Page 18 of Paranoid

“All the more reason to finish with a bang.”

“Ugh.” Again he yanked a blanket over his head.

“It’s Friday. You know what that means. I’ve been to the bakery.”

He grumbled, “Don’t care.”

“If you say so.”

Rachel left then, returning to the kitchen and hearing the thud of bare feet hitting the floor behind her, then uneven footsteps as Dylan stumbled out of his room to the bathroom. She could always count on his empty stomach and full bladder to force him from his lair filled with video game consoles, computer monitors, and bobble-heads of sports figures. His bed was secondary to his equipment.

Now, thankfully, he was up. Step one.

In the kitchen, Harper sat at the table, her “coffee” forgotten, the doughnut half eaten as she texted rapidly, her fingers flying over the screen of her phone.

Rachel heard the groan of old pipes and the rush of water as Dylan turned on the shower. Less than five minutes later, his hair wet, Dylan showed up in a hoodie and ripped jeans. He made a beeline for the white bag and ate the maple bar in three bites. “You gonna finish that?” he asked Harper, eyeing her half-eaten doughnut as he opened the refrigerator door to find the carton of orange juice.

“You can have it.”

“Good.” Before she could change her mind, he swept the uneaten half doughnut from the table and into his mouth in one swift motion. Afterward, he washed down the donut with juice he drank straight from the carton.

“Oh, gross! Jesus, Dylan, you’re a frickin’ Neanderthal. Don’t you know about backwash?”

“Don’t care.”

“Obviously.” She gave a mock shudder and cast her mother a disgusted glare. “Can’t you do something about him? He’s like this . . . this . . . mega embarrassment.”

Rachel said, “Hey, Dylan, you know better.”

He made a disgusted huff. “I just don’t know what’s the big deal.” He returned the carton with a minuscule amount of OJ to the refrigerator.

“You don’t know?” Harper repeated. She slipped her phone into her pocket. “You’re beyond disgusting. More like disturbing.”

“Ah, ah, ah. No insults,” Rachel cut in, then pulled out the pill bottle that had been burning a hole in her pocket. Without saying a word she placed it on the counter.

The kids exchanged glances.

Not a good sign.

“What’s that?” Dylan finally asked.

“My Xanax, or what’s left of the prescription.”

He frowned, his eyebrows slamming together while Harper had gone chalk white.

“So?” Dylan asked.

“So, I think some pills are missing,” she said and waited for a reaction.

“What do you mean?” Her son again.

Harper sent her brother a how-can-you-be-so-dense look. “She means she thinks we took them.”

“Us?” Dylan said, and his face fell. As if he were shocked.

Real emotion?

Or a well-practiced act?