Upstairs, fumbling for her phone, Delilah could hear her mother’s hysterical voice on the house phone with her father. It drifted from the kitchen and up the banister as clear as a bell, sliding beneath Delilah’s closed door.
“That’s right! She threw it! At the wall! Frankie, I’m not sure this is the place for her. I’m not sure we can handle—well, no. First the injury and now throwing knives?” A pause. “I know.” Another pause. “Yes, I’m fine.” And finally a longer, heavier pause and her mother’s relieved, choking exhale. “Okay. Yes, that’s good, darling.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her temples, not even a little curious about what her mother had just agreed to do. Her head hurt again, like something was trying to get inside.
Stop, stop, stop, she thought, trying to push whatever it was out. She crawled from her bed, took all of the clothing in her laundry basket—not even bothering to sort through and find what she might have worn to Gavin’s—opened the window, and hurled it out onto the back lawn, slamming the window shut again.
Her mom was still talking, her voice carrying up the stairs and down the hall.
“Send me away again,” Delilah whispered. “Just send me anywhere.”
And for a beat she relished the thought.
Until she remembered Gavin. Her birthday was rapidly approaching, and though that meant she’d legally be able to do whatever the hell she wanted soon enough, she wasn’t sure he would follow.
? ? ?
She could feel the madness teasing at the edges of her thoughts. It brought back the strange memory of being a little girl at a party her father’s business had thrown at the country club seven miles outside of town. Delilah had fingered the fancy table linen and then slowly lifted it—consumed by an overwhelming curiosity to just get a peek at the table beneath. The white Formica top was covered in an ugly web of scratches and stains.
She closed her eyes, imagining a tablecloth drifting over her thoughts, trying to keep all of her hysteria covered. If I do one thing at a time, she thought, it will be okay.
I’ll text him.
I’ll do my homework.
I’ll sleep, and go to school, and forget that the house ever existed. I’m not crazy.
I’ll talk to Gavin only about nice things, about pleasant things, and until we figure out how to get away, it will be enough.
The house will forget about me.
With shaking fingers, she sent Gavin a message: Missed you at school today. Hope all is well. I feel like I’m losing my mind.
Twenty minutes into her homework and with barely anything completed, Delilah jumped when her phone buzzed on her desk.
That’s not all you’re going to lose, girl.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Him
Gavin had never skipped school a day in his life. He’d been sick before, of course, the occasional cold or stomach bug, that time he had the flu and could think of nothing else but his mom—or any mom, for that matter—to brush the hair from his feverish forehead or just hold him.
He would open his eyes and find medicine on Table, no name on the bottle, just a label with clearly typed instructions. Juice and steaming bowls of chicken soup were there one minute, then gone once they’d been emptied or grown cold. Piano played soft and soothing lullabies as he’d fallen into a restless, sweaty slumber.
And so he would miss a day or two, always returning once the cold had run its course or he was feeling better.
But he wasn’t sick now.
The urge to wake that morning had tickled at the back of his brain, stirred in his sleep-heavy limbs. He’d shuffled into the blankets, restless and uncomfortable. Without looking, he could tell the room was still dark, and so he rolled over, ignoring his bladder and his stirring thoughts, intent on going back to sleep.
Voices in the distance drew his attention—familiar voices—the laughter and shouts of kids he knew, racing down the street near the end of the block toward school. But it wasn’t time yet; he didn’t need to look at the clock to know he had another hour, at least.