17. Hailey
HAILEY
Mom was suddenly acting normal, which somehow made everything worse.
She hovered by the kitchen island, smiling in this too-loose, too-relaxed way. She kept saying she was “totally fine” and “just needed some alone time”—two phrases I had never heard her use in my fifteen years of existence. Ever.
But maybe our talk last night had worked. She went to bed early and didn’t come out of her room until noon. Dad and I tag teamed taking care of Henry, and for once, she actually slept. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe all she needed was a solid night’s rest.
Still . . . something felt off. This wasn’t how she’d been before. Back then—right after Henry was born—she’d been jumpy and scattered and frantic, checking locks and asking questions and pacing. This was different. This was calm layered over something intense, like a lid screwed on too tight.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us to the welcome party?” Dad asked for the third time.
“I’m sure,” Mom said brightly. “I think I’ll take a bath and just try to reset.”
Reset? What the hell did that even mean?
We headed for the door, and I tried to catch her eye on the way out—looking for some flicker of the mom I remembered from before Henry, but she just grinned at me like she’d put on someone else’s face for the evening.
“I’m fine, Hailey,” she said, brushing my shoulder as I passed. “Really.”
Right. And I was a unicorn.
Dad grabbed the diaper bag and Henry, then glanced back at Mom again. “You’re sure?”
She nodded and waved us off with this breezy little gesture that was supposed to be reassuring. I didn’t buy it.
I kept looking back at the house as we walked to the car. Somehow it already looked emptier. Dad clicked Henry’s car seat into place, muttering about the straps never sitting the same way twice. He looked over the roof of the car at me.
“You okay, Hails?”
“I don’t know . . . I’m worried about Mom.”
Dad sighed. “I know. Me too. But I think she’s already getting better.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He opened the driver’s door and nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
“But what if you’re wrong? What if something happens?”
“Hailey . . .” He gave me that I-hear-you-but-also-I-don’t tone. It drove me crazy. “Your mom is fine. It’s just exhaustion mixed with postpartum stuff. With rest, it’ll pass.”
“I read that some moms—”
“Don’t,” he cut in. “Your mother would never hurt anyone. Especially not you or Henry.”
I let out a small breath. I wanted to believe him, to believe Mom was improving and that we were finally past the worst of it. But I’d read enough about postpartum to know that sometimes things didn’t get loud before they broke. Sometimes they went quiet.
The headlights washed over the front of the house as we backed up, and for a second, I thought I saw someone standing behind the front window. I blinked and the figure was gone.
The road was pitch black, and the heat blasted through the vents, filling the silence between us.
“You really think we should’ve left Mom alone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Even though she’s . . . like that?”
“Like what, Hailey?”
“Like she’s seeing and hearing things.”
Dad’s hands tightened on the wheel. “She’ll be fine, and we’ll only be an hour or so.”
He reached for the radio, probably to drown me out. That’s when I saw him.
A boy stood in the middle of the road, arms stiff at his sides, staring straight at me.
“stop!” I screamed.
Dad slammed the brakes so hard the car fishtailed. The seat belt cut into my collarbone. Henry jostled but didn’t wake.
Dad whipped his head around. “What was it? A deer? A raccoon?”
“No,” I said, already shoving the door open. “It was Eddie.”
The cold swallowed me whole as I stepped out, and my breath fogged in frantic bursts.
“Eddie?” Dad called after me. “Who’s Eddie?”
“My friend,” I said, scanning the road. “The one who warned me about the neighbors.”
“Why would he be out here?” Dad asked, incredulous.
“Eddie!” I shouted, searching frantically. “Eddie!” He wasn’t on the road, in the ditch, or between the trees.
“He was right there,” I said, pointing to where I’d seen him.
The trees swayed gently, branches cracking like knuckles.
“Why would he be standing in the middle of the road?” Dad asked.
I thought about the other times Eddie had shown up—at the bus stop, warning me about the neighbors. Outside my window, telling me we shouldn’t have accepted the casseroles.
There was only one reason he’d be here now.
“He’s trying to warn us, Dad.”