Look at You

Chapter 46

"I'm freaking out," is what she finally comes out with. "Finn he's—it's not—I don't know where he got it—"

"Emily—" I pause. I take a deep breath. "Tell me what's going on right now or else I can't help him."

"He's got booze—" she says through a sob. Okay, I think. Not the worst. "And a gun—"

"What?"

"I don't know how he got it, Cam, but he's locked himself in our closet and he won't listen to me and I can't call the police because how the hell did he get that gun and—"

"I'll be there in 20 minutes," I rip the truck back on the road. I almost forget to look behind me. "Keep me on the phone."

She does. I ask her questions the whole ride there.

"What did you guys do today."

"Finn was in his garage studio," she is calmer now. "All day. I couldn't hear him, so I thought he was writing but when I came to knock for dinner he was plastered. And so agitated, Cam, he was screaming nonsense at me. He pushed me and went straight for the house and started emptying out the dresser drawer until he found it. And I had never seen it before, Cam, not once in my life. He never hunts, nothing. He hates them things, he swore. It's not legal, it can't be legal."

"And then what happened."

"And then he says he can't take it anymore and takes the gun and the empty bottle—almost empty—into the closet and then I tried to get him out, I tried to call his brother, his mother, but no one was answering, and I couldn't think about anyone else except for you—"

"I'm a minute out," I say. "You did the right thing calling me."

"You can't call the police," she begs in a whisper. She knows I would—Finn probably told her as much. But for once, I agree with her. Not at least until I can try to sort it out. He's on probation. His career would be over. How the hell did he get a gun?

"I'm here," I tell her. I almost hit her Chevy as I swing the car into their driveway. It's a little white two-story that's seen better days. I'm sprinting from the car up the pathway and into their front door. I nearly collide with Emily as she grabs me by the shirt and pulls me inside.

"Cameron—" she's back to wheezing sobs. She wants to bury her face in my chest, I can tell as much, with those big pleading eyes and the desperation in her voice. Right now, I don't care.

"Where is he. Which closet." My head's on a swivel. Their family room is a chaotic mess of open cabinet drawers, old takeout containers, and what looks like unpaid bills, the big black PAST DUE letters are the only thing my mind registers.

She's got a hold of my hand and is pulling me through the family room and toward the back of the house. She's sniffling, and the hand on mine is damp with tears.

Suddenly I think of Simon's fingers. His hands dashing over his keyboard, crushed beneath Georgie's fierce grip, wrapped around a coffee cup, or helping him tell a story. I mutter a string of curse words under my breath as Emily stops us in front of a door at the end of the back hallway.

"In—in here."

I dig my phone out of my pocket and hold it against her chest. "You need to—" she's pushing open the bedroom door for me, one hand on my shoulder forcing me in.

"Please Cam, you need to do something—"

"Just, just take my phone—" I'm still pressing it against her. "Take it and call Simon and tell him I can't come. Okay?"

She isn't looking at me. She's looking at the closet in the back of the room, the door sealed shut.

"Emily!" I press the phone against her torso. "Call him, please. Please." This time, she nods. Her eyes are still on the closet, but her fingers wrap around the phone. She gives me one last please help him before she lets the door close on me.