Chapter 1

1

Nola

My heart is an anchor.

The weight of it presses against my rib bones, crushing my insides. Some days it’s as light as air, a weightless knot in my chest, begging to be swept away. Today, it’s suffocating. Mocking me, as I stare down at the man I hardly know anymore.

A husband on paper, but in reality, he’s nothing more than a roommate. The stench of alcohol coming from him is like the cheap perfume of a lover, confessing his affair, and the bottle propped against his chest is the evidence.

I hate that my heart remembers the boy with scruffy blond hair and a skateboard, who called me his baby. I hate that my heart refuses to see the broken mess he’s become, the fractured promise of the beautiful life we planned ten years ago.

But that’s what love does to the heart. Its gluttony consumes every lie like a sponge, until it becomes heavy and hard, like stone.

I whack my knuckles against Denny’s leg. “Wake up.”

He doesn’t move at first. Not so much as a flinch. I’d think him dead, if not for the obnoxious snore that tells me otherwise.

“Denny! Wake up!”

At another wallop against his thigh, he snorts and startles awake, as his arms fly out and grip the edges of the couch. “What! Whas goin’ on?” He can’t even muster an angry groan, or a scowl, with whatever intoxicating dose of alcohol that seems to have rendered his face muscles lax.

Pathetic.

“I need cash. Oliver’s birthday is tomorrow.”

Huffing, he turns onto his side, burying his face in the couch. “You work.”

“Yeah, see … I used all my money on the house payment and utilities. You know, the shit you were supposed to pay me half for?”

“Here comes the ball-busting.”

“It’s your son’s fucking birthday. Surely you can cough up a few bucks for that. I’m assuming, since you had enough for your Jim Beam—”

“Now you’re gonna track everything I buy?”

“When you haven’t paid me anything in two months? You’re damn right I am. I need fifty bucks for Oliver.”

“Fifty? What the fuck is fifty bucks?”

“A cake, a toy, and the only thing he asked for, a new coat.”

Snorting again, he shakes his head. “I got ten bucks on me.” He stuffs his hand into his back pocket and yanks out a ten he lets flutter to the floor.”

“You get a couple hundred a week in unemployment, plus cash mowing lawns. Where did all that go?”

“None of your business, that’s where.”

As anger gets the best of me, I shove at him, jostling his body. “It is my fucking business! If you can’t help me with bills, then get out!”

Twisting just enough to peel his face from the couch cushions, he frowns back at me. “’S’at what you want, Nola? Break up our home over money? Said it’d never come to that. Said nothing could ever get in the way of our marriage. Remember?”

“I’m tired of doing everything alone, Denny. The cleaning. The bills. The cooking and the worrying.”

His brows wing up with an incredulous smile I’d love to smack right off his face. “Oh, I’m not busting my ass?”

“Are you? I wouldn’t know. You haven’t given me a dime, except for this measly ten bucks!”

He goes back to cuddling his fifth like a toy he refuses set down. “I’ll get you your damn money. Chill the fuck out.” The watch at his wrist catches my eye—a cheap knockoff Rolex that Oliver bought him for Father’s Day a couple years back. Surprised he still wears it.

“I want you out of here. Out of my life.”

“And then what? You think you’d survive without me? Money aside, you’re nothing but a w—”

“Mom?”

I turn to find Oliver standing in the hallway, decked out in his Star Wars jammies, slipping on his thin, black-rimmed glasses.

Head tipped, he glances to Denny and me, no doubt assessing the situation. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s okay, baby. Go back to bed.”

“Can I have a glass of milk?”

“’The hell did your mom tell you—”

“Sure, sweets,” I cut Denny short, flipping him off behind my back, where he can see. “I’ll bring it to you in a second. Go back to bed, okay?”

Once Oliver is out of sight, I loosen the hundreds of muscles in my face it takes to feign a smile.

“That’s why you need fifty bucks. You spoil the little shit.”

“That little shit hasn’t asked for anything any other kid his age would ask for. He deserves all the goddamn presents in the world for having you as a dad.” I kick at his feet, taking in a small measure of joy when he recoils.

