SEBASTIAN
SEBASTIAN
There's something amiss. I feel it the instant I step into the house.
I know that Judy's left for work already, and it's anyone's guess where Ashleigh is or what she's doing. But Roxy's parked on the drive, meaning Craig is likely in the kitchen. So, I've entered through the front door, buying myself an extra moment to prepare for however he might receive me.
Maybe it's just that uncertainty, clenching my chest like a fist.
Setting the hefty Ikea bag down with extreme care, I glower at the extension lead that still manages to fall from it tauntingly. A trip which should've only taken a couple of hours, picking up bed slats to replace those my poor aunt fell through this morning, ended up exceeding four and has fleeced me out of a small fortune I'm already regretting.
I yank off my boots and pad quietly through the burrow. The door to the snug is open, although a swift glance finds the room empty. I'm about to walk on by when I notice that the little door of the glass cabinet is also ajar. My skin prickles as I take the short detour to it, crouching to peer inside, and my relief is an audible huff when I see the bottle exactly where it should be, untouched. I straighten, turn. Then instantly freeze, hearing the distinctive creak of footsteps descending the stairs.
The sound of Ashleigh's tuneless humming precedes her along the hall. She appears a few seconds later, breaking into pitchy song — " Gotta dig down low. B-b-bury me. Ain't got no place to " — and abruptly cuts herself off at the sight of me, yanking her headphones down to dangle around her neck. "Oh. Hey. You're home."
"As are you," I'm slow to nod, my arms folding.
"Yup."
It'd taken minimal effort in the end, yesterday evening, for her to draw the full story of my weekend out of me. Truthfully, I think that she would have preferred far less detail than I gave. But after the chat with Derek in Citreena's, I just needed to get it all off my chest, and she had, of course, already been told what little Steph knew from Alex about that afternoon’s happenings.
In fairness, she reacted better than I'd expected, agreeing that the next move wasn't mine to make. There's been a definite strangeness between us since, though, kind of like she's holding back from me.
I remain rooted by the cabinet while she hovers just outside the door, the music continuing to faintly play at her throat. And that she's in no apparent rush to mention Craig being here with her doesn't at all help with my needling disquiet.
"So, would I be right in thinking," I start without entirely meaning to, "he's only here now because I wasn't?"
She stares for several beats. The quick frown that knits her brow tells me nothing, her keen eyes narrowing in a pointed once-over. Yet, it's all the response she gives before pivoting on her heel for the kitchen, leaving me stumped by the empty space she's vanished from. A few beats later, I hear the distinctive screech of chair legs across tile.
"The hell, Craig?" Ashleigh erupts, confirming his presence and sounding genuinely surprised.
"I thought you were out?" The low rasp of his voice flips my stomach.
"I've been working on my art project. Damn! How long have you just been sat down here on your lonesome?"
And screw it. "So much for a controlled entrance," I mutter, finally motivating my feet to follow.
"Not too long, really. Judy let me in, and, uh—"
Craig's standing at the kitchen table when I step in behind Ashleigh, and his baffled gaze immediately jumps from her to me. It's only upon seeing him look so entirely his usual self that I realise I'd half-expected him to be battered and bruised. The reassurance is a heady shot I've refused to acknowledge desperately needing, the effect of it tingling my every nerve. He's all smooth skin and defined edges, a clean-cut image of misleading perfection.
I notice the fidgety tap of his fingers against his thigh, not quite managing to meet his stare as he opens his mouth, closes it, and swallows. Then, "Your mum kept me company."
"What?"
"What?!" Ashleigh echoes me.
"Yeah," he nods, wincing. "Theresa was already here when I arrived. She said to tell you that she's… really sorry. She couldn't stay. You've missed her by about ten minutes—"
And it's like a hair-trigger release, the word 'missed', a gut-slamming and awful recognition of precisely what it is that's so very wrong. I don't hear anything else he might be saying as dread sweeps me—every single other thought crushed to dust under the onslaught. My heart constricts, and my head pounds and the air becomes unbearably thin. "Where's Dobby?"