I wait until Liam leaves.
He always does after a tantrum—storms out like he’s the victim, slams the door like it’s punctuation. I count the seconds. Twenty-seven. Then silence.
I clean the mess slowly, deliberately. Not because I care about the floor, but because it gives me time to think. Time to plan.
The cut on my palm is shallow. I wrap it in a dish towel and press hard. The pain keeps me grounded.
There’s a burner phone in the liquor cabinet. I saw him stash it last week, drunk and sloppy. He thinks I don’t notice things. He’s wrong.
I move through the house like a ghost. No creaking floorboards. No sudden movements. I’ve learned how to disappear in plain sight.
The cabinet is locked. Of course it is. But the key is in his jacket—always the left pocket. I know because I do his l
