He didn’t even touch it to move it.
That’s when I know it’s bad.
Because Caleb always—always—adjusts things. Straightens them. Lines them up properly.
The fact that he left them exactly as they were means he couldn’t even bring himself to care about the placement.
That night, after I hear Helen and Silas go to bed, I grab a bobby pin from my dresser. Z taught me how to pick locks when I was thirteen—said it was a useful skill.
I kneel in front of Caleb’s door and work the pin into the lock, feeling for the tumblers, listening for the clicks. Takes me maybe thirty seconds.
The lock gives with a softsnick.
I push the door open slowly, half expecting him to yell at me to get out.
But the room is silent. Dark.
It’s only 8:30, but all the lights are off.
As soon as I start walking toward the balcony to check if he snuck out, his voice stops me dead.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I turn back around, letting my eyes adjust. He’s in the bed. Just lying there awake in the dark like some kind of vampire.
“Yeah, well.” I head for his bed, my footsteps quiet on the carpet. “I do a lot of shit I shouldn’t do.”
I sit gently on the edge of the mattress, and it dips under my weight.
“Have you been sleeping all day?” I ask quietly.
I want to flip his bedside light on so I can see his face, but there’s something about the dark that feels safer right now. Like maybe here, hidden from the world, he can actually talk to me.
“No,” he says, and his voice sounds rough. Unused. “I tried to work on some stuff. Fucked around with gaming a little. But I couldn’t focus.”
Without thinking about it, my hands find his head—his hair soft under my fingers. I half expect him to pull away.
But he doesn’t.
He leans into it instead, like a dog that’s been starved for affection.
“That’s understandable,” I whisper, my fingers carding through his hair in slow, soothing strokes.
But he’s shaking his head against my hand, the movement sharp. Agitated.
“I should be doing something.” His voice is tight. Strangled. “I should be doing more.”
“There’s nothing you could do, Caleb.”
“I should have noticed.” The words come out fierce, almost angry. “I should have gotten her to the doctor sooner. Should have seen the signs?—”
“She has regular scans twice a year,” I interrupt gently, still stroking his hair. “They didn’t see anything at the last scan. Why would you have thought there was anything you could do?”
“Because I should have,” he says, and there’s something almost vicious in his voice now. Self-loathing.
“I used to watch her so carefully. Every movement. Every bite of food. I’d check her pedometer at the end of the day to make sure she was getting enough exercise but not too much. I tracked everything.”
Jesus Christ. Of course he did.