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arents hadn’t made it out of that house alive.
And tonight, he could have caused that kind of damage again.
Michael wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room now, but Gabriel didn’t go looking for him. He just walked out the back door and dropped into one of the Adirondack chairs on the porch. The smell of smoke hung thick in the air, but he didn’t feel any fire nearby. The firemen had been thorough.
He usually told Nick everything, but this, right on the tail of their dinner argument . . . Gabriel suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of telling his twin. Just the thought had him fidgeting, reaching for the lighter in his pocket.
But he didn’t have it. The EMTs must have kept the one in his jeans, and he hadn’t grabbed another from his bedroom.
Gabriel sighed.
The sliding door opened, and then Michael was clomping across the porch. Gabriel didn’t look at him, just kept his gaze on the tree line.
Michael dropped into the chair beside him. “Here.”
Gabriel looked over. His brother was holding out a bottle of Corona.
Shock almost knocked him out of the chair. They never had alcohol of any kind in the house. When Michael had turned twenty-one, they’d all spent about thirty seconds entertaining thoughts of wild parties supplied by their older brother.
Then they’d remembered it was Michael, a guy who said if he ever caught them drinking, he’d call the cops himself. Really, he’d driven the point home so thoroughly that by the time he and Nick started going to parties, they rarely touched the stuff.
Gabriel took the bottle from his hand. “Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”
Michael tilted the bottle back and took a long draw. “I thought you could use one. I sure can.”
Gabriel took a sip, but tentatively, like Michael was going to slap it out of his hand and say, Just kidding. “Where did this even come from?”
“Liquor store.”
Well, that was typical Michael. “No, jackass, I meant ”
“I know what you meant.” Michael paused to take another drink. “There’s a mini-fridge in the back corner of the garage, under the old tool bench.” His voice was careful, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to share this secret.
Gabriel didn’t look at him, hiding his own surprise. “You hid a fridge?”
“I didn’t. Dad did.” Another drink. “I found it after he died.”
They both fell silent for a while, Michael probably reliving it, Gabriel imagining it, his brother at eighteen, finding their father’s stash of beer. Gabriel wondered if Dad had only been hiding it from his sons, or if he’d kept it a secret from their mother, too.
Not like it mattered.
“Please tell me this beer isn’t five years old,” he said.
“It’s not.” Michael smiled.
And that, too, was almost enough to knock Gabriel out of the chair.
He stared out into the darkness for a moment, and then took another sip. “You’re not mad?”
Michael didn’t say anything, just took another drink.
Gabriel felt his shoulders tighten. The cold of the bottle bit at his fingertips.
“You remember that summer Chris got mono?” said Michael.
The question came out of left field. But Gabriel did remember. Right after their parents died, Chris had gotten really sick.
A pediatrician had diagnosed him with mononucleosis and given him antibiotics, but his “illness” had probably been more due to the fact that none of them were sleeping, and it was the driest summer Maryland had seen in years. Chris suffered without water.
