Page 30 of Weight of Guilt

Mason had already lost interest in the conversation, and he grabbed some Legos from the shelf and settled by the coffee table. He had a stash of toys here for whenever he visited. He was safely in view of every adult in the room—just what Wren wanted.

She took some mason jar glasses from the cabinet while Nora picked up the tea pitcher.

Tank had come inside with them—Nash had asked if it was okay first. Now Bo bounced in circles around him, desperate to play. Tank wanted nothing to do with him and let out a low growl.

Finally, Bo backed off, tail dropping, and slunk to the other side of the room.

Christian paused near the table but said nothing. He only stared at Nash as if unsure whether or not he could trust the man.

Wren couldn’t blame him.

“Nice to meet you,” Nash told him, his voice easy.

She had no doubt he’d learned to deal with situations like this as a law enforcement officer.

Christian only stared back at him, and Wren didn’t push. Manners were the least of their concerns right now. Besides, she had no idea what her brother had been through. For all she knew, he could have been kept in nearly feral conditions.

Christian held Nash’s gaze a beat too long, long enough that Wren felt the air in the kitchen pull tight.

“Tea.” Nora filled the glasses at the table, as if the sweet drink might dissolve the tension through sheer force of hospitality.

They all sat.

Christian stared at his glass without touching it. “I don’t—” He stopped, shook his head. “Do you have anything else to drink?”

“We’ve got soda,” Nora said. “Coke, I think.”

Something eased in Christian’s face. “You have Coke?”

Wren’s heart went into her throat. He almost sounded like a little boy asking the question.

Maybe he was still a little boy in a man’s body.

Nora set a can, dewy from the fridge, in front of him and popped the top.

“I used to love Coke,” Christian murmured. “I remember that.”

Wren went still.

He’d remembered something. Something had come back.

Maybe more would.

“Do you remember anything else?” She tried not to sound too eager. “Now that you’ve slept?”

He didn’t think about her question long. He just shook his head. “No, nothing.”

He hadn’t even tried. He’d answered before she finished asking.

The table went quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.

Christian turned the can slowly between his hands. His gaze drifted to Marlowe and held there, something unspoken passing between them—the ghost of two kids who used to be inseparable. Marlowe’s face went pale, her stare fixed somewhere past the table, somewhere none of them could follow.

She’d always sensed that her younger sister carried more guilt than the rest of them. But Marlowe had never told them why.

Wren had wanted to ask, but she didn’t. In all these years, she hadn’t.

Should she ask now?