When I finally pushed the blankets aside, my limbs felt heavy, but not in the drugged way they usually did. My body remembered the weight anyway. I crept toward the bedroom door and peeked down the staircase.
A faint glow spilled from the kitchen.
I held my breath and descended one step at a time. The carpet muffled my movements, but my heart thumped loud enough to make me fear he would hear it. When I reached the ground floor, I stayed in the shadows.
Silas stood at the counter with his back to me. A series of tiny glass containers lined the marble surface. Some were filled with translucent liquid. Others were empty. Labels had been peeled from my prescription bottles and tossed into a pile. He handled the vials with deliberate care. His posture was focused. Familiar in a strange way.
That was when he hummed. A soft tune, one I had heard him hum while organizing his workshop or balancing the checkbook. The casualness of it struck me harder than the sight of the chemicals on the counter. He was at ease. Completely at ease.
He reached beneath the counter and lifted a thick folder. My name was written across the front. Not printed. Not typed. Written by his hand.