“Time for another bitch pill, eh, Nola?”

“End of the week. I want you out. And if you don’t pay your half of the bills by tomorrow? You can crawl your broke ass out of here the next day. After Oliver’s birthday.”

With a snort, he shakes his head and curls into himself on the couch. “You always were heartless, Nola. This marriage was doomed from the beginning.”

My chest throbs in a reminder that I’m not heartless. I’m heartbroken. Not just for me, but for the little boy to whom I’ll have to explain everything, every broken piece that’s shattered around him, and carefully try to put his world back together.

“I need to run out. I’ll give Oliver a glass of milk, and he should go right back to sleep. Think you can handle being an adult for an hour, or two?”

It feels irresponsible leaving Oliver with Denny, but if truth be told, my son is the one most responsible in this scenario. Oliver could practically care for himself, if that were legal.

“Kid’s mine, too, in case you forgot.”

“Sometimes, I do,” I say, swiping up the ten bucks still lying on the floor. Rotten bastard.

In the kitchen, I pour a small bit of milk into a glass, and try not to look at the lump of shit on my couch as I pass him again on the way up the stairs to Oliver’s room.

With a smile painted on cold and lying lips, I enter, holding the glass. “Hey, baby. Sorry if Mommy and Daddy were talking too loud. We had some plans to work out for somebody’s birthday tomorrow.”

That doesn’t make him smile. Of course it doesn’t. He’s too smart for those tricks nowadays.

“Know what I’m getting you?” I set his milk on the nightstand and pull his space-themed blanket up to just below his chin.

“I don’t want anything. Except for you and Dad to get along.”

“Believe me, Champ. I want that, too.”

Crawling into bed beside him, I nudge him over with my hip and slide the blanket to cover my legs. Even at ten years old, he still snuggles up beside me, and I stroke his hair, which smells like oranges. “You’re going to have the best birthday ever tomorrow. No fighting. I promise.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Planting a kiss on top of his head, I give him one hard squeeze. “Drink your milk and go to sleep right away, okay?”

“Mom? Do you believe in The Sandman? I mean, he’s not real, right?”

“Sandman? Are you asking if I think there’s a dude who goes around sprinkling sand in everyone’s eyes to put them to sleep?” I frown when he nods, the look of worry etched across his face stirring confusion. Oliver has always been a kid rooted in logic, and it only took him until the ripe age of five to decide Santa, the tooth fairy, and the Easter bunny weren’t real. “No. I don’t. What’s going on with that?”

“Emmett says he’s real. He says he watches you every night, waiting for the moment when you’re alone and vulnerable. He says he steals your eyeballs. It was in the news, and everything.”

“Eyeballs, huh? Emmett drinks too much soda for his age. If anything, he should be worried about a pissed-off tooth fairy having to collect a mouthful of rotted baby teeth.”

“That’s gross.”

“Indeed. Which reminds me, did you brush your teeth?”

Huffing in obvious frustration, he frowns. “Yes, I did. I’m being serious, Mom. Sometimes, I see … eyes. Watching me through the window at night.”

“Well, considering you’re on the second floor, a dude would have to be pretty ambitious to climb up to the roof just to spy on a sleeping kid.”

“Unless he didn’t have to climb.”

“C’mon, Oliver. I thought you were too old for that stuff. Too wise. You don’t believe in that fantasy stuff, remember?” I push out of his bed and tuck him in, my mind spinning a thousand miles a minute, trying not to let the darkness on the other side of me cast its shadows on him. The unbearable weight of my failed and crumbling marriage that threatens to crush me with such innocent conversation. Sliding his glasses from his eyes, I kiss his forehead and stroke my hand down his cheek. “Time to sleep. Love you, baby.”

“Mom?” he says, as I reach for the door. “If The Sandman did exist, though … is he considered good?”

“Hypothetically, if there was a dude going around sprinkling sand to make you sleep, I’d like to think he was doing it for the right reasons. The world isn’t as crappy as it seems, sometimes, you know?”

