Conner drizzled gravy onto a heap of mashed potatoes as he listened to his parents discuss Thursday's menu. He exchanged an amused glance with Mason. The brothers knew Thanksgiving would be a day-long event that would eventually test their patience, forcing them to retreat to their bedrooms to avoid the lingering family members who never seemed to know when it was time to go home.
* * *
Adam carried a plate with two sandwiches and chips upstairs to his bedroom. Settled on his bed, he scarfed down the food while scrolling through Instagram. He'd forgotten to bring a drink with him, but he didn't want to leave the safety and comfort of his bedroom.
Neither of his parents were home. Both of their cars were gone, so Adam assumed his mother was with a friend or running an errand to occupy her mind while her husband continued to pursue his infidelity. On nights like this, the undeclared divide in the family seemed to run deeper and wider. Going downstairs for a drink in a house that was void of warmth only made Adam lonelier. And it further reinforced the idea that his family was no longer the family unit it had once been.
He hated being alone in the house. During the past week, his fears about the man at Lake Bantam and Jared's death had festered. His fright had developed into a tangible tic that he fought hard to control, like resisting the dirty, bad habit of biting one's nails. Although the conversation with Lou earlier in the evening had soothed his anxious thoughts, he was still afraid.
He peered out his window, across the street to Conner's house. His best friend's bedroom light was on. He contemplated asking Conner to come over or inviting himself to sleep curled up next to his buddy. But he resisted his dependency on Conner's ability and love to make him feel safe.
Situated against the headboard, he hugged his knees and thought of the affirmation the basketball coach had suggested he focus on before a game. Every day my skills become stronger and stronger.
The skill to not let fear overwhelm him.
The skill to not let loneliness scar him.
* * *
Trevor felt like a worm squirming on the end of a hook—helplessly anchored to the metal piercing its body but hopeful for the bite that might end its prolonged misery.
"Ma!" he muttered from his favorite comfort spot on the sofa. "Please don't give me a hard time."
"I hope you and your friends put some serious thought into helping out this Lou guy."
"It's not like he's taking advantage of us. He talked to us and explained stuff. We feel better than we did a week ago."
His mother looked to her husband for support. “What you think, Steve? Is Trevor doing the right thing?"
"Diedre, Trevor is a smart, young man. You know he wouldn't do this if he didn't think it was the right thing to do. Let him see this through. If this is helping the boys, then let it."
She sank back in the armchair. "All right. Maybe I'm being too pessimistic. And suspicious. And overprotective."
"Ma, I love you, but you need to start loosening the umbilical cord. I'm going to college next year. You can't protect me forever."
"Besides," his father said, "Trevor said the investigation is nearing its end. This will all be over soon enough."
"I've heard you talk about court cases, Ma. And you always say that a successful court case has all the valuable evidence, plus extra details for good measure. That's what we're doing with Lou."
"You're right," she said. "I'm sorry. Maybe because I don't know this Lou guy, I'm simply being overcautious."
Trevor chuckled. "You just don't trust people."
She acknowledged the statement with a knowing look and a tilt of her head. "Well, there's that too."
His father rubbed her arm. "I'm going to shower and get ready for bed, sweetheart."
"I'll be up in a minute." She looked at Trevor as though she had one last parting word of advice. Instead, she stood and said, "Good night, honey."
"'Night, Ma."
Alone in the living room, he wiggled more comfortably on the sofa and then turned the TV on.
* * *
Hailey entered the sitting room where her father always stationed himself to read The Washington Post and The New York Times. He read both papers every day of the week. In the morning, he leafed through the pages, reading about politics, sports, and worldly affairs. In the evening, he'd relax in the sitting room once again to revisit the articles that had ensnared his interest.
The lampshade on the side table cast light onto his face in vertical stripes. She sat on the matching accent chair opposite the side table. It was then that she noticed how fatigued her father appeared, his skin worn thin and creased like antique parchment paper. Yet she didn't consider him an old man. He was only a few years shy of fifty. Still, it wouldn't be unreasonable for a stranger to assume he was in his early fifties.
He gently tapped the bridge of his reading glasses, letting them rest slightly lower on the narrow of his nose. "Yes, dear? Can I help you with something?"
"I'd like to talk to you about Conner."
"Hailey." He sighed as he rested the newspaper on his lap. "There's no need for us to have a conversation about—"
"But I need to."
He inhaled deeply with his eyes raised to the ceiling. Whether he was forming a well-worded objection or considering surrendering to her request, she wasn't sure.
"Dad. I only have a few things I'd like to say. Hopefully, we can come to a mutual understanding, then that will be the end of it."
"All right. What about Conner?"
"Well first, he didn't take my virginity. That was a white lie I let you believe."
"Why on
