One Small Thing(59)

Jeff tried to talk to me, probably to make sure I wouldn’t snitch, which made Scar madder for some reason. And the one person I wanted to show up never did. Chase must’ve gone home with his mom. Good call. I should’ve gone home, too. Ms. T offered to write me a pass, but I wanted to be at school—in case Chase showed up.

Not that he wants my support.

I hang up my jacket and notice my bag is slightly over into Rachel’s space. “Sorry, sis,” I whisper and nudge my bag over.

Behind me, I hear the chirp again. I glance up to see Mom walking through the back door.

“What’s with the sound? Is the microwave broken?”

Her eyes don’t meet mine. “Oh, that? Just a new security system your Dad installed today.” Her voice is high-pitched and anxious.

“Huh. So we hear this sound every time a door opens? That’s not annoying.”

“I’ll let your dad explain it.” She stands in the mudroom doorway, blocking the view of the kitchen. “What are you doing home so early?”

“School’s out.” Is she acting weirder than normal or is it just me? “Why are you home so early?” She usually gets off at five. It’s only three now.

Instead of answering me, she says, “Can you run to the store for me?”

“Right now? I just got home.” A couple of days ago, I would’ve celebrated a chance to escape the house and run an errand. Today, my head’s pounding and I just want to go to my room, shut my door and empty my mind.

“I need a few things for dinner.”

“Can I change first?”

“I really need an onion or I won’t be able to make dinner.” She is adamant.

I huff out a breath but stop arguing. When I open the door, I hear the beep again. There’s another faint echo that pings somewhere in the kitchen. I spot the red light above the door and roll my eyes. This seems like overkill, frankly.

We live in a safe neighborhood. There’s no reason for extra security measures. Besides, it’s not like we have anything of value to steal. Out of curiosity, I open and shut the door again. Each time, there’s a sound. And unlike the first time when I entered, there’s an echo.

Suspicious, I spin around and march to the kitchen. Mom’s on her phone, a pinched expression on her face.

“Do you get an alert on your phone every time a window or door is opened or closed?”

Guiltily, she drops her phone on the counter. “What did you say?”

Jaw dropping, I rush over and grab the phone. Sure enough, there’s a notification on her screen.

Mudroom door open, it says. And there’s a time stamp.

“Beth, let me explain—” she starts, but a loud knocking from upstairs catches our attention.

I glance up at the ceiling, then slowly back at her. “What’s going on up there? Is Dad home from work?” Like her, there’s no reason for him to be back this early.

“Yes, he took a half day,” she says hastily. “He probably just dropped something up there.”

That didn’t sound like an item being dropped. “Mom.” I take a calming breath. “Why did you want me to go to the store?”

“Because we need onions for—”

I’m done listening. I race upstairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tiny blinking light on every window I pass. My concern over the lights is wiped out when I reach my room.

Dad is walking out of it, and for one split second, our gazes meet and hold. Then I brush past him and gasp.

My room’s a mess. There’s stuff everywhere. The bed is rumpled. Pillows are on the floor. Drawers are dumped out. On my dresser is an old romance book I forgot I borrowed from Scar what seems like a decade ago and a box of condoms.

Dread is replaced by anger. So much for having my parents back. They’ve gone right back to their old overprotective tricks.

I whirl and see Mom at the doorway and notice for the first time that my door is gone. Again!

“What is this?” I yell. “Did you search my room? Why?”

“Beth...”

“Answer me!”

“Don’t yell at me,” she shouts back.

“Don’t yell at your mother!” Dad roars.

“Why did you search my room?” I’m so furious I can barely breathe. My eyes are stinging, throat so tight it’s difficult to talk. “What’s wrong with you guys?”

Mom hedges in. “We did this because we’re concerned about you being on drugs—”

“Drugs!” I screech. Oh my God, they’re certifiable. They’re fucking nuts.

“You went to the police station to protect that boy!” Dad thunders at me. His face is as red as I’m sure mine is. We’re both breathing hard, absolutely livid with each other. “Principal Geary called me at work to let me know that Donnelly pulled the fire alarm today—”

“He didn’t do it!” I clench my fists at my sides. Tears of impotence are threatening to fall.

“You’re defending him again!” Mom shakes her finger at me. “You are defending the boy that killed your sister! What’s wrong with us? What’s wrong with you, Elizabeth? What is wrong with you?” she repeats in an anguished tone.

“You! You’re what’s wrong with me!”