Page 12 of The Guilty One

“Almost done,” Ryker says.

“Multiplying and dividing fractions,” I explain. “If I never have to look at another fraction, I’ll be okay with that.”

“Me too,” Ryker agrees.

“Well, I’m afraid you have a few more years of ’em, bud,” I say, pointing at the page to tell him to continue.

Celine’s smile is stiff, her eyes staring off into the room at nothing at all.

“Everything okay?” I ask gently.

She senses the change in my tone and looks up, her bright, brown eyes searching mine. “Of course. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Yeah.” I hop up, a stone sinking in my stomach. Has something happened to Finley? Or the house? The car? “I’ll be right back, Ryk. Keep working.”

He nods without looking up from his paper, the eraser of his pencil stuck between his teeth as he chomps down on it in thought. Celine pushes the bedroom door open, disappearing out of it without needing to instruct me to follow her. She leads the way toward our bedroom, and when I step inside, she spins around, arms folded across her chest.

“Is something wrong?” I venture a guess.

“I don’t know,” she says, her harsh tone foreign. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“Um…” I search my brain. There’s no way she knows about anything, so I have no idea what she’s talking about or why I seem to be in trouble. “I don’t think so.” I force a soft, breathy laugh.

She reaches behind her, and I spot my phone lying on the edge of the bed moments before she picks it up. My chest goes icy as I try to remember if I might’ve left anything on it that would make her mad at me. It’s not like Celine to go through my phone. I can’t remember the last time I touched hers.

“I was trying to go to bed, and your phone lit up. I thought it might be a client or something important, so I checked it.” She nudges the phone toward me, a text message lighting up the screen.

The message is from a number I don’t recognize, but the message tells me who it is without needing to think about it.

You need to tell her.

CHAPTER SIX

CELINE

When I wake up the next morning, my head is pounding with an ache that tells me I’ve both slept too hard and simultaneously not gotten enough sleep.

I called the detective right after receiving that strange phone call, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. He said they’d see about getting the phone company to track it, but without any sort of threat or known crime, it’s likely he won’t get the request approved. He told me to contact him if there is another call and to try to keep them on the line as long as possible, to listen for any defining sounds that might give us a hint as to their location if it does have something to do with Tate. Then, with a metaphorical pat on the head, he sent me on my way to deal with another element of confusion in my already confusing situation.

I can hear the sounds of people talking down the hall and quickly realize it’s my parents speaking to the boys. I roll over and glance at the time. It’s just after six. I wasn’t expecting them here so early.

I pick up my phone, checking to see if the mysterious number called back, but there isn’t anything important on the screen. Just a few social media notifications that amount to nothing. I don’t have the energy to even open them.

Rubbing my eyes, I slip out of bed. The day already feels heavy. So heavy I’m half tempted to jump back into bed, wrap up in the covers, and dissolve.

But I can’t. Not only because I still have to pretend I have a shred of my life together for the boys’ sake but also because I haven’t yet let Margie know what is happening, and I’m scheduled for a shift at eight.

In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and study my face in the mirror. My eyes are red and puffy, both from crying and from lack of sleep, and my skin is practically gray. I look like someone who is rotting from the inside out, and I don’t feel far from it.

I can’t help thinking, somewhat bitterly, about how different this might be if the situation were reversed. Tate would be allowed to stay in bed all day and not a soul would judge him for it. But moms are not afforded the luxury of falling apart, even during the worst of times.

With a fresh set of clothes on and my hair pulled back in a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck, I only feel ninety-eight percent like garbage, which is an improvement, as I step out into the hallway.

Dad’s there, searching under the bench for a pair of shoes. He looks up as if he’s surprised to see me. “Morning, honey. I hope we didn’t wake you.” He stands up and slips a hand around my shoulders when I approach him. Leaning over, he kisses the side of my head.

“I didn’t sleep much,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder. “What are you guys doing here so early?”

He drops his hand from my shoulder, and we step apart. “We came to get the boys ready for school. Your mom thought we should take them and let you get some sleep if you could.” Bending back down as he apparently spots the match to the shoe he’d been looking for, he snags it, then heads into the living room.

---