Page 145 of The Design of Goodbye
“I twisted it.”
“How did that—”
“I’ll explain after I’m dressed.”
“Come sit on my bed when you’re done. You can eat while I wrap your wrist.”
When he emerged from my bathroom, he looked better. I handed him a plate with two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches once he sat down, but unlike the water, he took tentative bites.
I grabbed his right arm, and when I touched his wrist, he cursed. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I’ll be more careful. How’d you hurt your wrist?”
“Dad twisted it when he tried to pull me off my bike.” He sighed. “It was worth it because I got away.”
I started wrapping his wrist. “Were you at home the whole time?”
“Yeah.” He went to take another bite of his sandwich but grimaced and set it back down.
“What happened?” I asked. “Everything was fine Tuesday. Wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But Dad showed up Tuesday night when my shift ended. He made me get in his truck. He never drives me anywhere, so I knew he was pissed.”
“Why was he mad?” I asked as I secured the elastic bandage.
“He found my money.”
Liam hadmoney? “What money?”
“I’ve been trying to save for when I move out,” he explained. “It wasn’t much, barely fifty dollars. He found it and was pissed I’d kept it from him.”
Suddenly, I felt as cold as he had earlier. “What did he do to you?”
“That night, he locked me in my room. I figured he’d cool off by morning, but I was wrong.” He was beaten down, like the last eleven days had taken everything out of him. “When he called Olive and told her I was sick, I knew I was in trouble.”
“I came by your house every day,” I said.
“I knew it was you.” He smiled softly.
“What did you do the whole time?” I asked. “Why did he keep you home?”
“Control, I think. He either locked me in my room or made me play poker with him.”
“Poker?” I scrunched up my nose. “Why?”
“He thought, if we played a lot, he’d get better. He was obsessed. Sometimes, we’d play for twelve hours or more without stopping. He wouldn’t let me leave the table.”
He took another bite of his sandwich. I’d thought he would’ve demolished them by now, but he’d barely eaten half of the first one. In fact, he was acting like eating was akin to torture.
“I can make you something else,” I offered, pointing to the sandwiches.
“No, it’s okay.” He swallowed thickly. “I don’t feel too great. My stomach hurts. Maybe I drank too much water.”
The little bit of color he’d gained was gone now, making the dark bags under his eyes more pronounced. He’d looked better before he’d started eating. He swallowed thickly again.
“I think you should stop eating.”
“I asked for it. I don’t want to waste—” He curled into himself and pressed a palm to his mouth.
“Are you going to be sick?” I asked, taking the plate from him. He didn’t answer, so I handed him my trash can, which he held tightly between his legs.
