Chapter 4 - Confronting the Noise
I didn't use the back patio door. Instead, I walked purposefully toward the side entrance that opened directly into the mudroom, right off the kitchen. The rain was coming down harder now, soaking through the shoulders of my trench coat, but I felt neither the cold nor the wet. Every fiber of my being was concentrated on a single objective: getting Wesley out of that cage and holding whoever was responsible accountable.
As I stepped into the mudroom, the wall of sound hit me. The air inside was thick with the heavy scent of cheap alcohol, spilled beer, smoke, and strong perfume. Laughter echoed from the living room, punctuated by shrill voices and the clatter of plates.
I peeled off my wet gloves, dropping them onto the boot tray with a deliberate clack, and pushed open the swinging door that led into the kitchen.
The kitchen was a disaster zone. Empty red plastic cups littered every available surface. Countertops were sticky with spilled soda and liquor, and half-eaten pizzas sat uncovered in greasy cardboard boxes. Three unfamiliar young men and two women were leaning against the island, shouting over the music about some argument they’d had earlier that week. None of them noticed me at first. They were too absorbed in their own revelry.
I stood quietly at the edge of the kitchen, letting my gaze sweep the room. My correctional officer training kicked in instantly—scanning exits, assessing potential threats, noting who was intoxicated and who was lucid.
Then, a familiar voice drifted from the living room.
"Relax, guys! There’s plenty more in the garage fridge. Just help yourselves!"
It was Chloe. She was lounging on my floral print sofa, a red cup in one hand, her head thrown back in a loud, obnoxious laugh as a young man I had never seen before leaned over the back of the couch, whispering something in her ear.
My son, Daniel, was sitting on the opposite end of the couch. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped, staring blankly at the television screen which was playing a muted music video. A half-empty bottle of beer rested on the coffee table in front of him. He looked like a ghost in his own home—completely checked out, beaten down by the daily friction between his responsibilities and his demanding girlfriend.
May you like
I took a deep breath, stepped past the kitchen island, and walked right into the living room.
The music was loud enough that the floorboards vibrated beneath my sensible shoes, but as I walked forward, I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to. I simply reached out and tapped the wall-mounted volume control panel beside the hallway archway, clicking the dial firmly down until the speakers clicked off and sudden, ringing silence filled the room.
