“What’s wrong with revenge? Didn’t you see the pictures of the bodies? If that was me hanging in that noose, Mom, wouldn’t you want revenge?”

She freezes. Just . . . shuts down. I think because she doesn’t want me to know how much revenge she’d want to get. Then she blinks, and she says, “Did Connor see those pictures?”

“What? No! Of course not, I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t show those to him, and not the point, Mom. The point is, Dad doesn’t deserve to live, does he?”

“I’m emotional about him. So are you. That’s why it shouldn’t be us who decides what happens to him.” She’s talking the talk, but I can tell she’s not feeling it. She wants him super dead, so much that it makes her shake. But she’s making an effort not to raise me that way. I guess that’s good.

I dump the bag upside down, and stuff rains out on the bed. Makeup, mostly. A scrapbook that comes with an ostentatious, probably easy-to-open lock on it that Connor said he could jimmy with a paper clip. A diary, also locked. I like to write longhand, on paper. I like to think it survives, when stuff on the Internet is just pixels that can disappear in a second. Gone like it never existed.

“Lanny. My job is to get between your dad and you. So that’s why I’m going. You understand that?”

I fiddle with a tube of lipstick—Crimson Shadow—and set it on the dresser. “And I’m the one who stands between him and Connor,” I tell her. “I get it. I just hate it, that’s all. I hate that no matter what we do, how hard we try, it’s always all about him.”

Mom puts her arms around me this time and hugs. Hard. “No. It’s about making him meaningless, finally. We are not his. We are ours.”

I hug her back, but fast, and then I’m out. I flop down on the bed and put my headphones around my neck. “And when do I get my laptop back, Warden?”

“When this is done.”

“I know what not to do. You could put parental controls on it, even.”

She smiles. “And you’re a smart kid who can crack those two seconds after I’m out the door, so no. I’m sorry, but not until this is over.”

I give her The Look. It bounces off without effect.

“I’ll call tonight,” she tells me, and I shrug, like it’s no big deal if she doesn’t. Except it is. We both know it.

When I get my makeup set up to my satisfaction, I find that Mom has gone out to the living area and is at the kitchen table. She’s sitting across from Connor. Javier has put a glass of water in front of my brother, but he’s ignoring it. All his attention is on the page he’s reading. Mom takes his glass of water and sips, but he ignores that, too. “Must be a good story,” she says. I settle into one of the armchairs near the windows. I was right. Comfy. I sling a leg over one arm and watch the show, which consists of my mom trying to gently get behind Connor’s walls, and Connor pretending she isn’t even there.

He finally gives in enough to say, “It is.” He carefully inserts a battered bookmark between the pages of his book, closes it, and puts it down on the table. “Mom. Are you going to come back?” I can see his eyes. I’m worried about how they look. I don’t really know what my brother is thinking about anymore. Since Lancel Graham took us, he hasn’t felt safe; I know that. He’d put such faith in Mom to keep us completely secure, to keep the world away, and for him, that failure had been epic. Hadn’t been her fault, and she’d come for us like I knew she would.

But I don’t know how to fix my brother.

Mom says all the right things, of course, and she hugs him. He breaks away quickly, which he always does . . . Connor isn’t much of a hugger, especially when other people are around. But it’s more than that.

Mom kisses me on the forehead, and I give her a hug, a real one, but I don’t say anything. Sam, who’s been quietly leaning against the door, comes over to me and says, “Hey. Take care of your brother, okay?” Sam is a good man. I was wary for a long, long, long time, but I’ve seen him do quietly amazing things for us, including fighting to save us when our lives were on the line. I believe him when he says he cares.

I also believe it’s hard for him, because our asshole dad killed his innocent sister, and when he looks at us he can’t help but see some part of Melvin Royal in me and Connor. I study myself for hours in the mirror sometimes, picking out bits that resemble Dad. My hair’s more like Mom’s. But I think the shape of my nose is more like Dad’s. And my chin. I’ve looked up how old I have to be to get plastic surgery, just to remove any trace.

Connor sometimes looks exactly like pictures of our father when Dad was a kid. I know it bothers my brother a lot. I know he spends a lot of time obsessing about whether he will turn out . . . bad.

Mom needs to get him help. Soon. And if she won’t, I will.

“I’ll take care of him,” I tell Sam, then give it a shrug for good measure as if it’s no big deal. But Sam gets it.

“And yourself, tough chick.”

“Who you calling chick?” I demand, giving him a grin. We don’t hug again. We bump fists, and he goes to do the same with Connor.

Then he and Mom are gone, out the door, and we go out on the porch with Javier Esparza and Boot the dog to wave goodbye. Well, Boot doesn’t wave. He still looks unhappy he didn’t get to chew my face off. I give him a guarded pat on the head. He snorts again, but then he turns to Connor, and without the slightest evidence of fear, my brother sits down next to the dog and scratches him between the ears. Boot closes his eyes and leans against him.

Boys, I think, and roll my eyes.

I watch Mom and Sam get in the car. I watch them drive away. My eyes are clear and dry, and I’m proud of that.

Mr. Esparza says he’s going to make chili dogs for lunch. He puts Connor to work chopping up onions.

I go to my room, shut the door, and weep into my pillow, because I am as afraid as I’ve ever been in my life that I will never see my mother again.

And that Dad’s going to find us.

3

SAM

Gwen is still too quiet, an hour out onto the road. I can feel the pain vibrating the air around her.

“You okay?” It’s an inadequate question, but I have to try. There’s something haunting in the blank way she’s staring out the window at the flickering trees, like she’s trying to hypnotize herself into something like peace.