Chapter 45

Chapter Forty-Five

BEFORE

TOM

After eating nothing but junk food and soda for the last two days, it's nice to have my mother cooking dinner tonight. Slug, on the other hand, would happily eat nothing but junk food for every meal, and I think sometimes he does, which is part of why his skin is so bad.

While we eat a hot meal of chicken and rice at the kitchen table, my mother talks about Uncle Dave's procedure because she knows it's usually the sort of thing that would fascinate me, but I'm not in the mood right now. I pretend I'm listening though. I nod at all the right places, and I manage a smile when she tells me Uncle Dave made it home and is doing well. But in reality, it's all just background noise.

"How is Daisy doing?" my mother asks me when she finishes the story about Uncle Dave.

"Daisy?"

"Well, she and Alison were close, weren't they?"

"Sort of."

"She must be very upset."

I wouldn't know. I tried calling Daisy multiple times today, and each time, her phone went to voicemail. I don't want to tell my mother that Daisy's father won't let her talk to me, because then I'll have to tell her why.

"You know," my mother says thoughtfully, "I wonder—"

I have no idea what terrible thing my mother is wondering about, because at that moment, the doorbell rings.

She swivels her head in the direction of the front door. "Do you think your father forgot his key?"

I don't know who is at the door, but I know it's not my father searching for his house key. "Maybe…"

Mom wipes her face with a napkin, then heads over to the front door. I rise from my own seat and quietly creep over to see who is there. I'm convinced it must be the police, but instead, I find my mother talking to a middle-aged man with a beer belly and a comb-over. He seems to be handing her something, then they talk for another minute in quiet voices.

Who is that ?

My mother closes the door behind her, and she looks surprised to see me standing in the foyer. "Tom," she says. "I didn't see you there."

That's when I notice what's in her hand—the object the man handed to her. It's a phone.

"That was the bartender at O'Toole's," she says. "Your father left his phone there." She adds, "Two nights ago."

I don't know what to say to that. "Oh."

"Did he tell you he lost his phone?"

I shake my head slowly. "No, he didn't mention it."

She looks over her shoulder at the door, then back at me. "And the bartender says he hasn't been back there since leaving his phone. And he hasn't been at work either. So where do you think he's been?"

My mouth is dry. I remind myself that even if she is suspicious that something happened to my father, it doesn't mean she knows what happened. Although she did see me threatening him with a fire poker once. Still…

She looks down at the floor, and I can almost see the gears turning in her brain. I wish they would stop. Can't she just stop thinking about it and let us enjoy our dinner?

"Tom," she says, "when did you put the rug out by the curb?"

That damn rug again. I should never have let him crawl out of the kitchen. I should've slit his throat right there, and then we wouldn't be having this discussion.

"Two days ago," I say.

"So Tuesday?"

"Yes."

She frowns. "But garbage pickup is on Monday. So how could they have already taken the rug away?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. She has made an excellent point. I don't know how to explain why the rug is gone. It doesn't make sense that I would have driven it down to the dump myself. And I already told her that the garbageman took it. I can't tell her the truth, that's for sure.

My mother lifts her chin to look up at me—over the last two years I've surpassed her in height, which is still a little strange for me. As she studies my face, I can't help but notice her exposed carotid artery, and I can just barely make out its quickened pulsation in her neck.

"Tom?" she says softly.

She's waiting for me to say something, but there's nothing I can say. Thankfully, I am saved by the sound of the doorbell ringing yet again. My shoulders sag in relief. I don't know if the bartender has another question for my mother, but at least I've got a few minutes to plan out what I'm going to say next.

But my relief is short-lived when I see who is standing at our front door.

It's Chief Driscoll.