These Deadly Games(44)

Mom choked back a laugh-sob. “Always so practical. But maybe living here should never have been what mattered. It’s just a house. There are others. What mattered should’ve been keeping you girls safe…”

I frowned, my mind snapping to An0nym0us1. “What d’you mean?”

“I should’ve kicked him out sooner,” she said in a small voice. “I should’ve protected you.”

Oh. Dad. “But you did,” I said. Mom was a perpetual people pleaser who let others guilt-trip her all the time. But I didn’t want her to feel guilty about this. She’d been through enough—we all had. “You stopped him from coming in—”

“That wasn’t enough, and you know it. You said it yourself.”

Yeah. I couldn’t say I hadn’t laid it on thick.



* * *



The morning after Dad nearly burst into my room fists-first, Caelyn and I burrowed under my covers until sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting white bars up and down my bedroom door.

Steeling myself, I’d crept over and edged it open, peeking into the hall. “Wait here,” I’d instructed Caelyn, her eyelids droopy and pink from exhaustion. In the hallway, a picture frame was missing—sunlight had faded the surrounding paint, leaving a darker teal square in its place. That’d explain the shattering noise we’d heard. I’d almost dialed 911. But if the police wouldn’t believe Mom, why would they believe me?

I half expected to find Mom’s lifeless body sprawled across my parents’ bed, but the floral quilt was neatly tucked under the mattress, and nothing was out of place. Instead, I found them downstairs. Both of them, sitting at the kitchen table—Dad slurping the last dregs of cereal from his bowl, Mom nibbling on toast while scrolling through her phone.

Like nothing happened.

Like everything was fine.

“Mom,” I’d said, spotting the edge of a bruise blooming over her collarbone. She tugged up her shirt and rested her chin on her fist to hide the motion.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” She kept her voice light.

Dad’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—eyes that used to twinkle when I walked into a room. Now they bored into mine like a challenge. Don’t you see? Everything’s fine. He was probably the one to clear the glass from the shattered frame in the hall, to make the bed, to pick out the high-collared shirt Mom wore now. Nothing happened. You didn’t hear a thing.

But I knew what I heard. He’d almost barreled into my room, drunk off his ass, fury leaching off him like steam. And what would’ve happened if Mom hadn’t stopped him? What would he have done to me? To Caelyn? It made my soul ache, like a bruise so deep it could never fully heal. If I couldn’t trust my own father, how could I ever trust anyone?

I summoned Mom upstairs, pretending to have a question about my period so Dad wouldn’t follow. “What the hell?” I rasped, shutting the bathroom door.

“Don’t use that tone with—”

“Screw my tone. Enough is enough. How could you sit there and act like nothing happened last night?”

“It … it was nothing…”

I pointed at the bruise peeking out under her shirt collar. “That’s not nothing.” Under the bright lights over the sink, I could see she’d tried to cover it with makeup. “When are you going to the police? They’ll believe that.”

I loved Dad. I really did. Problem was, the man downstairs wasn’t Dad anymore. Alcohol and something else—addiction, a midlife crisis, some chemistry change in his brain I couldn’t understand—had turned him into someone entirely different. It shattered my heart—but my entire soul would crumble if anything bad happened to Caelyn.

“Crystal.” Mom rubbed the bridge of her button nose. “I can’t go to the police. If your dad leaves, we’re screwed. We’ll lose the house. My two shifts a week can’t cover the mortgage, not to mention the rest of our bills.”

“So take more shifts.”

“I’ve already asked to work full-time; they don’t have it in the budget right now.”

My throat constricted. “But … but what if he gets into my room next time? What if—”

“He would never,” said Mom, her voice tinny and unsure. The truth of the matter was, he might. He nearly did last night, that bruise evidence of the Mom-shaped barrier that stopped him. “He promised it wouldn’t happen again.”

By now, I was trembling with frustration. “He promised that last time, too.”

“But this time he said he’ll stop drinking. Cold turkey.” She cupped my cheek. “This time will be different.”

I stared, flabbergasted. She was in such denial—like if she believed hard enough, the problem would go away. The ache in my soul returned, but sharper, like she’d just slapped me across the face. Dad wasn’t the only one hurting us. Mom was, too … because she was letting it happen.

But now it was over. Now he was gone.

Because of me.

If she wouldn’t do it, someone had to.



* * *



“You were right,” said Mom, squeezing my hand. “But I promise, from now on, you won’t have to be. I’ll take care of us.” She still had no clue what I’d done. And sometimes I wondered if I did the right thing. Mom still had bruises; she just wore them under her eyes now. It was my fault she was so sleep-deprived and stressed, taking too many shifts at the hospital, still unable to pay the mortgage and skyrocketing taxes for a house that was too big for us. My streaming and babysitting cash didn’t help enough. Now Grandma Rose was guilt-tripping Mom to move in with her in Maine if we sold this house, and if that happened, we’d be torn from our lives, our friends. What I did to protect my baby sister might hurt her even more. I needed to win the MortalDusk tourney. I needed to.