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“Look,” I said. “You have to meet with your parole officer this afternoon. You said you would go to all the meetings!”
“I did, sister,” he said, and I heard almost a laugh in his voice.
His fingers slid down my neck, just skimming my upper back this time, and I felt strangely alone as he moved away.
“One week, Lele,” he said warningly.
One week? What did that mean?
“Ah, are you planning to come back next week?” Drew began. “We might be out of town—”
My brother interrupted. “No, I’ll be back as soon as my meeting is over today. I wouldn’t want to miss your benefit, sister.”
Then he held my eyes for a moment with his dark gaze before he turned and left, taking my engagement ring with him.
And I didn’t think he ever intended to give it back.
A few hours later I was getting dressed for the benefit. I looked at myself in the mirror, but all I saw was Torin. These were also Torin’s eyes, such a dark blue they looked black. This was Torin’s hair, too, dark and thick and midnight blue. Growing up, people had always exclaimed, “can’t miss that you’re siblings!” Everyone could see the physical proof of how tightly tied we were.
With Torin in jail, I had been the only one in my town with the distinctive Irish coloring. But now. . .everyone could see.
I tried to shake it off. I wasn’t 16 anymore. So I looked like my brother? So what. It didn’t mean anything.
Since my business was new, I was struggling to get my cupcake shop going. I had so many customers, but I was trying to keep prices low, and it was a lot of work to manage the storefront. Not to mention that rent per month was exorbitantly high. I was barely breaking even.
I often wondered if I should have stayed home-based. It would give me more freedom and flexibility. But Drew had been so proud of the shop, so insistent that it was what I needed to take my home-based business to the next level.
Maybe in a year or two, if I worked long hours, I could afford to hire some more assistants. The thought depressed me and I shoved it down. The shop was perfect. What was I worried about?
“Did your brother talk about the murder?” my fiancé wanted to know.
“No,” I said, grabbing a pair of earrings.
“Did he seem at all sorry or remorseful?” Drew asked. “Anything to show that there’s a possibility for rehabilitation or redemption?”
No, I thought.
There’s no rehabilitating Torin Reilly. He’s not sorry for what he did.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Drew said, with a rueful laugh. “I know he just got out of jail, but I’m afraid the way he looks that he’s not going to be much help with your networking.”
I felt an unaccustomed flash of irritation at Drew and I glanced up to see my brother walking up the driveway, dressed in his long-sleeved plaid shirt, prison-issue jeans, and big shitkicker boots. I felt irritation like a buzz across my skin, and I said, “There’s nothing wrong with what he’s wearing.”
“He looks like a felon,” Drew said.
“He is a felon,” I retorted.
I was about to put on a silky soft shirt to match my long black skirt, but I suddenly turned and grabbed one of my cupcake bakery T-shirts instead. It had the name of the bakery and some cartoon cats and cupcakes on it.
“You’re wearing that?” Drew asked.
He was in a pearl-gray suit with a crisp white shirt and silvery tie, his blonde hair neat and tidy.
“Yes,” I said shortly. “It’s like double advertising.”
I heard a knock at the door.
Drew opened it, and I could tell he was trying to be welcoming.
