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“Even little ass Jake. Jamie too. He’s only off being a hormonal teen. One day, he’ll be your favorite again.”
“Och, all of you and this favorite business. I’ll never . . .” Mom shakes her head, laughing. We’re eating a late-night meal, and Mom’s asking about my new apartment when my phone lights up.
“Gotta take this.” I get up from my seat, heart hurtling in my fucking chest. “Willow?”
“Hey, um . . . Your brother—”
“Jamie?” My eyes bite shut as she speaks. I’d ached to hear her voice, likening it to the sound of rain falling over the highlands. But that little shit, Jamie, screwed over this moment. I never connected the dots. My brother is obsessed with broken things. Is this where he’s been all summer? Fuck!
“He’s here, building, um.” She stops. Her breathing is ragged.
“Willow, stay in the house. I’ll—”
“Jamie, what the hell are you doing?” I hear her call to him.
I hear the sound of Jamie’s voice in the distance, but I can’t make out what he says.
“A swing set,” Willow says, breathless. Jamie’s voice is still distant, but I can tell he’s getting closer. It takes me a moment to understand the scratching sound I hear. Willow’s trying to hide the phone.
“Willow!” The call ends abruptly. “Mom, call Nolan. I’m texting you Willow’s address.” I grab the keys to my Harley. I bite my tongue from adding that she should call the police.
It’s safe to assume Jamie needs to return his ass to therapy. He went off on Mom, and for a woman who can punch a dude across the room, she was too shocked to retaliate. The entire ride, one question revolves in my brain: How far will Jamie go?
Thirty minutes later, I enter the unlocked doors of the Bernard home. I hustle up the stairs, two at a time, calling their names. In Willow’s bedroom, glass covers the balcony. Pace faltering, I glance over the railing. My heart launches into my throat. A swing set appears in the darkness, oddly placed in the center of the tennis court. My face rears as if I’ve taken a sucker punch to the nose. Jamie fears the sight of them. At the age of ten, Jamie pissed himself in Scotland. Dad drove past the new construction of a playground that hadn’t been there half a year before.
Gripping the wrought iron, I turn around and jump to the first level. The second my motorcycle boots touch the pavers, I sprint toward the swing set. Eye-level with the tiny house at the top, my eyes squint to peer through the wood slats into the darkness. At the sound of whimpering, a cold numbing sensation grates at the pit of my stomach, causing a dizzying feeling that sucks all the energy from my muscles. I brace myself for the worst.
