that.”
“Have they found anything?”
“Nothing my dad’s told me about. But he probably wouldn’t, anyway.” Knox rubs his bruised jaw absently. “He doesn’t really share work stuff with me. He’s not like Eli.”
I hop onto the stool next to him and sip my drink. “Do you like working with Eli?”
“Love it,” Knox says, instantly brightening. “He’s great. Especially when you consider the amount of crap he has to put up with on a daily basis.”
“Like what?”
“Well, with the kind of law he practices, he’s just constantly hounded. By other lawyers, cops, the media. Plus people who either want him to take their case, or are mad because he took someone else’s.” Knox takes a long gulp of ginger ale. “He even gets death threats.”
“Seriously?” I ask. My voice shakes a little on the word. Eli is always treated like a hero in the media, which I thought was a good thing. It never occurred to me that that kind of visibility could be dangerous.
“Yeah. Another one came in yesterday. Seems like it’s from the same person, so they’re taking it a little more seriously. Sandeep—that’s one of the lawyers who works there—says they’re usually one-offs.”
I put my glass down with a clatter. “That’s horrible! Does Ashton know?”
Knox shrugs. “I mean, she must, right?”
“I guess.” A shiver inches up my spine, and I give way to a full-body shudder to get rid of it. “Ugh, I’d be so scared. I get creeped out by random Instagram messages.”
Knox’s brow knits. “Are you still getting those? From, um…” He glances toward my closed bedroom door and lowers his voice. “Derek, or whoever?”
“Not lately. Here’s hoping he’s given up.”
Our lock jangles noisily, for so long that I get off my seat and cross to the door. “Owen, despite the fact that he recently rewired a toaster, still hasn’t fully mastered the art of the key,” I explain, flipping the deadbolt and pulling open the door so my brother can enter.
“I heard that,” Owen says, dropping his overloaded backpack onto the floor. “Who are you—oh, hi.” He blinks at Knox like he’s never seen him before. “Wow, your face is…ouch.”
“It looks worse than it feels,” Knox says.
“Knox is here to play Bounty Wars with you, Owen!” I say cheerfully. “Doesn’t that sound fun?” Knox furrows his brow at me, like he can’t figure out why I’m speaking to my preteen brother like a toddler. I can’t, either, so I stop talking.
“Really?” Owen’s face lights up with a shy grin when Knox nods. “Okay, cool.”
“You want to show me your setup?” Knox asks.
The two of them disappear into Owen’s room, and I feel a strange mix of appreciation and regret as I watch them go. I have a sudden image of myself ten years from now, running into Knox on the street when he’s gotten cute and has an amazing job and an awesome girlfriend, and kicking myself for not having been able to see him as anything but a friend in Bayview.
I finish my ginger ale and rinse my glass. My hair hangs heavy around my shoulders, begging for a ponytail. I start gathering my curls back and head for the hallway, cracking open our bedroom door. “Emma? I’m just getting an elastic.”
Emma is sitting on her bed, sipping from a giant Bayview Wildcats tumbler cup. I walk to my dresser, stepping over a pile of clothes on the floor, and root around in the top drawer until I find a sparkly pink elastic. “I think I’ve had this since third grade,” I say, holding it up to Emma. Then I notice the tears slipping down her cheeks.
I close my drawer and cross to her bed, shooting her a nervous look as I perch lightly on the corner edge. Even though we’ve been getting along better lately, I’m still never one hundred percent sure she won’t tell me to get lost. “What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She swipes at her face, upsetting her balance enough that liquid from the cup sloshes over her hand. “Oopsie,” she mutters, lifting the tail of her shirt to dab at the spill. There’s something familiar and yet not familiar about the fumbling motion. Familiar, because I’ve done it dozens of times. Not familiar, because she hasn’t.
I stretch my hair elastic between two fingers. “What are you drinking?”
“Huh? Nothing. Water.”
Emma doesn’t drink alcohol—not at parties, because she doesn’t go to them, and definitely not at three o’clock in the afternoon in our bedroom. But she slurs the last