“So, even if he does bad things, he’s good?”

“Whatever Emmett told you, and I’ll be sure to check with his mom on that, it’s just a story, Oli.”

He drops his gaze from mine and shakes his head. “Please don’t talk to his mom. I’ll stop asking about it.”

“Good. Go to sleep.”

“But … do you think Dad is good?”

I press my lips together, to keep the truth from escaping me and destroying my son’s perception of the only man he’s ever loved. “I think everyone is born with goodness in them. Some just don’t know what to do with it, is all.”

* * *

Rifling through my jewelry box, I find a simple gold wedding band with a single diamond. Two years ago, I stopped wearing it, and I’m not sure Denny even noticed. My eyes blur with tears as I allow my thoughts to drift to the day Denny proposed to me—probably the worst proposal in the world.

He’d taken me out to an early dinner at some fancy restaurant downtown. We hung out at a bar, watching one of our favorite local bands, then he took me for an evening walk through the park, where I’d first watched him perform tricks on his board. Halfway into the walk, we both started feeling really sick, so we rushed back to his mom’s and took turns puking and shitting in the bathroom all night. While pale-faced and camped out beside the toilet, he pulled the ring and proposed.

Wasn’t enough that my mom went to her grave hating the guy, but it’s as if fate was conspiring against our marriage on top of it all, by giving me the worst case of food poisoning I’ve ever had.

I slip the ring onto my finger and peek in on Oliver one more time, finding him covered up in his blankets.

Denny’s sat up on the couch when I head back down, flipping through channels on the TV, with one hand stuffed inside a bag of Doritos. No doubt, he’ll end up passed out on the couch, since the two of us haven’t slept in the same bed in months.

“I shouldn’t be any longer than an hour. Hour and a half, max. Are you okay to listen for him, or are you too drunk?”

“I’m not drunk. Whatever buzz I might’ve had, you killed. So, thanks for that.”

Asshole.

Sober, Denny could be a decent dad. After all, he’s the one who taught Oli to ride a bike and balance on skates before he was old enough to spell his own name. Back when Oliver was a baby, only Denny could calm him when he cried, by plucking his guitar while Oliver dozed off beside him on the couch. Those are the memories that hurt the worst.

The ones involving my son.

Because the thing is, no matter how shitty their parents become, kids still love them.

The changes I plan to make are going to be hard on Oliver, and I don’t want to put him through that kind of stress, but I know firsthand how much harder it is to watch at least one parent fall out of love.

It takes closer to two hours to hock my ring for a measly two hundred bucks and drive to the different stores, from where I nab cake supplies and giftwrap and balloons on the way home. When I arrive back, the lights are off inside the two-story house, and Denny’s beat-up Honda isn’t sitting in the driveway. He’s left the curtains open, and I peek into the window to see he’s not passed out on the couch as usual, either.

What the hell? Son of a bitch better not have left Oliver alone.

Silence lingers on the air as I enter the dark house, and I dump my bags down on the kitchen counter and race up the stairs.

Oliver’s bed is empty.

“If that piece of shit took him to buy more alcohol,” I mutter, as I tap the Finder app on my phone. Takes a minute before it zeroes in on his location, and I scowl at the map, giving it a second, because no way in hell would Denny piss me off by taking my son to the shitty side of Chicago. No way in hell.

Not after the hundreds of times I’ve told him never to take Oliver to hang out with his piece of shit pothead friends on that side of town.

His location doesn’t move, though.

In the meantime, and with a small bit of denial, I perform a cursory sweep of the house, then another outside the back door, where the in-law suite behind the house stands equally dark and quiet.

With fury blazing through me, I dial his number on my way back into the kitchen, licking my lips in preparation to cuss him out the moment that bastard answers.

The second the ringing ends and his line connects, I feel a rush of adrenaline pump through me. “You piece of shit! What the hell are you doing? Where the hell are you—”

I trail off when I notice he hasn’t said anything. Not even hello. I pause to listen for a moment, concentrating on the strange static sound bleeding through the line. Like air being deflated out of a balloon, it squeals, and a wet, barking cough follows.

