I know the truth even before I prop open the door with my foot while clutching the tulips in one hand. Flowers are so distracting—I think there’s a reason people bring them to funerals, letting their bright colors and pleasant smells mask the stench of death and despair.
Amid all the pain, and fear, and horrible, cloying emotions…
There’s something pretty to look at.
At this moment, my tulip’s crisp scent mingles with the warm breeze blowing in through the open window and disperses throughout the space. The smell alone almost makes the tiny, cramped living room seem spacious and inviting. The secondhand furniture gleams in the flickering light of a fluorescent fixture hanging from the ceiling. I barely notice the scuffs on the hardwood floor or the peeling paint on the far wall, which the landlord swore were just “part of the charm.”
It’s perfect.
Until it isn’t.
A tall, lanky figure crouches beside my television, fiddling with the supposedly broken camera perched on top of it. He frowns, his handsome features creased in concentration. His body propped on one knee as his muscular arms ripple with tension.
“Branden?” My other hand is curled around the bottom of a shopping bag that I have to keep bouncing higher on my hip. I can’t even reach for the cell phone in my pocket as it continues to buzz incessantly with incoming text messages. Only now can I admit to myself that it’s been going off all day.
“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says without turning around. He inspects the camera, gazing into its unseeing lens while inserting something into the back of the device.
Fixing it.
“You’re supposed to be in Santa Barbara,” I rasp.
Despite the gray T-shirt and jeans he wears, anyone with an ounce of deduction skills can tell he’s a cop. It might take a bit more sleuthing, however, to figure out that—despite the stern expression and rigid posture—he’s also supposed to be “enjoying” his two-week-long vacation.
“Where were you?”
“At work,” I say. “Then, I went shopping.”
He darts his gaze in my direction, honing in on my bag of veggies and fresh flowers. “Those are pretty,” he says, nodding toward the tulips. “It’s about damn time you did something to brighten up the place.”
His hazel eyes sweep the narrow living room disapprovingly from the plain brown couch and gray armchair to the hardwood floors and minuscule kitchen space. This is normal, I tell myself. Most big brothers let themselves into their sister’s tiny apartments uninvited. They install video cameras in their living rooms and request that their partners make drive-by visits in the middle of the night—but most big brothers don’t have service weapons tucked into their back pockets.
Most brothers aren’t Branden.
“Camera’s fixed,” he says, rising to his feet. “Try not to break this one, okay?”
“I thought you weren’t coming back until next week?” It’s a harmless question on the surface.
But his eyes flash, his fingers tearing through his hair. “What, you liked having me away?”
“N-No.” I know better than to argue. Instead, I place my tulips on the end table near my door. Then I cross the four feet of space it takes to enter the kitchen. Inhaling deeply, I arrange my veggies on the counter, trying to decide what I’ll keep in the fridge and what I’ll leave out to ripen.
Tomatoes? Maybe out.
Peppers? In the fridge…
If I squint or squeeze my eyes shut, I can almost pretend I’m alone again. Almost. Branden’s unease seeps into the walls, making them seem to close in, inch by inch…
“Kaitlin had some work to finish up for an assignment, so we came back early,” he explains, referring to his wife’s job as a consultant. “Try not to look so disappointed.”
“I’m not.” I turn to find him staring resolutely out of the window as if ignoring his surroundings makes them easier to stomach. “I’m g-glad to see you. I am.”
His jaw twitches, though his overall expression remains neutral. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
I palm a carrot, then a tomato. “I told you. I was shopping—”
“How was I supposed to know that? You could have been murdered or unconscious somewhere. I told you to answer your fucking phone when I call.” His steps slam against the floorboards. Thud. Thud. Thunk.
The tomato I’m holding slips from my grasp, bouncing across the length of my kitchen.
And he stops. “I’m just saying that you’re not used to living in this type of neighborhood… It’s not like how it is back home. You’re not living on Mommy and Daddy’s property where a gate and