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The thought was so silly I had to laugh as I got out of the car to go inside.
I stood at the front door, listening for sounds from inside. Even through the thick wood of the door, I could hear some light snoring. Dad.
The door was unlocked so I cracked it just enough to squeeze through and then shut it silently behind me. The house smelled of barbecue sauce and old wine.
I crept to the door of the living room and peeked inside. Mom was crashed with her feet in Dad’s lap and he was sound asleep with his head leaned back against the couch cushions. His mouth was hanging open and he was snoring, just as I’d suspected.
As I crept to my room, I was surprised I could hear Dad’s snoring outside; it didn’t seem that loud at all.
The first thing I did in my room was to go and raise my window, though I left the screen down this time. I could hear the frogs and crickets outside, as well as the breeze ruffling the leaves and bending the tree branches. I inhaled deeply. The cool night air teased my nostrils, carrying the scent of rain. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the patter of a light drizzle.
I was turning away to change into my pajamas when a familiar thrill skittered down my spine, racing through my blood. A faint hint of citrus tinged the air for just a moment before it was gone.
I looked out the window, past the grainy grid of the screen, peering into the night. Other than the gentle shift of foliage, there was no movement, no evidence that someone was out there, that I wasn’t alone in the night.
Shrugging it off as my overactive imagination, I grabbed my pajamas and headed for the bathroom to clean up and wash my hair.
********
The next morning I woke early. The birds outside my window were cheeping more vivaciously than ever and I could hear Mom banging around in the kitchen like there were no walls between us.
I lay there, feeling the blood pulse beneath my skin, enjoying the remaining scent of Bo in my hair where it was spread across my pillow.
Mom said something to Dad about waking me up for breakfast, so I went ahead and rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
When I stumbled into the kitchen a few minutes later, Mom was scooting pancakes off the griddle and onto three plates.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” she chirped cheerfully.
I eyed her skeptically. At times, I don’t think I gave her enough credit; she was quite the actress. Behind her overly bright smile and strategic makeup, I could see the tremble of rising discomfort in her bloodshot eyes. Her need for a drink was almost a tangible thing. Dad seemed not to notice, but even if he did, he would do his best to pretend otherwise, which is probably exactly what he was doing.
With a sigh, I fell in to the recently-established grand tradition of the Heller household and pasted on a fake smile of my own, jumping head first into the façade.
“Smells good,” I said, taking a seat at the perfectly set table. I took a big gulp of orange juice and thought surely it was the best I’d ever had, the sweetly tart liquid coating my tongue and sliding down my throat like fruity silk.
Mom served me and Dad then took her seat at the table. Dad said the blessing and we dug in. The only thing that ruined the Cleaver-like meal was the depressing squawk of the reporter that was dishing out news from the television on the counter.
I was surprised that I hadn’t already heard the report. I’d fallen asleep again last night without the aid of the television. Maybe I was cured.
“…indication that the violence raging through Southmoore has made its way south to Harker.
In the early hours, Harker police discovered the body of Southmoore resident Trent Edward Long just inside the city limits on East Highway 5. Long had been a long-time associate of the recently deceased John Gibbs and had, at one time, been included in a suspect pool for the Southmoore Slayings. More information…”
I looked up to see the face of the victim about whom they were speaking and my throat seized around the lump of pancakes I was trying to swallow.
Though it was taken several years ago at a party somewhere, I had no trouble recognizing his face. I’d seen him last night. Even in the low light of the moon, I had been able to make out the features of the guy who’d basically threatened Bo. Now, I was looking at his smiling face on the television. He was dead, and I’d probably been one of the last people to see him alive. Me and Bo.
My appetite disappeared as I thought back to where I’d heard the Gibbs name. Not only had the guy, Trent Long, mentioned him last night, but his name had been referenced on the news as last year’s Southmoore Slayer suspect. He’d also been accused of killing a man named Travis Bowman. Bowman.
Something unsettling occurred to me and my stomach clenched tightly. My entire being rebelled against the very idea that Bo might be involved with those men and their nefarious, nocturnal dealings. But…
Silently, I prayed. Please God, please don’t let him be involved, I chanted over and over and over in my head.
“Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast, Ridley? Pancakes are your favorite,” Mom said.
Pancakes had never been my favorite and probably never would be. They’d been Izzy’s favorite breakfast food. If Mom had ever bothered to commit my favorites to memory, I had no doubt that the knowledge had been steadily drowned out by gallons of vodka. Now, all that remained were random memories of Izzy and little else.
“I-I’m just not very hungry,” I said, trying to sound casual when I felt anything but.
“Did the bus stop on the way back from the game to get you something to eat last night? I noticed you didn’t get home until late,” Dad observed.
“No, but I went out with some friends afterward.”
He nodded. He had no idea exactly when I’d gotten home; they’d been fast asleep on the couch. But even if he had, I should’ve known neither he nor Mom would’ve caused a stink over it. That would be too emotionally real and draining for a family of pretenders.
“I think I’m going to go take a shower. Mom, can you just save the rest of my pancakes?” I asked more to be polite than anything. I’d choke them down later if need be, but not because I liked them.
“Sure, honey,” she said, smiling sweetly.
A shower had me feeling a little better. My skin felt more alive than ever, like I was wearing it differently, my shampoo smelled more floral than usual and the water hit the shower walls like a violent waterfall of sound.