“Denny?”

A whoosh of air rattles against the earpiece, but in the thick of it, I make out two whispered words: “I’m sorry.”

A cold stab of panic pierces my chest. “Denny? What’s going on?”

The phone clicks, the abrupt disconnection mirroring the last shred of my calm. With trembling hands, I call again. It rings and rings. In disbelief, I call again.

Still no answer.

I haul ass through the house and out the front door, my hands shaking so bad I can’t get the goddamn key lined up in the ignition of my car.

“Fucking come on!”

All I can think about is Oliver. Is he gone? Is he lying somewhere next to his father, dying? Is Denny dying, or is this some sick fucking joke to teach me a lesson for kicking him out?

I speed through streets, desperate to stay focused on that small, vague dot on the map.

As much as I don’t want to lose his location, or risk missing another call from Denny, I dial my brother—a detective for the Chicago police department.

In a groggy voice, he answers on the third ring. “Yeah.”

“Jonah. It’s Nola.”

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” Panic wraps itself around my chest, squeezing the breath out of me. “I called … Denny, he … it sounded like he …”

“Slow down.”

“I can’t.” The steering wheel acts as a battering target, against which I slam my hands in frustration. “I can’t! I think something happened!”

“Where’s Oliver?”

“I think he’s with Denny, unless something happened to him. Oh, God, Jonah!”

“Where are you?”

“I’m headed toward West Chicago. Damen Avenue.”

“The silos?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s an abandoned grain elevator there. Just …. Just hang tight. I’ll check it out.”

“No! No. He sounded like … he was … dying. And if Oliver is with him. I need to go.”

“Nola, you don’t know what you could be walking into. He could’ve been jumped on that side of town.”

“I don’t care! My son is with him, Jonah!”

“We’re gonna get someone out there now. I’m calling it in now. Just turn around and go back home, and I’ll—”

I hang up the phone. I love my brother, but he’s a goddamn tool if he thinks I’m going to turn around when my son could be hurt, or worse.

Fuck turning around.

I’m already on the road where the dot on the map tells me Denny’s phone is still sitting, on the outskirts of Chicago. Heading south on Damen, I hang a left onto 29th Street, where the dot sits in the center of an abandoned yard. Through the open gates, I pull up alongside Denny’s Honda, parked about a hundred yards off from a building covered in graffiti.

What the hell?

The steady drumming against my chest is my heart pounding so fast I can hardly keep up my breathing, as I take in the dark ominous surroundings. A place no mother would ever want her child to venture, for fear of the things that could be lurking within. I want to cry, but I can’t. My mind tells my heart to keep its shit together until I find Oliver.

Clambering out the vehicle, I rush toward the Honda and peer in through the windows. Oliver isn’t there. From beside the car, its glowing lights the only means of visibility in the encroaching darkness, I scan the abandoned building for an entrance.

That’s when I sense something watching me.

Hairs prickle as I turn to see the cup holder of the backseat propped forward and bright blue eyes peering up at me. I scramble toward them, throwing back the center console of the backseat, and find Oliver curled up in the trunk.

“Baby? Are you okay? Open the latch, Oli.”

Even in the dim light of the cabin, I can see him trembling, and my instincts beg me to tear away the damn fabric of the seat to get to him.

“Oli! Unlatch the seat!”

A click signals his compliance, and I fold down the seat to see him curled so tight within himself he looks smaller than a ten-year-old. Or perhaps more fragile.

“C’mon, baby. Come out of there.” I reach for him, but he shakes his head. “Oli, what happened? Where’s your dad?”

His brows dip, eyes brimming with tears, and he shakes his head, but doesn’t say a word. Instead, he claps his hands over his ears, and screws his eyes shut.

“Is he inside? In the building?” It occurs to me that Denny could be actively dying somewhere right now. I push to my feet, but my arm is yanked by ice cold hands.

Eyes wide and panicked, Oliver tries to pull me into the car, his effort so ardent, he leaves scratch marks down my skin.

