I went softly up the stairs.
Heel to toe.
Weight balanced.
The nightlight in the hallway warmed the edges of the family photos. Their doors were ajar. I nudged each one with my fingers and quietly peered in.
J had starfished on top of their blanket, a paperback splayed like a tent over their stomach.
In his own room, Oliver was burrowed under his covers, only curls visible, hugging his stuffed dinosaur.
He had a television on with cartoon credits running on a loop.
Of course Scott didn’t do any bedtime routine. Probably just told them to go in their rooms and go to sleep.
I snuck in and turned off Oliver’s television.
Something inside me unclenched, only to knot again.
I watched Oliver for too long, more guilt and relief scissoring in my chest until I couldn’t tell which was sharper. Then I eased the door back to the same sliver it had been when I arrived and returned downstairs.
Alright. So. . .everything is okay.
On the way back through the living room I had to pass Scott again.
The TV glow rolled blue light across Scott’s face.
His lashes fluttered with a dream.
The empty beer bottles caught the light.
Dominic said he put him to sleep. How?
I leaned over to the table and sniffed at one of the bottles. It could have been my imagination but I swore there was a chemical tang riding the beer.
That’s not just hops. Right?
I sniffed again and realized it was only the scent of beer.
Still, my stomach dropped through the floor.
The beer had to be the way he drugged him.
I crossed the room and stopped when I was close enough to see the tiny twitch in Scott’s cheek, the faint shine of spittle in the corner of his mouth.
I hated him for being in my house.
I hated him for sleeping in it.
I hated him for forcing me to sneak around with Dominic now that he was here.
My disgust for him reared up higher and steadier than ever before.
It might have been better if he was. . .dead. . .
Terrified at that thought, I backed away.
No. Don’t think like that. Go downstairs.
