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Chapter One

Phineas

Sitting in my driveway, I stared at the cozy little bungalow with sunshine-yellow paint and white trim. The flowers I’d planted weeks ago were blossoming nicely. I felt a small sense of pride. Not bad for my first attempt at gardening. But my joy was short-lived. A dull ache had settled in my gut, while the slight pressure behind my eyes that had begun at work now pounded relentlessly at my temples. The aspirin I’d swallowed earlier might as well have been candy for all the good it did me.

Despite the sun’s warmth on my face, I couldn’t shake the chill sinking into my bones. After wiping my call history clean, I tucked my phone away and fished beneath the seat for the paper-wrapped bottle I’d hidden earlier.

Not again. I promised myself.

Paper rustled between my fingers as I twisted off the cap. Whiskey fumes rose to greet me, and something inside whispered, welcome back. My hand froze mid-motion, and then I reluctantly sealed the bottle shut.

This has to be the last time.

Next door, a dog’s bark punctuated the afternoon as Scotty pedaled his gleaming bicycle down the driveway, safety gear fastened securely. The scene before me, so picturesque, so deceptively peaceful.

If only the neighbors knew what kind of man truly resided in that charming yellow house with the flourishing garden. My grip tightened around the metal cap until my fingers blanched, resisting the urge to tip the bottle to my lips.

I just need it to help me get through this hell.

Hunching below the dashboard, I removed the cap and took a large swallow, coughing as the liquid burned its way down my throat. Once I could breathe again, I forced down two more gulps, each one making my stomach clench.

The whiskey didn’t loosen the knot in my stomach. It never really did, but it dulled the edges.

Mostly.

I screwed the lid back on then tucked the bottle away. Across the street, Mr. Cornstone stood watering his lawn like clockwork. Same time. Same pattern.

Same blind eye to what went on across the street. Still, I waved, because that was what good, polite neighbors did. Wave like they attended the same backyard barbecues and laughed together at dad jokes. When was the last time I had genuinely laughed, the kind that caused a stitch and made you snort?

The kind that wasn’t forced to keep the monster at bay.

I couldn’t remember. Heading up the three stairs to my porch, I wore a friendly smile while having a headache from hell. The whiskey hadn’t loosened the knot in my stomach, but soon enough, the pain would fade. Hopefully. Inside, I hung my keys on the third hook—exactly the third—my fingers lingering on the metal as if reluctant to let go. They jingled slightly, the sound echoing in the silent house.

My shoes aligned perfectly perpendicular to the wall, left toe exactly even with right. One inch off and—I swallowed hard, my eyes darting to the wireless camera perched on the bookcase before darting to the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Two hours until dinner had to be on the table.

Two hours until the front door would open.

Two hours until I’d know if today would be one of the bad days.

I used the time to start a load of laundry and check the bathroom, wiping away any trace of toothpaste left from the morning rush. Sanitizing wipes took care of the rest. Everything on the porcelain countertop was straightened. Labels faced outward, clear and readable.

While the clothes ran, I moved into the spotless kitchen and started dinner. At five thirty, I made a pot of coffee and carried a mug into the living room. I set it on a coaster, handle to the left, remote to the right.

With half an hour left, the laundry was folded, the vent cleaned. Next came a shower. Clothes went into the hamper, lid closed. The stall walls were wiped down until no water remained.

I’m disappearing, my identity being wiped away like the water droplets.

In the kitchen, I registered the spill and the clock at the same time. Coffee spread across the counter, dark against the cream marble. This wasn’t in the sequence. There wasn’t enough time to correct it properly.

I took a hand towel and wiped up the spill, lifting the coffeepot to check beneath it. The towel should have gone to the laundry room, but there wasn’t time. Instead, I folded it once and pushed it under the sink. The fix was incomplete but would have to do.

The sound of the front door opening landed heavy in the house.

People shouldn’t be afraid of doors opening.

The thought came and went, worn thin from use. Hope had left a long time ago.