Cracks Beneath The Roof

Cracks Beneath the Roof

MARCUS lounged on the edge of the couch, one ankle resting on his knee, the television blaring some late-afternoon sports recap he wasn’t really watching. His neck was now less painful from the grip of his wife's boss, some balm had done that. 

His phone buzzed in his palm, the screen lighting up with a name he hadn’t saved, but had though with just a string of emojis and a city club logo. A slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.

He glanced toward the hallway, then to the kitchen. It was empty. Good.

“Yeah,” he said into the phone, lowering his voice even though no one was around. “I was wondering when you would call.”

A soft laugh spilled from the other end, syrupy and familiar. Marcus chuckled back, rising from the couch and pacing toward the window. Outside, the sky was beginning to dim, the kind of early evening that promised secrets.

“Tonight?” he said. “Of course I’m coming. You think I would miss that?” He paused, listening, then scoffed. “Please. She won’t notice. She is always late anyway, trying to work to keep her family together,” he laughed.

He ran a hand through his hair, already picturing the club— the lights, the bass vibrating through his chest, the way privy eyes of women followed him when he walked in. 

“I can’t wait to see you,” he added, voice dropping. “Been thinking about it all week. About you.”

Another laugh. Another promise.

He ended the call with a grin, slipping the phone into his pocket just as soft footsteps padded into the living room. His smile faded.

Evan stood there, small shoulders slumped, building blocks still clutched to his arm. His eyes were tired, his stomach audibly growling in the quiet that followed.

“Dad,” Evan said softly. “I’m hungry.”

Marcus exhaled sharply, irritation flashing across his face. 

“Didn’t your mother leave anything? Oh! She only made ‘you’ breakfast and vamoosed.”

Evan shook his head. 

“She said she would cook when she got back. But she hasn’t come yet.”

Marcus checked his watch, clicking his tongue. “Figures.”

Evan shifted his weight, fingers tightening around the edge of the building block. 

“Can we make something? Just a sandwich?”

Marcus turned away, grabbing his jacket from the chair. 

“Not now. I’m busy.”

Evan’s voice wavered. 

“But I have only eaten since the morning.”

“That is not my problem, boy,” Marcus snapped, shrugging into his jacket. “Go watch TV or something. She would be back soon.”

Evan’s eyes dropped to the floor. 

“Okay.”

As the boy shuffled back toward his room, Marcus didn’t look after him. He was already texting, thumbs moving fast, a grin creeping back onto his face.

‘On my way tonight. Save me a drink.’

He grabbed his keys, the jingle sharp in the quiet house, and headed for the door. For a brief second, he paused, glancing down the hallway where Evan had disappeared. Something flickered— annoyance, maybe guilt, but it vanished just as quickly.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Inside the house, Evan sat on his bed, stomach aching, listening to the distant sound of his father’s car starting. He curled in on himself, hugging his knees, the silence pressing in.

And somewhere across the city, neon lights were already warming up for the night.

***

Eamon glanced at his wristwatch for the third time in under a minute. The sleek, black face blinked back at him, 5:07 p.m, it told him.

Work ended at five.

His jaw tightened. What the hell was Elena still doing that warranted keeping ‘him’ waiting?

He pressed a button on his desk phone. 

“Send Elena Brooks to my office. Now.”

Minutes later, the door opened.

Elena stepped in, and for the first time since he had known her, she didn’t straighten her shoulders or try to mask her exhaustion. She looked… hollow. Her blouse was creased, her hair slightly undone, eyes dulled by hours of relentless work. She looked like someone who had been wrung dry.

Eamon squinted. 

“You are keeping me waiting.”

She swallowed. 

“I’m sorry. Clinton added more files to my desk. I was trying to clear them—”

“Clinton?” he cut in sharply.

She nodded. “Yes.”

His expression darkened. He leaned back slightly, studying her like a problem he hadn’t anticipated. 

“You look a mess,” he said coolly. “Go get yourself together. Gather your things and come down to the car.”

Her head snapped up. “What—”

His raised hand silenced her instantly.

“Do as I say.”

She hesitated for half a second, then nodded and turned, walking out without another word.

The moment the door closed, Eamon pressed his desk phone again. 

“Send Clinton Reed to my office.”

Clinton was already halfway out of the building when the message reached him. Cursing under his breath, he turned back.

When he entered, Eamon didn’t bother to invite him to sit.

“You are leaving already?” Eamon asked mildly.

Clinton’s Adam’s apple bobbed. 

“Y-yes, Mr. Eamon.”

“And you left behind a woman, a mother, with a family at home to clean up your mess?” Eamon’s voice sharpened. “Huh?”

“I— Mr. Eamon, I—”

“Go back to her office,” Eamon interrupted coldly. “Take the files you dumped on her desk and do the work yourself. Report to me on Monday.”

Clinton froze. His eyes widened. 

“Mr. Eamon—”

“Hurry,” Eamon said, finality ringing in his tone.

Clinton walked out stiffly, anger and confusion twisting inside him. What the hell was happening?

In the quiet hallway, he nearly collided with Elena. He slowed just enough to cast her a dark, venomous look. She didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. She simply kept walking, heading toward the elevator.

Her thoughts were far from him.

Evan.

Her chest tightened. He would be home alone by now. Hungry, waiting. She had kept no phone down at home to reach him, no way to check on him. She hugged her bag closer as the elevator descended, her heart pounding.

‘Please,’ she thought. ‘Just let me get home first.’

The doors slid open at the ground floor, and she hurried toward the parking lot.

He was there.

Eamon stood beside the car, scrolling through his phone, looking infuriatingly unbothered by the chaos of her day. She slowed, then approached.

“Get in,” he said without looking up.

“Um… Mr. Eamon?” she called softly, clutching her bag tighter.

He turned. “What is it?”

“My son,” she said, voice trembling. “I have a seven-year-old at home. Please, let me go give him food and put him to sleep. Please.”

He scoffed. 

“You have a stay-at-home husband. He should take care of him. Or isn’t he his son too?”

Something cracked inside her.

“Mr. Eamon,” she said quietly, “I can endure anything. But I do not gamble with my son’s life. Please. Let me go home. I will come back.”

He folded his arms, eyes piercing. 

“Interesting. You defended him earlier. Are you scared now that he won’t look after your child?”

She bit her lip, words failing her. 

“Please.”

Eamon sighed. “Evan is fine.”

Her head jerked up. “What?”

He tapped his phone twice and turned the screen toward her.

Evan’s face filled the display, bright-eyed, smiling, holding a small toy car.

“Oh my!” she gasped. Tears sprang instantly to her eyes. “Evan, sweetheart!”

“Mommy!” Evan beamed. “Where are you?”

“I’m fine, baby,” she said shakily. “How are you?”

“I’m good! Uncle got me a new toy.” He lifted the car proudly.

Relief washed over her. 

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes! A big bowl of macaroni and cheese,” he said happily. “Mommy, are you coming home soon?”

“Very soon,” she whispered. “Mommy loves you.”

“I love you too, Mommy.”

The screen went dark.

Eamon lowered the phone. 

“Don’t take me for a fool. Get in the car.”

She straightened, heart still racing. 

“Where are we going now?”

He paused, then replied quietly, “To my world.”