Page 125 of Yearn
At every red light I pictured the boys’ faces if something was wrong, then pictured Dominic’s eyes when he texted me, calm as a shut door.
By the time I turned onto our block, I’d written and erased ten Law and Order Homicide outcomes in my head, none of them merciful, all of them waiting behind my front door.
I parked quick, got out, and rushed forward.
Please God. Don’t let it be too bad.
But before I could get to the door, I caught movement next door.
Mrs. Patterson was at her post, glowing behind the glass like she owned the neighborhood. She had a new floral robe on—lavender with pale pink hibiscus—and her hair was done up in soft rollers that gleamed under the lamp.
She had a glass of something brown in one hand and a remote in the other.
When our eyes met, she smiled and lifted her fingers in a slow mischievous wave that was different than her other ones.
Huh?
Paranoia hit me, I froze halfway through turning the key at the front door.
Did you see something?
Mrs. Patterson didn’t break eye contact until her show started flashing blue light across her face. That was when she turned her head.
Please God. Don’t let it be too bad.
I entered.
The house was holding its breath when I came in.
Did Dominic kill Scott?
The TV washed the living room in a blue-gray flicker, the kind that made everything look colder and cheaper. Scott was sprawled on the couch like a toppled statue, one arm flung over his chest, the other hanging toward the floor.
His mouth was sagged open.
His snores were shallow and wrong—thin sounds that caught in his throat every few seconds and let go.
Okay. . .his dumbass is alive.
The air smelled like hops and old grease.
Empty beer bottles crowded the coffee table. A McDonald’s bag gaped on its side with fries going limp in the light. A smear of ketchup was on a crumpled napkin.
Of course he didn’t clean up after himself.
Last weekend, Dominic had a whole cleaning crew come in and make the house smell good and sparkle.
Barely days later, Scott has made everything messy and stunk up the place.
I hate him.
Still. . .for a few beats I stood next to the couch, watching his ribcage rise, stutter, fall.
Yep. . .the bastard is alive.
Relief and disgust hit me.
Breathe, and go check on J and Oliver.
