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PROLOGUE

NATHANIEL

Vexley House is silent when we return. Samson goes one way. Cain goes another.

I stand at the bottom of the stairs, still smelling the marina, my heart pounding.

I should go to my room.

I should change.

I should pour a drink.

I should do what I’ve been taught to do when something ugly happens. Make it look like something else.

I’ve been groomed for that since I was a toddler. I’m the appearance. The one who makes everything look fine on the outside.

Samson is the one people fear.

I’m the one they trust. The reasonable son. The polished son. The one who knows how to smile, how to soften a threat until it sounds like advice, how to hide the truth in such a way that no one questions anything.

I climb the stairs, sliding my hand along the rail. I look down at the ornate design. The key. The one that matches the ring I wear forged of black platinum. It’s everywhere in this house.

I still don’t fully understand what it means, yet I wear it on my finger.

I reach my bedroom, reach for the light switch, and then change my mind.

If I turn on the light, I’ll have to see myself.

My heart is still racing.

Victor Halstead.

He stuck his nose into something he shouldn’t have. He knew too much.

That’s supposed to be a fact.

That’s what Father told us. “Take care of it,” he said.

Not just to Samson and me, but to Cain, our younger brother.

I’m the shield. Samson is the fist.

And Cain⁠—

Cain is sixteen.

Sixteen.

Father insisted that he go with us, but he should have been here, asleep in his room down the hall, worried about driving or girls or grades or the next football game. Things sixteen-year-old boys think about.

But Cain has never seemed like a boy.

Even before tonight, he had a way of disappearing into corners without truly leaving a room. A way of watching people that made them lower their voices without knowing why.

He’s like a shadow.

That’s how he was tonight. Watching. With a look in his gray eyes that said he knew more than he was letting on.