Page 2 of Keeping Kasey
I pass my father with the respectful nod that’s customary for every member of our family to show our boss. Only one person can get away with ignoring that particular gesture, and I go to her room first.
Elise has struggled to grasp the reality that Mom is gone. At seven years old, the concept of death—of permanent loss—is hard to understand. Being the youngest of five and the only daughter of Gabriel and Maya Consoli, Elise and Mom were the closest.
Practically inseparable.
Her room is farthest from the stairs, and when I reach it, I knock. “Elise. It’s time to wake up.”
There’s no answer.
I knock again. “Open the door.”
Nothing.
My stomach drops as visions of the worst-case scenario flash through my brain, and I throw the door open, only to find the room empty.
“Elise!”
I’m storming in when the door across the hall clicks open, and my youngest brother, Mason, stands in the doorway. His hair is disheveled, and he rubs the sleep from his eyes.
“Do you have to be so loud?” he grumbles, and before I can panic any further, he opens the door wider to show Elise sleeping on the floor next to his bed, surrounded by thick pillows and blankets.
Her eyes are puffy, and her cheeks are a splotchy red, which, paired with the dark circles under Mason’s eyes, imply neither of them slept any better than I did.
“You both need to start getting ready,” I tell him.
“Well, I didn’t think you came here to spend some quality time with me.”
I’d roll my eyes if I cared enough to dignify his sarcasm.
I nod toward Elise. “Keep an eye on her.”
“I’m not a babysitter.”
“You are today.”
“That isn’t fair. Why don’t you make James—”
“I’m not negotiating with you. James, Damon, and I have more important things to focus on, and someone needs to make sure she’s taken care of.”
Mason clenches his fists, and knowing his temper, I prepare myself for him to start swinging. “I can do important things, too.”
“You’re nine. You can barely dress yourself. Keeping an eye on Elise is as much responsibility as you’re getting. Do it right, and you might get more one day.”
I turn my back on him as I make my way to the next room. This one is closest to the stairs, and for good reason. Should the manor ever be under attack, Damon—the oldest and heir to our father’s empire—would be closest to the threat.
I knock on the door, and this time, when I don’t get a response, panic isn’t the emotion that fills me. I don’t bother knocking again and walk right in. The bed is empty and perfectly made, but the bathroom door is ajar, and the light is on.
The scene I approach is pathetic.
Three weeks ago, Damon stood tall on a golden pedestal in my eyes—untouchable, immovable. He was the picture of strength, capable of bringing the world to its knees with ablindfold on. I looked up to him. I respected him. I wanted to be just like him.
But that version of Damon was stolen along with our mother.
ThisDamon is a shell of the brother I’ve known all my life, and I don’t want to be anything like him.
His face rests against the toilet seat, vomit dripping into the bowl, producing a rancid scent that fills the already stuffy room. One leg is flopped out in front of him, and the other is hitched over the edge of the bathtub. An empty liquor bottle is shattered against the wall across from him, having left a dent where it broke, and I have no idea how that could’ve happened without the entire house hearing it. There’s another half-empty bottle cradled in his arms with more care than I’ve ever seen him show before.
Anger pulses with enough power to replace the organ in my chest.
