Jittery, Ari felt her heart kick into super speed as she strode up onto Charlie’s porch. She blew out nervous air between her lips, glanced once more to make sure there was no one behind her and rapped on the porch door. When there was no response she rapped again, only harder this time.
Mrs. Creagh appeared at the door, pulling it open and shoving the screen door open so hard it almost whacked Ari on the nose. Charlie’s mom’s expression cleared somewhat at the sight of her but Ari missed the huge smile she always used to bestow on her when she came around. “Ari. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Ari shrugged apologetically. “Yeah, I know. Things have been… busy. I’m looking for Charlie, is he still home?”
Mrs. Creagh snorted and stepped back. “You’ll be lucky. You can go on in and check his bedroom if you like. I’m late for work.” She grabbed her handbag and keys and scooted past her, patting her shoulder almost affectionately before she left. Ari stared after her, watching her walk to her car with slouched shoulders and angry lines around her eyes. The bubbly, mothering woman who would have known whether or not her son was safe and home in his bedroom every night and every morning was gone. She’d died two years ago along with her youngest. Feeling anger at her loss and her subsequent treatment of the son she had left, Ari swallowed hard, trying to force the choking sensation in her throat away.
“Mrs. Creagh!” she called out before she could stop herself.
Charlie’s mom nearly dropped her keys, her head jerking up in confusion. “Yeah?”
“He’s not good,” Ari told her, her voice cracking on the words. “Charlie.” His mother gulped, her skin seeming to tighten even more across her cheeks, her lips trembling. Seeing the emotion Ari took a step towards her. “He still needs you, Mrs. Creagh. The way he’s going… you’ll be lucky to have any kids left.”
Rearing back like Ari had slapped her, Mrs. Creagh’s face darkened, her eyes narrowing. Ari waited for her to say anything, even if it was to tell her to mind her own business, but instead she jammed her keys in the car door before hauling ass into it as if she was running from a wall of flames. Feeling almost bad for what she’d said, Ari turned away and peered into the house. If Charlie was in, she hoped he hadn’t overheard that.
Pushing her shoulders back, she walked slowly into the house, amazed by how familiar and yet unfamiliar it was. Mrs. Creagh had always been this TV mother, always baking so the house consistently smelled like mouthwatering heaven. She’d also hated clutter and there was never a speck of dust anywhere. Now the walls were faded, darkened by cigarette smoke; there were photographs of Mike everywhere, frames cluttering furniture and the walls. Ari stopped at the doorway to the living room and felt her chest twist in pain. Mr. Creagh, about thirty pounds heavier than the last time she’d seen him, was lying on his recliner in front of a flickering TV screen, his eyes closed, his mouth open in loud snores. A half-empty bottle of scotch and a glass tumbler lay knocked over on the floor beside him. Unable to keep looking at the unrecognizable man, Ari squeezed her eyes shut and headed up the stairs to Charlie’s room. She’d read about situations like this, seen them on TV, thought they were so clichéd. But it wasn’t cliché. It was real. And devastating.
It was unending mourning.
Ari stopped at Charlie’s closed door, her hand grasping the cold metal door handle. She so hoped he was in there.
“Charlie?”
Silence.
“Charlie?”
Nothing. Taking a deep breath, she thrust the door open and strode inside, coming to an abrupt halt at what she found. The room was empty. Just… empty. All of the posters that Charlie had pasted to his wall of the bands and movies and books he loved had been ripped down, leaving cold, sterile steel blue walls. His furniture had been thrown out, his bed, his desk, his TV, his bookshelf. All that remained was a sleeping bag on the floor, his laptop, and a pile of books and CDs in the corner of the room. The bedroom smelled musty and there was just the sweet hint of marijuana in the air.
This wasn’t grief, Ari shook her head, her jaw clenching with fury that his parents had let him strip his life to nothing. When someone dies, you mourn. After you mourn you grieve. And days, months, years later, something small can happen, like a familiar toy soldier suddenly appearing where it shouldn’t, and you grieve all over again. But the mourning… the mourning should end. The Creaghs still mourned. Charlie still mourned.
Resisting the urge to throw a bucket of cold water over Mr. Creagh, Ari flew out of the house, trying to scramble through the people she knew Charlie regularly consorted with. There was only one house she could think of where there were no parents to worry that Charlie was there instead of at home.
Mel Rickman’s.
She shuddered at the thought, but she was determined to haul Charlie’s butt home. She pounded down the porch stairs and began marching towards Manchester Drive. Everyone knew where Rickman lived and, for such a stupid guy, not once had the police been able to prove he was the one dealing. Ari winced. She guessed that said more about the Sandford Ridge Sheriff Department than Rickman.
The porch screen had a huge tear in it, there was trash bags on the broken porch steps, the windows provided plenty of privacy with the sheer amount of filth accumulated on them and the mailbox was more of a stick stuck in the yard than a receptacle for mail. Ari felt sorry for the neighbors who must pass the house every day and wish they could just burn the eyesore to the ground. Feeling somewhat sick at having to be there, Ari had to take a minute. She was so going to kill Charlie for this.
No one answered when she knocked. Or rapped. Or called out. In the end, after Ari started banging the heck out of the front door, an unfamiliar guy with bloodshot eyes and a sickly pallor pulled it open. “Where’s the fire?” he groaned.
“Is Charlie here?”
“Who?”
“Charlie?” Ari snapped.
The guy took a moment, his narrowed eyes searching the ground for clues. Finally he looked up and shrugged. “There’s a C-Man.”
Ugh , Ari sighed. C-Man. It made him sound like such an idiot. “His name is Charlie.” She brushed past the smelly, unwashed miscreant, pushing him aside.
“Hey, watch it, girl.”
She eyed the living room. There were five people passed out on the floors and furniture. Ari shivered as one of them came to, his bleary eyes all too familiar. Rickman. Desperate to get out of there before he became semi-functional, Ari turned back to unwashed guy. “Where is Charlie?”
He pointed down the hall. “Back bedroom, but I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
Not caring what he would or wouldn’t do, Ari rushed down the hall to the door he’d pointed at, so determined to get out of Rickman’s house she didn’t think. She burst the door open and ignored the kick to her stomach at the sight of Charlie sprawled across the bed next to Vivien Meyer.