“What’s wrong?”
“Is Owen home?”
“He’s in the garage.”
“He’s been out there since he got home yesterday.”
“Lauren, what’s going on?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Alone?”
I looked at her.
At the baby.
“I don’t know yet,” I said.
The garage door was halfway up.
Owen sat on an overturned bucket.
There was a workbench behind him.
On the workbench stood a bottle of bourbon.
Unopened.
Seal still on.
He was staring at it.
He looked up when my shadow crossed the floor.
He didn’t look surprised.
“Denise called you,” he said.
“No.”
“I called her.”
He nodded.
He looked back at the bottle.
“Seven months sober tomorrow,” he said.
“I bought this yesterday, right after you left the floor.”
“I’ve been sitting here trying to decide.”
“Decide what?”
“Whether I deserve to stay sober.”
I stood over him.
“Where were you the night before Thanksgiving, Owen?”
