DAVIES

Mold

I don’t enjoy killing.

That’s the first lie people expect me to tell.

The truth is simpler: I treat it the way one treats mold in a house. You don’t rage. You don’t mourn. You remove it before it spreads.

This morning, my mother moved.

Not much. Just a twitch of two fingers. A wet sound behind her teeth. Enough.

Recovery is a dangerous thing.

I stood beside her chair and listened to her breathing; irregular, shallow, hopeful. That last part bothered me the most.

I adjusted her blanket. Straightened the pillow.

A good son.

Behind me, Darla watched.

I could feel it. The stillness of someone paying close attention. She didn’t ask how my mother was doing. She didn’t offer help. She didn’t fake affection this time.

Instead, she stepped closer.

“She’s lucky to have you,” she said.

I turned toward her. She lingered at the doorway just long enough to make it intentional when she crossed the room.

She hugged me.

Not polite. Not familial. It lingered: arms firm, body pressed close. For a moment, memory flickered. Carol’s embrace. The way I’d held her just before I let go. The kind of hug you give when you know you’re crossing a border you won’t return from.

Darla pulled back slowly, studying my face.

Then she took my hand and guided it deliberately, placing it where there could be no confusion.

She smiled.

Behind us, my mother made a strained sound. A wet protest.

It went unanswered.

Darla leaned toward my ear. Her voice was steady. Certain.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

No tremor. No hesitation. No illusion of affection.

I realized then that her scale of love had always been broken. I had given her nothing. No kindness, no warmth in the ten years I lived in Uncle Mike’s house. And still, this was what she offered.

She leaned in again. I met her halfway.

The kiss wasn’t tender. It was loud. Purposeful. Designed to drown out the room, to erase the reminder breathing behind us. Her mouth tasted like intent, not longing. Lust without romance. Appetite without attachment.

I pressed her back against the door. Wood met spine. The sound registered.

My mother’s chair creaked.

Neither of us stopped.

There was no love in what followed. No comfort. No softness. Only urgency. Friction. The deliberate violation of space, of boundaries, of decency.

When it was over, Darla straightened her clothes first.

She glanced once at my mother. Her eyes held no guilt. Only a small, satisfied smirk.

Then she looked back at me.

And smiled like someone who had finally found what she came for.

After she left, I returned to my mother’s side. I wiped her tears with her own hair. Her fingers twitched weakly against the armrest.

I placed my hand over hers. Firm. Steady.

Later that day, when the nanny drew her bath and lowered her into the jacuzzi, I slipped into the bathroom, turned the tap back on, and left.

Thirty minutes later, I heard screaming.

Relief washed over me.

I rushed back, appropriately frantic. Apologies filled the room. Tears. Hands shaking.

“I swear the tap was off,” Nanny Faith said as she fell to her knees.

Someone had to take the blame.

I raised my voice. Dialed 9-1-1.

They took her away crying. Charged her with manslaughter. Twenty-five years.

She’d be a hundred by the time she got out. If she lived that long.

The house was finally quiet again.

And the mold was gone.

Oh, I know what you must be thinking.

I never said Uncle Mike was a blood relative.