There was an odd scuffling coming from the ceiling above Matthew’s head. For a second, all he could think of was that morning’s abrupt disturbance. His brain became focused on imagined memories of Gavin being tumbled from the bed, tossed to the floor, dragged, and yanked. He remembered the sound of running—strangers that did not belong in their private spaces hurrying through their house as though they had a right to. His heart leapt into a double-time shuffle of its own. The acidic taste of panic sprang out on his tongue and he opened his eyes wide.
There was a novel on Matthew’s lap. He’d been reading when he’d dozed off, or, more accurately, he’d been making the attempt to read, if for no other reason than to quiet his mind and organize his thoughts. It hadn’t worked. There’d been way
