety—so I offered her a half-hearted smile and moved for the staircase. Ignoring my pulse thundering in my ears, I climbed the stairs and walked to his door.
“Joe?” I knocked lightly before pushing the door inward and stepping inside.
His room was in darkness, with his curtains closed, and clothes were strewn everywhere, which wasn’t like him. The boy kept his room remarkably spotless given the circumstances, but right now, it looked like a pigsty.
“Joe?” I croaked out, feeling my heart rate spike when my gaze landed on him facedown on the bottom bunk of his bed. He was wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts, so every bruise, scar, and blemish on his body was on full display. “Joe?”
I wasn’t naive enough to believe that exhaustion had plummeted him into a deep slumber. With my heart in tatters and my hope hanging by a thread, I closed the door behind me, set the plate down on the dresser, and removed his phone and wallet from my handbag. Setting his wallet on the dresser, I attached his phone to its charger before moving for the bed. Kicking off my heels, I removed my coat and apron, letting them fall to the floor before clambering onto the bed. Repressing a shiver when the distinct stench of vinegar and weed filled my senses, I settled down on my side, facing him.