“Hey, hey.” Without much choice, I settle next to him and stroke his hair to calm him, while he clings to my arm. “Your dad sounded like he needed help. I just want to check on him.” My heart is breaking as I watch the tears slip down his cheeks. A ghost white pallor blanches his usual olive skin tone and he tugs harder and shakes his head.

“Oliver, tell me what happened? Is someone here?”

More tears fill his eyes, and when he nods, my stomach twists at the thought that we’re not alone.

“Talk to me. Why won’t you talk?”

He ignores me, and though I know it’s not out of defiance, the stress is beginning to wear me down, taunting my patience.

“Did you see something?”

His eyes screw tight, his nails digging into my skin, as though my question has planted something horrific inside his mind.

Headlights flash, and on instinct, I duck down, watching as they flick off, and I can make out my brother’s pickup truck idling into the yard.

“Uncle Jonah’s here.”

A police cruiser trails behind him, and relief washes over me. I tug Oliver over the folded seat and wrap my arms around him, noticing the incessant tremble.

Removing his coat, Jonah approaches the two of us, wrapping Oliver up in a thick wool trench. “Grim and Jeff are going to scope it out. Is he okay?”

I shake my head, letting the first round of tears escape. “He won’t say a word.”

“Is Denny inside?”

“I think so.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes. I think there is.”

The fuzzy interruption of Jonah’s walkie-talkie steels my muscles, as I wait to hear an update on Denny.

Jonah steps away from us, and as I lurch forward to follow, fingernails dig into my skin, and Oliver buries his face in my neck.

Brows furrowed, I focus on the murmurings of what little I can hear through that two-way, but one code is unmistakable. It sits heavy on my heart, pulling me under the surface.

The code for murder death kill.

“You’re gonna want to come see this.” Grim’s voice bears the tone of his name. “Oh, God.” The gag that follows has my chest feeling numb and cold, and I can barely hang on to Oliver with the weakness settling over me.

“Jonah?” Everything is spinning around me too fast to grasp, and I rest my head against Oliver’s, breathing hard through my nose, until it passes and I can set my attention back on my brother. “Jonah?”

Another siren comes with the approach of an ambulance, blocking out the important pieces of the conversation that have Jonah rubbing his brow and shaking his head.

An irritation that makes me want to run into the building and see for myself.

The contemplation on Jonah’s face, when he strides back toward me, says whatever message was relayed is about to change my world. It’s like when we were kids and he tried to shield me from the death of our father, taking it upon himself to act as a human tampon for all the scary shit he didn’t think I could handle. In turn, he and my mother took the brunt of Gordon Stiever’s death, leaving me with little grief to contribute and a lifetime of daddy issues that bled into every relationship after.

“Nola, sit tight for a few minutes. I’m gonna … check this out.”

Still holding Oli, I lurch forward. “Check what out, Jonah? What happened?”

“They found Denny.”

“And?”

“Not here, Nola.” His eyes fall on Oliver, and it’s right then I realize it isn’t just my pain he’s shielding, but my son’s. “I want to check it out, okay?”

“I want to see for myself.” The words tumble aimlessly from my lips, because I’m not so sure I want to see what’s twisted Jonah’s face into tight lines of worry.

“No. Stay with Oliver. He needs you right now.”

His words strike me across the face like a slap of reality. Yes, of course. My son needs me. Oliver needs me far more than Denny right now.

My attention shifts to my son, whose once irritating little cowlick reminds me of the one I constantly had to pat down on the top of Denny’s head during the better parts of our marriage. One that led to our very first kiss, while sitting on the deck of the half-pipe ramp he built at his mom’s.

It somehow fails to register that the caustic conversation we had earlier in the night was our last, aside from his apology. Some small part of me still believes he’s alive, and he’ll be annoying the shit out of me once everything is settled.

The bigger part of me knows that’s a lie.

The heart is an anchor. And mine feels like a stone that’s been cast out to the ocean, left to sink into the bottomless darkness.