“I use it.”
“Do we need to put a hit out on the unsuspecting mother you saw?” Otter asked, brushing the Kid’s hair off his forehead.
The Kid sighed. “Violence never solves anything. Mostly.”
“I’ll do it,” I told the Kid. “If you want me to. I’ll find her and take her out. I could probably get away with it too. No one would suspect the mild-mannered schoolteacher in the library with a candlestick.”
The Kid rolled his eyes. “Mild-mannered. Really. That’s what you’re going with.”
“We could all plan together,” Otter suggested. “I think between the three of us, we could plan the murder of someone we’ve never met and probably have no hope of finding and figure out how to get away—yikes. I really need to stop talking. I blame this on the both of you.”
And Ty laughed then, and it was a little hoarse and maybe a little forced, but it was better than it’d been before.
Maybe it wasn’t… appropriate to go about it the way we were, but
hearing Ty laugh made it okay. That excuse probably wouldn’t hold up in court when I was on trial for murder, but I would worry about that later.
“You need the bathtub?” I asked the Kid quietly.
He hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m fine. I’m good. Probably take a pill and let it work.”
HE WAS getting changed in his room when I went into the hallway bathroom that he used. I frowned at the towels on the floor, picking them up and hanging them on the rack. There was the orange pill bottle near the sink, the one that wasn’t to leave the house. Any doses he needed, he pocketed, so it lowered the risk of some junkie college student pilfering them out of his bag when he wasn’t looking.
I picked up the bottle and popped off the lid. Initially he was taking up to four milligrams per day, but with the diagnosis of panic disorder came increased doses of up to six milligrams. He was resistant at first, until we all sat down and discussed what we thought was going to be best for him. And we did keep track of the pill usage. We weren’t stupid.
Which is why I frowned at how empty the bottle looked.
I rattled it around.
The pills bounced.
Maybe he—
I shook my head as I fished a pill out. I put the lid back on and set it back down on the counter.
When I knocked on the door, I heard a muffled “Hold on.” I leaned against the doorway, listening to Otter move about in the kitchen, washing up the remains of our interrupted dinner. And then I remembered the binder, sitting on the table, no doubt waiting for us to continue. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single reason to tell Otter no, aside from that I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready, and that made me feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Because he wanted it so, so badly, and I was the one holding us back.
The Kid opened his door, looking exhausted, eyes a little puffy. He wore sweats and a thin white shirt. “Your hair’s getting a little long,” I said quietly. “Need me to schedule a cut?”
“I can do it.”
“All right. Hey, we should hang out this weekend. Go get lunch. Maybe go to the movies or something. What do you say?”
His smile was forced. “Yeah. Sounds good, Papa Bear.”
I nodded slowly, bouncing the pill in my closed fist. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
“Yeah. I know. I just… I’m tired, is all. It’s been a rough day.”
“Yeah, I get that. Getting grounded is always tough.”
He rolled his eyes. “Not gonna happen.”
“Says you. No TV. Go to bed.”
“Jerk.”
“Little shit.”