Page 79 of Oddly Fine

The events of the night had definitely served as great distractions for Beckett: grave robbing, Kolinsky’s appearance, and driving to the safe house. It was hard to believe that Franklin really was alive. Conducted into the kitchen and instructed to sit at the table, they watched Franklin walk in and take a seat across from them. He looked the same as he had in November at Jackson’s store opening.

“I told them my brother would fuck it up—they didn’t believe me,” Franklin said with his typical, know-it-all smirk.

Hayes thought it was quite the bold opening statement and remarkably unapologetic.

“Glad to see death didn’t change you and you’re still an asshole,” Beckett replied without missing a beat. The two brothers stared at each other from across the table, waiting each other out.

“How’d you know?” Franklin asked, when Beckett didn’t give in first.

“You’re not surprised, so why do you care?”

Franklin snorted. “Humour me.”

“You remember what you told me when I came home and refused to talk with Dr. Forester?” Beckett was surprisingly calm in dredging up old memories and contentious interactions.

“If you shoot yourself because of the shit you’ve seen, you’ll be the asshole,” Franklin replied.

Beckett’s expression was cold as he snapped, “We’re both assholes, but we don’t hurt the people we love.”

Franklin sighed resignedly and nodded.

“It was wrong of me to say that,” Franklin admitted with genuine regret. “But you’re my brother, and I just remember thinking you’d have been better off dead if you had to spend the rest of your life looking like you did back then.”

Hayes nearly leaped across the table then, but Beckett gripped his arm firmly to keep him in place. The fucking nerve of Franklin to say such a thing, but then—

“I was desperate, and I figured making it about everyone else was the only way to get you to care again.”

“It worked,” Beckett said, voice tight with suppressed emotion. “It doesn’t explain why you did what you did.”

Franklin sighed again and looked away. Despite their being left alone to talk, neither Beckett nor Hayes was stupid enough to think that meant Franklin could tell them everything.

“I fucked up,” Franklin confessed.

“Yeah—I’m going to need more than that to go on,” Beckett growled, not appeased in the least.

Franklin took a deep breath and nodded.

“Do you know who the Rosarios are?”

“Yes,” Hayes answered.

“No,” Beckett chimed in, simultaneously.

“You don’t read the news?” Franklin asked his brother, sounding surprised.

“I read,” Beckett replied, clearly offended.

“He reads gay smut,” Hayes interjected.

Beckett elbowed him in the ribs.

Franklin rolled his eyes and continued with his story.

“The Rosarios are New York royalty who recently acquired some properties in Montreal. They’re real estate moguls—at least on paper.”

Beckett could feel a headache brewing, but he gestured for his brother to continue.

“It’s not a world I’m involved in, so it never concerned me, until the oldest son of the family ended up in my office last May.”