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I guess it probably is.
“That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
He peers at me. “What else is there to say?”
“You could explain what the hell happened to him. Was that, like, a panic attack?” Because it was scary. It made my heart race to see it. I felt helpless, and I hated that more than being in the cave. More than almost drowning.
“Those have been happening for a long time.”
“How long?”
“Since we were kids.”
My mouth goes dry. “What happened when you were kids?”
Sin laughs a little. “We grew up.”
“With who?”
“With our father.”
Movement on the stairs. “You’re worried about him.” This is Emerson’s trick, not mine. To just say something like you already know it’s true.
“Yes,” Sinclair says softly. “I’m fucking worried.”
A shadow at the door. Emerson is in fresh clothes, the color back in his face. “Is he bothering you?”
I have the strangest urge to sprint across the room to him, to throw my arms around his waist and hold him tight. But I bet he wouldn’t like that. I bet he wouldn’t want that. Not in front of his brother. He’s been restored to the intense, vaguely frightening person I met in the gallery. It’s almost difficult to imagine him trembling. Unable to catch his breath.
“He’s making cinnamon rolls,” I say. “Want one?”
