Page 5

The drive from Irvington to Manhattan goes by in a blur, but it’s also the slowest forty minutes of my life somehow.

Texting my sisters to get to the penthouse as soon as possible only distracts me for a few minutes, but it does ease something in my mind when Avery, the oldest, writes back right away that she’ll be there in less than twenty minutes.

She’s the closest thing to a mother Liv, Luna, the twins, and I have ever had, but she’s actually a mom of three—an actual mom, not only in title—and she’s the best person for the twins right now. Even if I still don’t know exactly what they saw or heard, I just know she has the tools to help them.

Liv and Luna will get there before we do as well, so knowing Maddox and Mason will have family there with them soon helps me relax marginally in the back seat. Of course Johnny, their bodyguard, is still with them, and he’s not only great at his job, but an all-around good guy as far as I’ve been able to tell in the last three years since my brothers were born, but as all the bodyguards I’ve ever met do, he keeps himself one step back emotionally. But my brothers probably need some goddamn emotional support right about now.

As the shadows of Manhattan’s buildings finally cover the car, I feel Eli looking at me. He’s probably trying to figure out what to say or do, trying to decipher what I’m thinking.

Good luck with that, I think snarkily.

I stay quiet, though, because he doesn’t deserve it.

He’s a good guy, has been a good friend to me ever since I invited him to my brothers’ birthday party.

I still don’t know what prompted me to do that. I’m grateful, though, when he and Lex bracket me on our way into the building Jim lives—lived in.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s actually dead.

Maybe?

A voice in the back of my head whispers that it can’t be, there’s no way he’s actually dead.

There’s a couple of cops in the quiet lobby of the building, and they obviously recognize me and Lex by the way their eyes widen as we pass. I don’t stop to chat, though.

The doorman hurries in front of us to call the private elevator that only leads to the garage, lobby, penthouse, or roof. It’s only when the doors open that he looks me in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barclay.”

I almost laugh.

But somehow, I bite it back and offer a solemn nod.

When the elevator doors close, though, a snort bursts out of me.

All at once I can’t stop laughing, because this is seriously ridiculous. The bastard got himself stabbed by his fifth wife . . . his almost sixty years younger wife.

I bet she wasn’t the first wife to think about killing him.

The thought forms a stupid, embarrassing, and useless knot in my throat and quickly dissolves any laughter.

My mother probably thought about killing him, but instead she divorced him and got him to pay her god knows how much money to dump me with the old fuckhead and never see me again.

I’ve been consciously aware of how little my mother cares about me for around a decade, so why does it still hurt? Why does it still have so much wasteful self-pity flaring up inside me?

I shake it off just in time for the doors of the elevator to open into chaos.

I don’t have any particularly fond memories of this place, it’s not where I grew up, but the thought of my brothers seeing so many cops and . . . people in their home pushes me forward.

A guy in a cheap suit who I instantly recognize as a detective steps up and offers me a hand.

“Mr. Barclay, sorry for your loss.”

He says it like it’s his job, and I suppose it is.

“Thanks,” I mutter quickly and shake his hand.

“I’m detective Preet, and this is my partner, detective Fairway.” He gestures to a woman who’s furiously scribbling down notes on her little pad and barely looks up to offer me a nod when she hears her name. “We have a few questions for you⁠—”