“Soon,” he says. “Good night.”

I force my feet to move. Up the stairs. Through the kitchen, the hall, up the other flight of stairs. Down another hall, with a pause at Eli’s door to make sure I can’t hear anything from inside. He’s too old for me to go inside and tuck him in, to brush the hair off his slightly sweaty sleeping face, to kiss his cheek softly enough not to wake him up. But I want to with a fierceness that makes my heart ache. All I’ve ever wanted is to protect my boy; all I can do is keep trying.

In my bathroom, I lift the lid of the toilet and spill the contents of the envelope into it. I’m already flushing it as they spill into the swirling water. I don’t know how many were in the envelope, but I shake and shake it until I’m certain they’re all gone.

There’s a small bit of powder on the inside of the worn and crumpled paper. I lick my finger and drag it through. I touch the tip of it to my tongue, closing my eyes, waiting for the bitter taste to fill my mouth. There’s not enough powder in there to make a difference, or the pills are too old. I can taste only the sourness of my guilt, which does not wash away even when I brush my teeth hard enough to make my gums bleed. I flush the toilet again, making sure all the pills are gone.

The music from the carriage house surges louder, then fades. Furious, I go to the window. A dark figure skulks across the lawn, heading for the house. I’m livid. I told Eli I didn’t want him going over there after dark, and especially not while there’s an obvious party going on.

I expect to confront him sneaking into the kitchen, or maybe even on the staircase, but by the time I get down there, the kitchen light is still dark. I stare out through the sliders, but I can see no signs of anyone in the yard at all. The carriage house door opens, spilling out light and a few more figures onto the driveway.

A creak on the basement stairs has me whirling to face it. The door rattles in the frame, but lightly. Is that click of it closing, or an air current shaking it? This old house is full of creaks and groans. Another few creaks and the slide of a hand along the basement banister, then silence. Eli wasn’t the one sneaking across the lawn.

It was my husband.

CHAPTER
20

THE PLUMBER FIXES the leaky kitchen faucet and makes sure the drainpipe is reattached correctly, but he says there’s not much he can do about how slow the water drains. He suggests calling a company that will come in with a camera on a long tube that can check out the pipe, see if something’s blocking it.

“You have some big trees back there along the back of the property,” he says. “Could be roots. Most of the houses in this plat are hooked into the city sewer system. You still have septic? What about a well?”