Not that it’s an untrue feeling. Not when he has blood on his knuckles.
He suddenly feels very tired. It has nothing to do with his aching cheekbone or bruised chest or two locks that defeated him.
It’s just this.
All of it.
Standing between puddles of moonlight to steal into a house that isn’t and will never be his, just so he has a place to sleep tonight.
‘Just shut up and follow me,’ Sam says, grabbing his backpack. ‘Quietly. And don’t – don’t break anything. I want to stay here for a few days. You know that’s how I work.’
Avery starts humming, which could be agreement or mean he’s not listening. Sam smothers his annoyance. Breathe. Just breathe.
Sam moves towards the back door, the last hope, and Avery follows, flapping his hands distractedly.
The back of the house presents a patio crammed with too much furniture and barely enough space to squeeze through to the door. Sam inspects the lock and then slips paperclips out of his pocket. He keeps them for emergencies. The job is hard without a sturdy hook to keep the pressure on the lock. His fingers shake.
‘Are you screwing up?’ Avery says in a conversational tone.
Sam stabs harder at the lock. ‘How about you just tell me why you’re here?’ He is relieved Avery’s here, of course – safe and right where Sam can watch him – but a dark, selfish corner of Sam’s heart was looking forward to sleeping tonight without worrying. Well, Sam always worries about Avery, whether he’s in sight or not. But a night alone would be a quiet break.
Seriously, Sam? This is your brother. You don’t need a break. You shouldn’t want one.
‘I just missed you,’ Avery says.
‘Sure,’ Sam says, knowing Avery won’t notice the sarcasm. ‘You’re definitely not here because you want something.’
Once they stole houses together, but it quickly fell apart because Avery needs sameness and moving around so much had him in endless fretful meltdowns that even Sam couldn’t soothe. Now? Avery rotates between sleeping in the back of the mechanic’s shop, hoping his boss doesn’t catch him, and hanging around a group of twenty-year-olds who have him run bad jobs and tell him he’s cute while he smiles like an excited puppy and doesn’t freaking get that they’re using him. They let him sleep on their broken sofa. And that sameness? Only having to rotate between two places that don’t change? Avery will take that instead of staying with Sam, waiting for him to maybe find a new place to sleep every night. Now he tells Sam that he’s got friends and he’s got a job, and he can take care of himself.
And then, when he inevitably still falls apart, he reappears and Sam has to fix everything.
Always.
That’s why Sam’s bloody and bruised tonight, isn’t it? Fixing things for Avery. But if Avery knows what Sam did tonight, why he just beat someone up, he’ll freak out. So, simple: he doesn’t get to know.
There’s also this small vicious corner of Sam’s heart that wonders if Avery chooses to stay away because of how often Sam hits things. How much it scares him. But Sam does this for Avery, so it’s not fair for him to judge—
Just don’t … don’t think about it.
Sam wriggles the paperclip and the lock gives a satisfying click. Finally.
Avery chews his lip. ‘Don’t you get lonely living like this?’
Sam’s always alone, even when Avery is only a whisper behind him. He doesn’t feel like explaining, because Avery won’t get it, so he just slides the door open and lets Avery go in first while his own pulse evens out with relief. Now to wash off the blood. Now to curl up in a soft chair. Now to be still.
Except Avery is here and Avery is never still.
He tumbles inside and flips on a light switch and the supposedly empty house floods with hues of orange and gold.
Sam flies across the room and slaps the switch off. ‘Are you trying to get me caught?’
‘But why—’
‘No, stop, just … just stop.’ Muted anger crunches between Sam’s teeth. ‘Close the blinds. Actually, don’t. I’ll do it and you be quiet.’
Avery’s already wandered off, absently raking apart the house with his eyes and calculating the worth. That leaves Sam to fix the blinds while smothering the nervous hitch in his chest because this isn’t how his break-ins work. Avery really is ruining it. Sam has his methods, his routine, and afterwards he gets to feel safe and calm. He gets to snatch a few hours where his pulse isn’t hammering a tattoo against his skull. Where he can breathe. An invisible boy living in an empty house.
Avery is anything but invisible.
Now he’s trawling through the house, flipping light switches and touching everything and giving a running commentary on prices they could fetch at the pawnshop.
It’s a comfortable home, the kind for people who can afford holidays. Small bedrooms, soft rugs on the floors, walls with framed photos of awkward teens and golden retrievers, and a large TV with an admirable gaming collection. Avery pets it excitedly. Sam says no way in hell.
Sam leaves his backpack on the kitchen table and moves through the house. He flicks through calendars and notes on a desk, searching for evidence of how long this family will be gone. When they’ll come back. He finds a flight itinerary in the rubbish.
A week.
He could have a week in this house.
But just to be sure, he checks: pet food dishes? None. Evidence of a house sitter? None. Food in the fridge? Nothing fresh.
The house is his.
His shoulders relax a fraction.
Avery sprawls on a recliner in the lounge, hitting a lever that snaps the footrest up and down with loud clacks. Sam leaves him to it while he decides what to steal.
He didn’t always rob the houses. Back when he was fourteen and so desperate for a house again, a home, he just broke in to sleep in the beds. Eat the food. Pretended he could keep this. Pathetic idiot.
Then he started taking keys. To remember each house by.
Then he started taking money. Then jewellery. Laptops. Cameras. Phones. Hidden credit cards.
Avery gets rid of the stuff, courtesy of his shifty friends, but he balks at coming along. Except tonight, apparently.
What did you do now, Avery?
Sam just fixed Avery’s last screw-up. He’s not ready for another.
Sam reaches for his backpack (the collection of keys is one odd habit he keeps to himself because Avery would touch everything and the keys are special, OK? They’re his) but Avery appears from behind the pantry door. He holds up a packet and a distinct look of horror crosses his face. ‘What the hell,’ he says, ‘are seaweed crackers?’