Chapter 3: Chapter 3
The front door clicked shut behind Thomas, and the sound traveled through the kitchen like a gunshot.
Margaret stood frozen, her ruined blouse hanging open, her jeans still bunched around one ankle. Daniel had his hand on the back of a chair, steadying himself, his belt still unbuckled, his shirt twisted. Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.
Thomas sat in his wheelchair just inside the doorway, his hollow cheeks wet with tears he didn't bother to wipe away. His thin gray hair was plastered to his skull from the cold morning air. His eyes—those sharp, observant eyes that had watched the world from the upstairs window for years—moved from Margaret to Daniel and back again.
Nobody spoke.
The silence was obscene. It was worse than the sounds had been. It stretched and warped and filled the kitchen like water rising in a sinking ship, and Margaret felt herself drowning in it.
"Thomas," she finally managed. Her voice cracked on the second syllable.
He didn't respond. He just stared at her, and in that stare she saw everything: the accusation, the grief, the betrayal, the understanding. He had known. He had known for months, maybe longer, and he had watched and waited and said nothing, and now the knowing was out in the open and there was nowhere left to hide.
"I heard," Thomas said quietly. Flat. Like he was reading a weather report. "Everything. I heard everything."
Daniel took a step forward. "Thomas, man, I—"
"Don't." Thomas held up one hand. His arm trembled with the effort.