Chapter Eight
THERE MUST HAVE been dark forces at play last night, because they’d had so many calls at the firehouse, Shauna was bleary-eyed by the time she got home.
She stood in her living room Thursday morning, trying to make sense of the empty tabletop where the television was supposed to be.
She blinked several times, wondering if her exhaustion was messing with her.
Nope. The television still wasn’t there.
She looked around the living room and kitchen in case Brian had moved it.
There were dirty dishes on the coffee table and the counter, but the television was nowhere in sight.
She glanced down the hall. Brian’s bedroom door was ajar, his music spilling out. “Brian?” she called out, wondering if he’d moved the TV into his room.
He didn’t respond.
Too tired to yell, she went to talk to him.
“Brian, where’s the TV?” she asked as she pushed the door open.
The room was a wreck, the curtains closed, and Brian was bent over the nightstand snorting something.
Her restraint snapped, and all the pent-up anger and frustration from the last few months came roaring out. “What the hell are you doing?”
He bolted upright and charged toward her, wild-eyed. “Get the fuck outta here!”
“No. I’m paying the fucking rent.” She stood her ground, the sight of the brown powder—heroin—on the mirror making her even more furious. “You can’t do that shit here!”
“The hell I can’t,” he seethed.
“You don’t get to make the rules when you’re living off my money. Where’d you get the money for the drugs?”
“Leave me the fuck alone.” He turned away, his movements jerky.
The answer hit her like a brick. “Where’s the TV, Brian?”
“I don’t fucking know. Maybe someone stole it.”
“I’m not stupid,” she fumed. “You sold it to buy heroin, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Yeah, right. I’m such an idiot. I kept telling myself you weren’t that bad. That I could help you.”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t want your fucking help!”
He spun around, his teeth clenched like a rabid animal, and grabbed her upper arms so tight, her knees buckled.
He shoved her backward. Her back slammed into a picture hanging on the wall, the corner of the frame digging into her back.
The impact knocked the wind from her lungs…
and the ghosts of her past from their tethers.
Images of her father hitting her mother flew at her, fueling her with fierce, unwavering strength.
The picture crashed to the floor as she grabbed Brian by his shirt, yanking him down as her knee flew up, connecting with his gut.
He cried out, and she threw him backward, sending him to his ass on the floor.
She stood over him, shaking with anger and so much heartbreak at what her friend had become, it hurt more than the physical attack did. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me again, or I swear I’ll kill you.”
He scrambled to his feet, a flicker of regret warring with the rage in his eyes. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t. I’m done watching you kill yourself. I can’t even look at you right now. Get the fuck out of here.” She stormed out of his room, heading for hers.
He ran after her. “Shauna, wait. I’m sor—”
His words were cut off as she slammed and locked her bedroom door. Shaking and gasping for breath, she lowered herself to the edge of the bed, giving in to the tears she’d been holding back for weeks.