“My point,” David said, his voice hardening into steel, “is if you know that… why did you drag him by his wrist to the third floor, throw him into the storage closet, and wedge a dining chair under the doorknob?“
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of a bomb about to detonate.
Ted dropped his wine glass. It shattered on the hardwood floor, red liquid splashing like blood across the Persian rug.
Sarah’s face went white. “David… what? What are you talking about?”
“And Sarah,” David turned to his wife, his eyes burning. “You said he’s sleeping? You said you checked on him?”
He took a step toward her. She shrank back into the sofa cushions.
“Our son isn’t sleeping, Sarah. He isn’t even in the house.”
David pointed to the window, to the street outside.
