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When their parents died, Chris hated waking in the middle of the night, wanting his mother, finding no comfort in his older brother. He’d resented seeing those eyes in Michael’s face, and finding nothing he needed in them.
Michael was still waiting for an answer. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll sit with you.”
The rain had formed a puddle along the edge of the desk. Pleading.
Chris nodded. “All right.”
The twins sat in the kitchen, textbooks scattered across the table. Nick was working, while Gabriel rocked back in a chair, eating cookies and heckling his brother.
When they came through the kitchen doorway, Gabriel stopped short. The legs of his chair hit the ground.
“That son of a bitch,” he said. Lightning flashed in the panels of sky visible through the window over the sink.
Chris gave him half a smile because a full one hurt. “You should see the other guy.”
“Oh, I’m going to see him—in a pile of broken bones. Here. Have a cookie.”
Chris shook his head, and his vision swam again.
Michael caught his arm. “You need to sit down.”
Chris jerked away from him. It hurt more than it should have, and he had to grab the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “I’ve got it.”
Nicholas had set his pencil down and was watching him. Chris didn’t find any pity in his expression; Nick was good like that. “Where’d they find you?”
Chris looked out the window again. He’d stayed to watch Gabriel’s practice, packing his things when the sky promised rain and the coach called for the players to take a long run. They lived three miles from school, but he’d never minded the walk.
Or he never had until tonight.
“Behind the school,” he finally said.
“They come looking?”
Chris started to nod, then thought better of it when his vision swam. “Yeah. They said they’re calling the Guides.”
“They always say that,” said Nick.
“I think this time they might mean it.”
“They won’t,” said Michael. “They made a deal. We keep it, they keep it.”
“They keep it, my ass.” Gabriel rocked back in his chair again. His eyes were on Michael, his voice acidic, full of judgment. “How long are you going to let them keep pulling this?”
“Don’t start.” Michael gave Gabriel’s chair a good push, setting it straight. He pointed to the pile of notebooks. “Work.”
Gabriel shoved back from the table, a motion full of promised violence. “What, you only have a pair when it comes to chasing a girl out of the house?”
Chris sighed and let go of the chair to turn for the back door. No one stopped him.
The air was cold, and the rain felt good on his bruised face. He gingerly pulled off his tee shirt and eased into one of the wooden Adirondack chairs. If he was patient, if he lay there long enough, the rain would offer to fix his injuries, would pull the bruises from his skin and feed him strength. He usually got sick of waiting and tried to force it. That just left him exhausted and pissed off, and he hurt too much to bother with it now. Michael said control would come, with time.
If Tyler and his buddies didn’t kill him first.
Chris didn’t hear the sliding door, but the rain told him when Michael stepped onto the porch.
He didn’t bother to look over. “Fight over that fast?”
Michael dropped into the chair beside him. “We didn’t fight.” Chris didn’t buy that for a minute. “You got it all out of your system with Becca?”
