Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
The first surprise was that the front door wasn’t locked. Not a sticky deadbolt, not a security chain, not even one of those cutesy “ring to enter” signs that seemed surgically attached to every suburban mom’s existence these days. Just the thin, weather-warped composite that had shielded me from a dozen of her bad moods and four years of her progressively escalating anxiety. I let myself in, boots silent on the doormat, and closed it with a suctioned click that told me she still never figured out how to rehang the hinges.
The house was silent in the way only recently abandoned habitats are. No television static. No audiobook commentary. No attempt to domesticate the weird, alien hush that set in when you unplugged a woman from her daily dependencies. A faint wetness hung in the air with the scent of spilled detergent, or maybe just condensation from the pre-summer swamp outside. I passed through the foyer, not bothering to toe off my boots, and followed the cold current toward the living room.
She was there, of course, collapsed sideways on the sectional, her head resting on a squashed throw pillow like it was the only thing anchoring her to the planet. A half-empty wine glass sweated on the coffee table, next to a pill bottle with her name in blocky, insurance-mandated font. She’d knocked the cap on crooked, white tabs spilling into the shallow glass tray she used for remote controls. The smell of wine and anxiety meds merged into a humid, syrupy tang that hit the nose with the force of a chemistry set.
I approached with the casual, inevitable slouch of someone who’d already run through every possible scenario and decided none of them mattered. The prescription bottle was easy to reach. I picked it up and spun it in my hand, reading the label. Clonazepam, not even Xanax, she’d graduated. Dosage wasn’t for sleep, wasn’t even for panic attacks. This was “let the house burn down around you and you’ll just blink at the flames” strength.
Mom breathed through her mouth, shallow and irregular, lower lip twitching every other exhale. She hadn’t aged well, but then, who did? Her hair was a tangle of silver and chestnut, flattened to one side where it met the couch. Her robe had worked itself halfway open. One saggy tit hung out, pink nipple wrinkled and withered.
“What a fucking disgrace,” I muttered. “After all the fucking lectures you gave me about maintaining appearances.”