More Than We Can Tell (Letters to the Lost #2)(9)

“Are we locked in?” Matthew’s voice is rough and low.

I look over. He’s finally broken his staring match with the ceiling.

I don’t understand his question. “Locked in?”

“In the bedroom.” His eyes flick to the closed door. “Are we locked in here at night?”

It takes me a second to work through what he’s implying. I set my phone down. “No.”

“Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?”

“Yes.” I try not to let my voice show what an unusual question this is, but also that I’m just answering his question, not giving permission. It’s a lot to demand from a three-letter word.

While he’s gone, I look back at my phone.

Rev: He just asked if mom and dad lock us in the bedroom at night.

Dec: wtf

Exactly.

I bite at the edge of my lip and study our text messages. Maybe I’m imagining a distance between us, but I hate hiding something from him. It’s hard enough to hide from Geoff and Kristin.

But now that I’ve kept this monumental secret, I’m not sure how to unravel it.

While I’m deliberating, I realize that Matthew has been gone for a while. I haven’t heard water run or a toilet flush.

I slide the phone into my pocket and pad barefoot out of the room. The bathroom door is open, the lights off. Geoff and Kristin’s bedroom door is closed. The entire house is dark.

Silence swells around me. I head down the hallway, to the kitchen.

Then I spot him, down on the landing, staring at the door—which is locked with a double-cylinder dead bolt. You need a key to open it from the inside.

I stop at the top of the staircase. “We are locked in the house,” I whisper.

He whirls and flattens his back against the door. There’s a knife in his hand.

My brain does a double take.

There’s a knife. In his hand.

It’s a paring knife from the kitchen block—but it’s still a knife.

We have never had a toddler go for a weapon.

This has been the longest day. I almost say so, but then I look at his face and realize his day has been longer. I got a letter. He got a busted face.

I have no idea what to do. Yell for Geoff and Kristin? Would they send him to juvie? Do I cut him some slack, or do I end this right here?

I consider how I found him. He was taking the knife and going out the front door. He wasn’t coming after me. He wasn’t going after anyone in the house.

In another minute he probably would have tried for the back door—which slides and locks with a simple latch—and he would have been gone.

I drop to sit on the top step. “I told you I’m not going to mess with you.” The words are meant to reassure him, but I’m also reminding myself. I could mess with him. I could mess with him a lot more than whoever messed with his face.

These thoughts link me with my father, and I force them out of my head.

“Put the knife down and go back to bed and we can pretend this didn’t happen.”

Matthew stares up at me and says nothing. His chest rises and falls quickly.

I don’t move. I can be patient.

Apparently, so can he.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. I lean my head against the wall. His breathing has slowed, but he hasn’t changed his grip on the knife.

Thirty minutes. He slides down against the door until he’s sitting on the welcome mat. I raise my eyebrows, but he holds my gaze and keeps the knife in his hand.

Fine.

An hour passes. The silence has turned heavy. Against my will, my eyes begin to drift closed.

His must, too.

Because that’s exactly how Kristin finds us, sound asleep, at six o’clock the next morning.





FIVE

Emma

Friday, March 16 3:28 a.m.

From: N1ghtmare

To: Azure M

Don’t make me find you, bitch.

And a good morning to him, too.

I don’t delete this one. I don’t ban him yet either. No banning before coffee.

Mom is in the kitchen when I go downstairs. She’s standing at the counter, eating a breakfast of fruit and cottage cheese. It’s barely six thirty, but she’s already showered and dressed for work. She runs five miles every morning, too. The very picture of discipline.

“You look tired,” she says to me.

I debate whether that’s worse than some rando on the Internet calling me a bitch.

I shrug and find a mug. “Tell that to the county school system. I don’t make the schedule.”

“How late were you up?”

Until two. I ran missions with Ethan until my eyes went blurry. Cait joined us after her mom was in bed and there was no one to guard the family computer. We started on OtherLANDS and then moved over to Battle Guilds when he asked if we wanted to do something new. It’s not a game I play often, because it was built by a competitor of Dad’s company, but I wasn’t turning down an invitation. That’s never happened before. Usually guys sign off to go play with someone else.

I shrug and pull the creamer out of the refrigerator. “I don’t remember. I was reading.”

“I’ve told you before that I don’t like you drinking coffee, Emma.”

I’ve ignored her before, too. I dump a quarter of a cup of sugar into my mug. “I’m sorry, what?”