“I told him it was a terrible idea,” Bram snaps back, attempting to help Adam to his feet.
But Adam wants nothing to do with him. He lashes out with both hands, leaving a trail of blood across Bram’s cheek. Henry stops in his tracks, taking in the scene: Adam thrashing around on the grass like a wild animal, his bloodied pulp of a hand. Like an animal caught in a trap.
Bram is undeterred. He tackles Adam, pinning him to the ground and calming him, like one of those weighted blankets.Henry comes around, kneeling in front of Adam and whispering soothing words. I get the impression that the brothers have been through this routine before.
“What happened?” I ask as the boys lift Adam to his feet.
“I’ve got him,” Bram says, walking Adam over to the French doors.
Henry watches them for a moment, waiting. Once they’re out of earshot, his head falls in something like defeat. “He manipulated Bram into a game of catch.”
“Catch?” The idea is so horrific, it turns my stomach. “But he can barely hold a fork.”
“That’s why it was idiotic,” Henry says, jaw clenched. “Adam’s skin isn’t healed enough; his fingers barely function. He has another surgery planned for next month! Now, he’ll be lucky to keep the surgery date.”
That horrible moan repeats in my head. “Is he upset because of the pain, or because he missed the ball?” I ask, indicating the shattered window.
“Oh, I doubt Adam missed the ball,” Henry says flatly. “That’s what tore his hands up. He tried this with me last week. I finally agreed to a light game of catch, but Adam gets into this…almostmanicstate, where he can’t remember his limitations. Or refuses to accept them.” He blows air through his gritted teeth. “He probably encouraged Bram to throw harder and harder until his skin broke down. And then he took his frustrations out on the house, which he’s been prone to do lately.” His brows arch. “Better thanon Bram and me, I guess. And if that window is any indication, maybe Adam should give up catching the ball and try out for quarterback.”
“Well, you should help Bram,” I say, nudging him along. “I’m heading home anyway. I’ll help with the mess first. You don’t want your dad to find his office covered in glass.”
A disappointed look crosses Henry’s face. “No, we’ll clean it,” he says, shaking his head. He gestures for me to walk ahead but, as I pass, reaches for my wrist. “I’m really sorry we can’t keep hanging out.” His eyes are narrowed, like he’s unsure how I feel about his hand gradually sliding down my wrist.
When our palms lie flat against each other, I show him exactly how I feel about it by lacing my fingers through his. “I am too,” I say, heat blooming in my cheeks. “But you know where to find me.”
He grins. “I do.”
Once inside, his brothers’ voices ring out from the kitchen. Arguing.
“The doctors don’t know shit!” Adam shouts. “Russo paid them off! That bastard made me…this!” A sob breaks through. “He made me this. I hope he feels an ounce of what I feel. Now that he’s lost everything.”
A little prickle makes its way up the back of my neck.
Then abangsounds, like Adam pounding a wall or a table, and Henry begins to lead me past the kitchen to the front door.
“I can see myself out,” I offer. “You should go in there. Make him a protein smoothie with peanut butter. It always seems to cheerhim up.”
Henry takes a breath, staring down the gauntlet that is the doorway to the kitchen. I don’t blame him. Giving my hand a final squeeze, he says, “Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”
“Bye.” I stop by the couch to grab my purse, then start in the direction of the foyer. But the instant Henry’s figure disappears intothe kitchen, I race to the staircase.
Adam Abbott has a grudge against Dr. Russo, and right now, I’m starting to think that it was more than simply a possible motive for murder.
I think he could’ve actually done it. He may hate Dr. Russo enough to have taken the man’s daughter from him.
Henry has tasked me with this mission to help clear him and his brothers. As counterproductive as it may be to search for evidence to support my new theory, I have to know the truth. And I can’t ask for Henry’s help with this; he can’t know that my suspicions about his brother only increase by the day.
I’ve always done my best to stick up for the brothers because Ibelieved in my heart that they had nothing to do with the accusations regarding Mariana last year. I still want to believe the same about them now, with Kennedy’s murder. And if Adam is innocent, I’ll do whatever it takes to help clear his name.
But if he did it—if he’s the one on the security camera footage, the secret boyfriend, thekiller—then I’m not sure I want any part of this.
I tiptoe up the ancient staircase, careful with each step. But the commotion in the kitchen has only grown since Henry joined in. Adam accuses them of ganging up on him now. A moment later, sure enough, the blender starts up. I almost feel guilty for my ulterior motive in suggesting the smoothie, but at least no one hears me as I make it to the top of the staircase and slip into Adam’s room.
Easing the door shut behind me, I rush to Adam’s wardrobe in search of the hoodie. I haven’t seen it on any of the triplets since Kennedy’s murder, and something tells me there’s a reason. The cops think whoever was on that security camera footage was wearing the missing hoodie when Kennedy was brutally murdered. That means her blood would be on it.
If Adam was involved, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave it in his room. The detectives could end up with a search warrant, and then it would be over for him. So in a way, finding it here would almost exculpate him, at least in my eyes. And if he had nothing to hide, he could turn it over to the cops and let them test it for DNA. I scrounge around through the messy drawers and haphazardly hungcontents of the closet, searching for it.
So far, it’s not here.
