Knock, Knock

At first, he was numb. 

Lies.  They had to be lies.  If there was any truth that he knew in this world, it was that Catherine Goode was a liar.

At first, he was numb.

Then again, she’d been under the truth serum.  The Sutton girl’s concoction.  If there was anyone who appreciated the severity of Elizabeth Sutton’s truth serum, it was him.

At first, he was numb.

But it couldn’t be.  No.  Shouldn’t be.  If there was anything that the universe wouldn’t allow, it would be this.

But the boy was eighteen.  The boy was fatherless.  In the right light, the boy even looked a little like him.

It didn’t take a genius like Edward Townsend to do that math.

At first, he was numb.

And then, all at once, he wasn’t.

Everything came rushing at him—pressing against the insides of his head, crawling up his spine, stealing the air from his lungs.  He couldn’t move.  If he had, he might’ve crumbled right there in that doorway.  His feelings seemed to come in colors, too potent for even the strongest of words to name.  Red first, then black, and even a little bit of blue.

But he couldn’t move.  If he had moved, he would have turned to dust.

Zachary was the first to act.  He so often was—so impulsive.  Just like his mother.  He bolted through the girls and then shoved past Edward, careful not to make eye contact.  Zachary was a runner.  That, he hadn’t gotten from his mother.

Edward stood unmoving.  The girls did the same.  If not for Catherine’s snoring, he might’ve thought that time had stopped.  At this point, it seemed impossible for it to continue on like nothing had happened.

But time never stopped.  He knew that better than most.

“What?”  Abigail sounded like someone who couldn’t solve a math problem.  Like no matter how many times she ran the numbers, they just didn’t add up.

One of the girls ran after Zachary.  He didn’t see which. 

When no one else spoke, Abigail did again.  “What did she just say?”  As if she hadn’t heard.  As if world class spy Abigail Cameron had heard incorrectly.

Maybe she had.

Maybe they all had.

Maybe this was a misunderstanding.

But the boy was eighteen.  The boy was fatherless.  Under the right circumstances, the boy even sounded a little like him.

He didn’t consider himself a man of religion, but even still he said, “Oh God.”  They were the only words he could remember.

“Do you mean to tell me—” Abigail started to yell.  But she was better than that.  She was stronger.  She was trained in the art of the poker face, so she lowered her voice and began again.  “Do you mean to tell me that Zach is… that you and—and her?”

“Oh my God,” he said, almost impressed that he had managed to throw a third word into the mix.

She stared at him for a long time, but he hardly noticed.  He hardly noticed anything in that moment.  Then, she turned to Elizabeth and the Baxter girl, her face bright red.  “Watch her,” she told them, pointing to Catherine.  To Zachary’s mother.  “You.  Come with me.”

She grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling him along.  Good thing, too, because along with the near entirety of the English language, he had also forgotten how to move his feet.