Page 53 of Even in the Dark

Be there shortly

Phil and Dylan are heading to the hospital, and it’ll just be awkward if I stick around while the other three re-hash and analyze the insanity of the past half hour over re-heated pork and veggies. I figure I can grab some takeout on the way.

When I look up from my phone, Dylan isn’t in the bedroom anymore. The light is on in the bathroom and I hear the water running, so he must be rinsing the blood off his hands before they head out.

“Alright, I’m going to go get cleaned up a bit before we hit the ER,” Phil tells me. He squeezes my arm lightly as he passes. “Not cool that you lied to him, Scarr,” He says, and my stomach drops. Then he adds, “But I appreciate that you came clean. That meltdown was going to happen regardless of the dinner timing thing tonight… It’s been brewing since he got here.” He rubs a fist against his forehead. “And I’m sure it’s not the last one we’ll see over these next few months… He’s dealing with a lot.”

I want to say something that will boost him up, but I have no idea what that might be. Morale boosting is sort of out of my wheelhouse. “You’re a good dad,” is what I end up going with.

“Thank you.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not sure a good dad would abandon his son to a serial killer for fourteen years. But yeah, I’m going to do my best to do right by him now that I have him back.”

“You didn’t abandon him to a serial killer,” I remind him. “A serial killer kidnapped him.”

“Sure,” he says. “Semantics, though, really. Fact remains he was with the bastard for fourteen years, and I wasn’t the one who pulled him out of that situation.”

“You did the best you could. You can’t do more than that, right?”

He nods, his smile a little warmer this time. “Thanks, Scarr. You’re a good nut.” He heads towards the landing and starts down the stairs.

“You’re an even better nut,” I call after him.

Before following, I glance over towards the bathroom. The door’s open and Dylan is standing at the sink. Only he isn’t running his hands under the water. He’s just standing there, head ducked, un-injured hand gripping the edge of the marble countertop so hard I can see the whites of his knuckles from over here.

And it suddenly hits me—he may have all these people in his corner now, and so many people wanting to do nothing but bestow him with unconditional love, but it means nothing to him—because he has no idea what to do with it. He doesn’t even understand what it is. Love is an utterly foreign concept to Dylan—just one more added new thing to navigate. And I wish he didn’t hate me so much, because I want so badly to let him know he doesn’t need to do anything with it, other than just accept it.

He lifts his head, and his eyes land squarely on mine in the mirror.

“The fuck are you looking at?” He loosens his grip on the countertop and unfurls his torso until he’s standing at his full height. He clenches his jaw. “Get. Out.”

I turn and walk out of his room, closing the door behind me as I leave.

Chapter Nineteen

Scarlett

It’s a really weird contrast being at a party, surrounded by people laughing and drinking and carefree, after coming from the heavy scene at the Brauns, with Dylan’s anguish strewn like shrapnel across his bedroom floor. I can’t get him off my mind. Not just the insane meltdown slash tearing apart of his room, but the image of him standing in his bathroom afterwards, looking so beat down and alone. Frayed and tattered and barely hanging on.

That Eli Sampson guy did such a number on him. Took him apart piece by piece when he was a little kid and slowly built him back up with the pieces all wrong. To the point that he barely seems to know how to function in the real world. His “normal” is so upside down and messed up, I can’t imagine how long it’s going to take to unpack all the issues he’s presumably stock-piled over the years so he can get to a place where he feels comfortable with ‘normal’.

Funny, just a few days ago, I thought he wasn’t emotionally affected by everything he’s been through.

I’mcertainly affected by him, though. And the whole thing is stressing me out even more, because not only am I letting a guy take up this much of my brain space, it’s a guy who is basically an asshole—even if he has every reason to be. Also, there’s the fact that he can’t stand me.

I try to distract myself with the party, but it’s strange being at this kind of thing without Seb here. Like, is a party even a party without Seb Murdoch? I feel like the answer is, “not really”. Which makes no sense, since Seb was away at boarding school until this school year, so obviously I’ve been to plenty of fun parties where Seb wasn’t around. I just can’t remember them. But I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one feeling Seb’s absence tonight—everyone seems kind of off. Like everything has been dialed down a few notches. I don’t want to think about it too much, though. Because just the thought of Seb in a hospital bed right now, while we’re all here at Xave’s house partying, is sad. It just feels… wrong.

“Beer Pong! You in?” Xave nudges my hip, draping an arm across my shoulders. He’s about a foot taller, so he has to lean heavily into me. It makes us both stumble a few paces to the side, into one of the God-awful purple velour couches that snake around the multiple seating areas in the Smoking Room where most of these parties take place. Yes, that’s right: purple velour. Xave’s house is equal parts off-the-charts opulent and off-the-charts tacky. Like, if Vegas threw up all over a sprawling chateau along the coast of New England, then that’s Xave’s house. Only, whatever level of hideous you’re picturing, multiply it by five and square that number. Then you’ll have some semblance of how mind-blowingly kitsch his home is.

“I never play Beer Pong,” I tell him.

Xave knows I am mostly a quiet and serious observer who sticks to the sidelines, but he always asks me to join in with stuff. Him and Seb, always tag-teaming me with their optimism and upbeat vibes, presumably hoping some of it will eventually rub off on me. I pretend it drives me bananas. But I secretly love how they never let my dry, borderline condescending attempts to refute them put them off. I think they’re convinced this “new me” is temporary, even though I’ve been playing the part for years now.

Part of me hopes they’re right. Part of me is scared to death they’re wrong.

“You call the score then.” Xave is still leaning into me, clutching a Solo cup on the same side as the arm he’s got slung around my shoulders, so his drink comes close to sloshing onto my cropped cashmere sweater.

I take it from him, twisting my head to arch an eyebrow up at him. “If you’re so drunk you need someone else to keep score for a game of Beer Pong, then you really shouldn’t be playing Beer Pong.” I eye the half-empty cup I just took from him. “Or still drinking.”

“Relax.” Xave grins, using his one-armed embrace like a hook to drag me along to one of the pool tables someone’s covered in a cheap plastic tablecloth and set up beer-filled Solo cups on. “We don’tneedsomeone to keep score.” His rose-pink lips tic up on one side and he leans over to retrieve his cup from me. “It’s just so much more professional when we do.” He takes a long sip of whatever’s in the cup.

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