FAYE
The door to the kitchen creaked open just as my hand closed around the doorknob.
Patrick’s mother stepped back into the living room with a tray, her movements careful. A glass sat at the center—dark liquid that looked like wine stirred in it.
She smiled when she saw me standing.
“Oh,” she said warmly, setting the glass on the table. “You’re leaving already?”
“Yes,” I replied, returning the smile easily.
Then her eyes shifted. The smile disappeared the moment she saw him.
Patrick lay crumpled on the floor, barely alive, his body twisted at an unnatural angle, fingers clawed into the carpet as if he’d tried to hold on to something solid while his insides melted slowly. He wasn’t even strong enough to make a sound.
Her breath hitched violently. “Patrick…?”
She rushed toward him,
