deliberately—that it was a test, the same way that the disgusting breakfast had been. With the tests at school, you could tell that the teachers wanted you to pass, but he didn’t think that George wanted that at all. When Mrs. Shelley had put him on yellow that first day, Jake thought that she probably hadn’t wanted to. But with George, it felt like he was looking for any excuse to put him straight onto red.
So he’d tried. He’d done his best. And there was one sheet left, so he was drawing a battle. It was good to be creative, wasn’t it?
Daddy always liked his pictures.
But he didn’t want to think about Daddy right now. He started drawing again. Around and around. And maybe the little girl was right, but he couldn’t stop himself now. It was all that was holding back the panic, even though his hand seemed to be totally out of control, so maybe this was panic after all—
The door opened at the bottom of the stairs.
Around and around.
Footsteps coming up.
And then there was so much ink on the sheet that the paper tore. The figure popped out.
You’re safe now, Jake thought.
And then George entered the room.
He was smiling, but it was all wrong. Jake thought it was like George had put on a parent costume, except it was uncomfortable and didn’t fit, and what he really wanted to do was take it off as quickly as possible. Jake didn’t want to see what might be underneath. He stood up, his heart trembling as hard as his body was.
“Now, then!” He walked across. “Let’s see how you’ve done.”
He stopped a short distance away. He could see the picture.
The smile disappeared.
“What the fuck is that?”
Jake blinked at the swear. As he did, he realized there were tears in his eyes. He had started crying without even noticing, and the urge to let himself—to break down and sob—was tremendous. It was only the look on George’s face that stopped him. George wouldn’t want real emotion. If Jake broke down, then George would simply wait until he was finished and then give him something to really cry about.
“That’s not what I told you to draw.”
“Show him the others,” the little girl said quickly.
Jake rubbed his eyes and then pointed down at the drawings he’d been meant to be doing. I want my Daddy. The words were bubbling up inside him, threatening to come out.
“I did my best,” Jake said. “I couldn’t do it.”
George looked down, examining the pictures blankly. The room was silent for a few seconds, the air humming with threat.
“These aren’t good enough.”
Despite himself, the comment stung Jake. He knew he was no good at drawing, but Daddy always said he liked them anyway, because—
“I tried my best.”
“No, Jake. Evidently you didn’t. Because you gave up, didn’t you? You had another sheet to practice on, and you decided to do … this instead.” George waved his hand contemptuously at the battle scene. “Things in this house cost money. We do not waste them.”
“Say sorry,” the little girl told him.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough, Jake. Not good enough at all.”
George was staring down at him very gravely. It looked like he was struggling to control himself, because his hands were trembling. And Jake knew that the drawing was just an excuse. Deep down, George wanted to be angry with him. His hands were trembling because he was trying to decide if this was enough of an infringement to let his anger fly.
He made up his mind.
“And so you’re going to have to be punished.”
And then George became totally still. The costume came away. Jake could see all the goodness and kindness falling away from him, as though they had only ever been pretend, things that could be discarded as easily as pulling off a T-shirt. There was a monster standing in front of him. And he was alone here with it. And it was going to hurt him.
Jake retreated until the backs of his calves were against the small bed.
“I want my daddy.”
“What?”
“Daddy! I want my daddy!”
George started to move closer, but then Jake jumped at the sound of an alarm somewhere in the house below, and George stopped where he was. Very slowly, he turned his head and stared back toward the staircase. The rest of his body remained angled toward Jake.
Not an alarm, Jake realized.
Someone was ringing the doorbell.
Sixty-two
On the second floor, seething with rage, Francis ducked quickly into his bedroom and pulled on a white