Wednesdays.
Shelley put a pot of water on the stove to boil, and then took her school bag to the kitchen table. She had a couple hours of homework still to do, and only a little while left before it was time to turn off the kitchen light. She had the click-light in the bathroom if she really needed to get her work finished, but at this point, she wasn’t sure she had the energy left even to get started. She took a look at her assignments with an overwhelmed sigh, unsure where to start.
Chapter Ten
“I CAN’T remember a thing,” George said, his mind a blur and his thoughts confused. He sat in a small room, wearing a Police-Corp-issued jumpsuit. He winced at the pain that drummed in his head as he strained to search his memory. He remembered the earlier part of the night, but not much of it. He had sent both of the kids to bed early, intent on getting as drunk as he possibly could. Beyond that, the details were sketchy.
To accommodate Kurt’s escalating anxiety attacks, Shelley had begun to sleep on the floor in his room. She made up a new bedtime story for him each night, talking until he fell asleep so that he knew, despite the dark, that she was still in there with him. George remembered listening in on Shelley’s tale for the night, caught up just as deeply as Kurt was in her attention to detail and flair with words.
He had abandoned the tumbler after several servings, opting to drink directly from the bottle instead. He had been drunk before, so he knew what hell might find him when morning came, but for the moment he reveled in the numb bliss each swallow promised to bring closer.
Still listening to Shelley’s story, George moved to his bedroom. He took another swig from the bottle before setting it down on the nightstand. He moved to Virginia’s pillow and brought it up to his face. He breathed deeply, searching for any remains of the scent that had once been there. He breathed deeper, but still he couldn’t find any trace of it. She was gone.
George’s throat knotted up as he contemplated the emptiness slowly consum ing him. He choked and coughed as he forced down another huge swig of tequila. Then, all of a sudden, he began to have difficulty sitting upright. He was only able to get to the side of the bed before he began to vomit.
He remembered staggering to the bathroom, leaning against the wall to keep from falling over. He rinsed his face and drank some water, lowering to the floor as he felt the onset of more nausea. He closed his eyes and the darkness immediately seized him.
The next thing he knew, he was coming to in a holding cell.
He squinted, the overhead light stinging his eyes. He looked back and forth between the two police associates, both large men with unforgiving faces. He rubbed his tired eyes, trying to conceal the fact that they were beginning to well up. “Listen. My wife died. I got drunk and blacked out. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“You don’t remember anything else?” the associate on George’s left asked.
George searched the deepest regions of his mind, but last night continued to come back as a blank, black slate. He shook his head. “I have no idea. Will you just tell me what I’m in here for? And where are my kids?”
“They’re fine. They’re being held downstairs in the Safe House. Cooperate with us, and we’ll get you to them as soon as possible.”
The second associate pulled a digital camera from his bag and plugged it into a console at his side. A hologram popped up from the center of the table, displaying a three-dimensional image of a living room in disarray. George did not recognize it.
“This is a picture taken from your neighbor’s apartment across the hall. You know William and Judith Rockwell, don’t you?” the associate asked.
“I know them,” George said, unsure what to make of the picture.
“You don’t
Shelley put a pot of water on the stove to boil, and then took her school bag to the kitchen table. She had a couple hours of homework still to do, and only a little while left before it was time to turn off the kitchen light. She had the click-light in the bathroom if she really needed to get her work finished, but at this point, she wasn’t sure she had the energy left even to get started. She took a look at her assignments with an overwhelmed sigh, unsure where to start.
Chapter Ten
“I CAN’T remember a thing,” George said, his mind a blur and his thoughts confused. He sat in a small room, wearing a Police-Corp-issued jumpsuit. He winced at the pain that drummed in his head as he strained to search his memory. He remembered the earlier part of the night, but not much of it. He had sent both of the kids to bed early, intent on getting as drunk as he possibly could. Beyond that, the details were sketchy.
To accommodate Kurt’s escalating anxiety attacks, Shelley had begun to sleep on the floor in his room. She made up a new bedtime story for him each night, talking until he fell asleep so that he knew, despite the dark, that she was still in there with him. George remembered listening in on Shelley’s tale for the night, caught up just as deeply as Kurt was in her attention to detail and flair with words.
He had abandoned the tumbler after several servings, opting to drink directly from the bottle instead. He had been drunk before, so he knew what hell might find him when morning came, but for the moment he reveled in the numb bliss each swallow promised to bring closer.
Still listening to Shelley’s story, George moved to his bedroom. He took another swig from the bottle before setting it down on the nightstand. He moved to Virginia’s pillow and brought it up to his face. He breathed deeply, searching for any remains of the scent that had once been there. He breathed deeper, but still he couldn’t find any trace of it. She was gone.
George’s throat knotted up as he contemplated the emptiness slowly consum ing him. He choked and coughed as he forced down another huge swig of tequila. Then, all of a sudden, he began to have difficulty sitting upright. He was only able to get to the side of the bed before he began to vomit.
He remembered staggering to the bathroom, leaning against the wall to keep from falling over. He rinsed his face and drank some water, lowering to the floor as he felt the onset of more nausea. He closed his eyes and the darkness immediately seized him.
The next thing he knew, he was coming to in a holding cell.
He squinted, the overhead light stinging his eyes. He looked back and forth between the two police associates, both large men with unforgiving faces. He rubbed his tired eyes, trying to conceal the fact that they were beginning to well up. “Listen. My wife died. I got drunk and blacked out. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“You don’t remember anything else?” the associate on George’s left asked.
George searched the deepest regions of his mind, but last night continued to come back as a blank, black slate. He shook his head. “I have no idea. Will you just tell me what I’m in here for? And where are my kids?”
“They’re fine. They’re being held downstairs in the Safe House. Cooperate with us, and we’ll get you to them as soon as possible.”
The second associate pulled a digital camera from his bag and plugged it into a console at his side. A hologram popped up from the center of the table, displaying a three-dimensional image of a living room in disarray. George did not recognize it.
“This is a picture taken from your neighbor’s apartment across the hall. You know William and Judith Rockwell, don’t you?” the associate asked.
“I know them,” George said, unsure what to make of the picture.
“You don’t
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