Chapter 43
Forty-Three
Beckett
I have a day off, and apparently my brain doesn’t know what to do with itself when it’s not working. My first instinct was to go back to Madison’s to see if the penguins wanted to go for lunch, but she’s with her friends.
So, being the dutiful son I am, I decide to check on my mother.
I pull my SUV into the driveway of my childhood home, expecting to find the usual things she leaves for me to get to when I can. I brought my toolbox, ready to play the role of the sturdy, reliable son who fixes the leaky faucets and hacks back the overgrown hedge.
Except the hedge is perfectly manicured.
The lawn is freshly mowed, the stripes so straight they’d make a golf course superintendent weep with envy. Even the porch has been power-washed.
I kill the engine, staring at the front of the house in confusion before I get out.
Maybe Tom came by. They both mentioned he’s been helping more.
“Mom?” I call out, pushing the front door open. It’s unlocked, which is typical for her. She has a terrifying amount of faith in the goodness of humanity. “You in here? I came to fix the—”
I stop dead in the hallway.
The house is quiet, but there’s a strange energy in the air. The smell of frying bacon and… is that jazz? My mother hates jazz.
I walk toward the kitchen, my boots silent on the hardwood. “Mom? Everything ok—”
I round the corner into the kitchen, and the world as I know it ends.
Tom is here.
He’s wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and absolutely nothing else.
And he’s currently bent over the kitchen counter, reading a newspaper, while my mother—my mother—is standing behind him, wearing one of his oversized work shirts and nothing else, playfully slapping his backside with a spatula.
“Oh, you’ve been a very bad boy, Thomas,” she coos, a sound I will be hearing in my nightmares until the day I die. “The lawn is acceptable, but the gutters… the gutters still need your attention.”
Tom lets out a chuckle. “I’ll give you attention, Diane. Just as soon as the coffee—”
He freezes. My mother freezes.
I am currently experiencing what I believe is a clinical state of shock. My vision is tunneling. My heart is doing a dance against my ribs. I’ve seen open fractures and the inside of the human colon, but nothing has prepared me for the sight I’ve just witnessed.
“Beckett!” my mother shrieks, dropping the spatula. It hits the tile with a clang. She immediately tries to pull the work shirt down, which only succeeds in revealing more leg than I ever needed to see.
Tom slowly stands up, his face turning a shade of red I’ve never seen before. “Hey, Beck. We didn’t know you were stopping by, son.”
“The lawn,” I say. “The lawn is very straight.”
“Beckett, honey,” Mom starts, stepping toward me. “It’s not what it looks like. Well, it is. But Tom was just… he was helping with the—”
“The gutters,” I finish for her, my brain finally deciding to shut down for its own protection. “He was helping with the gutters. I see. Crystal clear.”
“Beckett,” Tom says, trying for calm. “Listen, your dad would have—”
“Don’t,” I bark, holding up a hand. “Don’t bring the dead into this. The dead are lucky. They don’t have eyes. They aren’t currently seeing what I’m seeing.”
“We were going to tell you!” Mom cries. “We wanted to make sure it was serious first.”
“Serious?” I repeat. “Mom, he’s in the bad-boy spatula phase of the relationship. I think we’ve crossed the serious threshold and entered the traumatizing-for-the-offspring territory.”
I start backing away.
“Beckett, wait! Let’s talk about this!”
“No,” I say, hitting the front door. “No talking. No processing. I’m going to go find a bottle of bleach and pour it directly into my retinas. Have a great day with the gutters.”
I sprint to the SUV, my hands shaking as I fumble with the keys. I pull out of the driveway so fast I leave rubber on the pavement.
I always suspected. I’d seen the looks, the way Tom lingered after dinner, and the way Mom’s eyes brightened when he walked in. But suspicion and confirmation via a spatula are two very different things.
The foundation of my childhood just shifted six inches to the left. Tom isn’t just the uncle figure anymore. He’s the guy my mother is with.
I need a drink. I need a distraction. I need a woman who has no relation to my family and a very high tolerance for my mental breakdown.
I grab my phone and dial.
“Madison,” I gasp as soon as she picks up. “I need you. And I need you to never, ever buy a spatula.”
“Beckett? What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’ve seen the dark side of the moon, Madi,” I mutter, turning the corner toward our building. “I’ve seen things that cannot be unseen. I’m coming home.”