Page 120 of Fire Fight

Despite everything else, it is his son who’s just been arrested.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to do the right thing in this situation because it’s not something he’s considered before.

I should extend him more grace.

We’re all in shock. All slaves to our immediate reactions.

“The last thing your mother needs is folk speculating that we’ve already changed our minds,” he adds, lips twisting at the thought. “If you could pull together a short post, that would really be appreciated.”

“Of course.” I head for the lounge and pick up the spare laptop, taking it to the chair nearest the door.

Arnold goes to his office, and I keep my listening ears on, attuned for any sign he might head for the bedroom.

The more distance he keeps from Mum when she’s this upset, the better.

And probably vice versa, if I’m honest.

The task doesn’t take long but I stay where I am for another half hour. With no signs of anyone moving anywhere, I head upstairs, pausing in the door of Drake’s bedroom.

A deep ache settles into my gut at the empty space.

The clinical nature of the room is just as disturbing as the first time I poked my head in here. Like he knew better than to make this place his home.

After an hour spent pretending to read my book—in reality, just staring at the same page—I head down to the kitchen. There’s no way my tense stomach could handle a full meal, but a snack wouldn’t go astray.

Except I can’t decide what to have. I move to the cupboards. Opening them, closing them.

I tip Mum’s pill organiser towards me to check the right days are empty, then replace it on the shelves, shutting the door.

Then I frown, opening the cupboard again and this time, lifting the lids on the full compartments to check the medication.

The amounts are wrong again.

I take out the prescription bottles to fix them and feel sick. The anti-psychotics are nearly empty while the mood stabilisers are full.

It should be the other way around.

“Problem?” Arnold asks from the doorway. He’s as light on his feet as Drake.

“No,” I assure him with a vague smile. “Just finding something to do.”

He snaps the lids closed, replacing it in the cupboard. “Why don’t you ask your mum what she wants for dinner, and I’ll either phone it in or help prepare it?”

I follow his instruction, my steps slow as I move through the lobby, trying to get my sludgy thoughts to work properly.

Mum resents taking all her medication, but she especially hates the anti-psychotics. If she were to switch doses, it would be the other way around.

A dull sense of dread prickles across my upper back and I spin on my heel, sure Arnold is about to pounce.

He’s not there.

Just my nerves overreacting.

But my thoughts suddenly leap into action, giving me prompt after prompt as the unsettling dread weighs more heavily on my shoulders.

Arnold met Mum a year ago, then ghosted her. She’d left him messages he ignored until the one where she sounded desperate. The call when we needed to get away but had nowhere to go.

She’d suspected he had been untangling himself from another relationship. Not wanting to muddy the waters.

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