Avis’s thoughts jumped to Maggie. To Jeff. Her mouth went acrid, like an invisible hand had stuck a penny beneath her tongue.
Another pause, another loud exhale. Finally, Richard retorted with a clipped “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His shadow filled the mouth of the hallway.
That’s when he stopped, as if sensing that something was off.
“Don’t know what I’m talking about,” Claire murmured. She stomped up the stairs, leaving Richard alone on the ground floor.
Avis’s gaze darted to Jeffrey, who lifted his hand in a silent gesture.
Don’t move.
He’d gotten demanding these past few months, especially after Avis had lost it on him. He’d been less patient, more distant. A lot like her dad.
Through the darkness, she watched Maggie reach out and catch his hand in her own.
Blood. She was tasting blood, having bitten down on her lip hard enough to cut through the skin.
The glint of Gypsy’s cross caught her eye. Maggie was wearing it.
She’s not one of us.
Suddenly, a scream was clawing up her windpipe. Enraged. Scorned. You’re supposed to love me, she thought. You aren’t supposed to be like him, not like my dad.
Scumbag Lawyer Richard was still standing motionless in the hall, staring into the darkness of the living room. He was trying to see through the shadows that veiled the familiar. The wait was agonizing, the pause lasting an eternity. Avis wanted him to hurry up and flip on the light. At least then she could bolt from her spot and throw herself at her former friend. She wanted to tear Maggie’s hair out by the fistful and shove it down her throat. I’m carrying his baby, you bitch!
Finally, Richard moved.
The living room lit up in a blaze of light.
For a second, Avis couldn’t see.
The darkness makes us blind.
When Avis finally regained her vision, she was distracted by how young Richard looked—maybe a little older than herself, tall and handsome in a rumpled suit. Nothing like her father.
Richard’s gaze was frozen on the stack of furniture, as though too preoccupied to see the people standing static in his living room and kitchen. When his attention finally shifted, he looked right at Avis.
Her stomach dropped.
“Who the fuck are you?” His inquiry seemed to be exclusively pointed at her.
Gasping, she opened her mouth to speak.
Nobody. I’m worthless. I’ve never been anybody and I never will be. I’ll never belong anywhere. Not here, not there, not like you and Claire.
Richard shifted his weight to the left, toward a black telephone mounted on the wall.
“Wait.” Deacon stepped forward. He held his hands palm out to show that he was unarmed, that he didn’t want anyone to get hurt. “Before you do that,” he said, nodding toward the phone, “just let us make a quiet exit. We leave empty-handed, you don’t have to spend hours with the cops.”
Richard stared at Deacon as though he was seeing a guy in a pair of cowboy boots for the first time. It was a perplexed, almost mystified look, one that was utterly confused by what he’d just heard.
“We don’t need any trouble,” Deacon said. For a moment Richard appeared to be considering the option. But then his attention wavered, his gaze paused on the precarious stack of furniture in the center of his living room. The inevitable spark of violation ignited somewhere deep inside his guts.
“Are you fucking kidding?” He glared at Deacon, shooting down the offer with a sneer. “Who the fuck are you people? Look what you’ve done to my house!”
“It’s just stuff,” Sunnie whispered, her words clear in the temporary lull. Richard veered around, his eyes wide, his indignation growing by the second.
“It’s my stuff, you bitch.”
“Hey.” Deacon continued his steady approach, which was clearly making Richard uncomfortable. “There’s no need for that.”
“Yeah.” The word rolled off Gypsy’s bottom lip in a sultry growl. “Scumbag.”
“Richard?” Claire.
Avis chewed the inside of her cheek. She wanted nothing more than to get outside, to escape the scene, to protect the tiny person growing inside her. Maggie was still holding Jeff’s hand. She was looking right at Avis, as though challenging her to make something of it. Or maybe it was just Avis’s imagination. Unbalanced. The intoxication of fear, the shock of being caught.
“Stay upstairs!” Richard yelled up to his wife.
“Richard, what’s happening?” Claire obviously wasn’t good at taking orders. She came down the hall and exhaled a gasp. Her eyes were wide, stunned at the strangers standing throughout her kitchen and living room, most of them still as Greek marble. “Oh my G—who are you?” She glared at Deacon. “What do you want? Get out of here, all of you! Get out before we call the police!”
“No,” Richard said. His upper lip curled in a defiant sneer. “They aren’t going anywhere.”
“What are you talking about?” Claire shot him a look. “Tell them to leave!” she insisted, but Richard shook his head.
“Look what they did to the living room. They’ve damaged our personal property. This isn’t kid’s stuff, Claire. This has to be reported.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Rich!”
“Look, we don’t want any trouble,” Deacon said again.
“Then you shouldn’t break into people’s houses,” Richard shot back.
“We didn’t break in,” Clover muttered.
“Yeah. The sliding glass door was open,” Gypsy purred. “Almost like you wanted us to walk right in.”