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But then I remembered how the lock had stuck, like it often did, and how I’d had to shove the door shut to lock it.
Well, shit.
But that didn’t necessarily have anything to do with my brother.
Why did I assume it did?
My heart was hammering now, and I stood there, my arms full, just staring at the door. I looked up into my bakery, fearful of what I’d see there.
Nothing.
Everything looked exactly the same as it had yesterday. This was a bustling, mid-sized city but the downtown business owners were very close-knit and looked out for each other. I would have heard if someone had broken into my shop. There was no reason whatsoever to be nervous.
Except that I was.
I turned the doorknob and flicked the light on, as if it would protect me.
Still nothing.
I saw the little pale yellow tables, the long white counter, the gleaming rows of empty trays just waiting for my baked goods, the cheerful red checkered curtains. Everything looked the same.
My eyes darted to the dark kitchen behind the counter.
Don’t be a chicken, I told myself. There is no goddamn reason to connect an unlocked door with my brother.
I took my bags in the kitchen before I could talk myself out of it and set them down on a table. My breathing sounded loud and ragged in my ears, and I forced myself to go flick on the light. Then I turned around.
And my brother was there, leaning against the counter.
Waiting for me.
I would have known him anywhere, even though I hadn’t seen him since he was 18 years old. He had always been tall, but his height was even more startling now that he was a grown man. He was big, broad shouldered with big arms, but still lean enough to move like a predator. His hair had always been the exact same shade as mine—a distinctive deep blue-black. He had a dark beard and those unusual dark blue eyes. The same exact shade as mine.
I gasped and let out a little shriek, staring at him, the blood rushing to my face.
He was wearing a worn-looking long-sleeved flannel shirt, prison-issue jeans, and heavy work boots.
“Laoise,” he said, and I would have known that voice anywhere.
My mouth wouldn’t move, my mind flying to the last time I had seen him without handcuffs. That was the morning he killed our father. He had driven me to school like any other day, and, when I got out of the old beat-up sedan, he rolled down the window and tapped on the door to bring me back as I was hurrying into class. And I obeyed, like I always did.
“Be good, baby girl,” was all he said. Then he drove off.
When I came back they had already taken him into custody.
I felt like I was rooted to the spot.
“What do you want, Torin?” is what I managed to croak out.
There was a beat of silence in the kitchen, dark and disquieting.
“I want my sister,” Torin said.
Fuck.
“Now come over here so I can look at you, Lele,” he said. His voice was low, deep, gravelly.
I knew what he saw, because I had looked in a mirror before coming over to the bakery. I had thick, curly dark hair, so black it was midnight-blue. Round cheeks with a little dimple. Midnight-blue eyes under dark lashes. And as tall and broad-shouldered as my brother was, I was the opposite: shorter than average, heavy breasts, little round belly, generous ass.
