Page 94 of No More Words

Now Olivia closes the door to Charlotte’s room and settles on the floor across from him.

“How’s she doing?” he asks.

“She’s resting. I gave her a sedative.”

He could use one. Or three. He wants to forget what he saw, and that he’s to blame.

She stretches her legs with a sigh. She sounds beat. Her boots meet his in the middle of the hallway. She knocks hers against his to say hey. There’s dirt on the edges of his soles. Is that from a job? Or had he scaled the slope alongside the road to look inside Dwight’s car and can’t remember what he found? Shame heats his face. He should have taken them off at the door, but he heard Charlotte’s muffled crying down the hallway. For a beat he thought Dwight had come home until he remembered his dad was dead and that he might have been the one who killed him. Dread is a brewing storm inside him.

“You owe me an explanation,” she says.

“For what?” He chokes on the words, fearing she knows what he’s been thinking.

“Not calling or texting.”

“I said I’d text if Dad came home. He didn’t.”

Her face scrunches up at his reasoning.

Whatever.He brings the bottle to his mouth and tips it back. Glorified fruit juice. He’d rather have a beer but he’s too tired to get up. His back still aches, as if he’d lifted his kayak overhead and javelin threw it into the water.

Or a body across a hotel room.

The thought lobs a tennis ball into his throat. What if the police come after him? What if he’s sent to jail again? He swallows the wine roughly and winces. His face hurts, too.

“How’s the nephew?” he asks so he stops thinking how he feels like a human punching bag.

“Josh”—she emphasizes his name—“is as well as a kid with a missing mom can be expected. We still haven’t found Lily.” She nods at the bottle. “What’re you drinking?” He shows her the label and her eyes go all buggy. “That bottle’s half a grand. Dad will kill you.”

He makes a guttural sound and averts his face, but not before he sees how green hers is. He wouldn’t be surprised if his looks worse. Gray like cremated remains. She cups her mouth and looks at the ceiling.

He drinks more. Seems fitting given Dwight can’t kill him.

He wonders what she knows. Have the police notified Charlotte yet about Dwight? He didn’t dare call her and chance someone pull his records. They’d see the timing of his call and from where he’d called.

Olivia reaches for the bottle. “Give me some.”

He leans forward with a grunt, hands off the bottle. She takes a tentative sip. Her eyes close. “Holy shit, that’s good.” She drinks more and passes it back. “Mom tried to knock me out with that.”

He stares at her for a beat, trying to picture his five-foot-three mom hitting his five-foot-seven sister over the head. “You serious?” She nods and he feels a strange tightening in his chest. “What did you do?”

“So it’s my fault?”

He gives her a look.

Her eyes roll upward. “I locked her in the cellar.”

A short laugh squirms out of him. Next thing he knows he’s doubled over.

“Stop it.” She kicks his boot. “It’s not funny.”

He laughs harder until he’s crying. And then he’s sobbing.

“Damn, Luc.” He feels her hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Get the fuck off me.” He swats her hand.

“I just—”