TWENTY-SEVEN C

Tate strode onto the house spinning his car key in his hand with his index finger. He closed the front door and went into the living room. The TV was on but no one was in there. He made his way through the first floor: from the kitchen, to the pool out back, to the gym where music was playing, to the screening room where the projector was on and a movie playing. Why wasn't he just going straight upstairs instead of looking around? He was bored, nevertheless, finding the TV on, the projector on and music playing was strange. He could call Tom out, but he didn't feel like yelling. He walked up the stairs and went straight to Tom's room. He slowly opened the door and froze when he spotted him.

Tom was sitting on the ground with his back against the bed and his hand clutching a chunk of his hair. He looked up at Tate and went back to staring at nothing. His TV was on, a video game to be precise and music was playing. Tate's eyebrows furrowed. His face was black and blue, there wa