will tear you apart from the inside out. Loving a psychopath. You can’t turn off the soul-deep knowledge that the person is your family. It was in my DNA to care about Michael. And even after everything that had happened, I still couldn’t turn it off. I often wished it was possible. That I could kill the part of me that loved him. But I’d never had much luck.
My heart both bled and broke for Michael. It was a death sentence for a child. Not because the diagnosis would kill them, but because there were so few treatment options out there. And often, the ones that did exist were found too late. They had been for my brother.
I tried not to let myself feel the anger about it all. To sink into the frustration at my parents for not doing more. To disappear into the rage I felt because of everything my brother had stolen from me. I refused to live there, scared that it would make me too much like him.
The treatment center he’d been transferred to not long after his conviction had promised rehabilitation for children and teens with Michael’s diagnosis. For the first time in years, I’d had hope. Thought maybe I wouldn’t lose the last person I had left. The center had a lot of wonderful success. But Michael wouldn’t be a story of triumph.
The treatment center’s staff was hopeful, clearly taken in by whatever show Michael put on. The district attorney or the parole board were ready to give him another chance. The only person who’d ever seemed to know I might be right was the aunt I’d lived with after my parents were gone. She’d wanted me to take every precaution I needed to.
Sometimes, I doubted myself. I’d sat across from Michael in the visitors’ room at times and thought I saw a change in my brother. Healing. But then I’d get a glimpse of who I knew he would always be. Someone who got joy from pain. Someone whose currency was my tears. Someone whose thrill came from my breaking.
I returned my gaze to the water. Michael couldn’t change. It was how his brain was wired. By some luck of DNA and neurons, I could empathize, care…feel. My brother would never be able to do that. My only hope was that he’d violate parole, and quickly. And that the break wouldn’t come at the expense of someone’s life—or mine.
6
Brody
I dropped the can of spray paint to the floor. It wasn’t right. Somehow, I’d lost the ability to translate the things in my head to the canvas. Whether the loss was from doubt or fear, I didn’t know. And it really didn’t matter. The only thing that counted was whether I could get it back. So far, that endeavor didn’t look promising.
My gaze traveled around the sunporch that I’d turned into a temporary studio. There were at least a dozen canvases at various beginning stages. Even a few pieces started on scrap metal or wood. Nothing that had any hope of turning into something worthwhile, though.
I pulled off my gloves and ran a hand through my hair. I had the sudden desire to throw everything into a pile in the yard and start a bonfire. At least then, I could roast marshmallows.
A notification trilled from my laptop, and I crossed to my makeshift desk. I sighed but hit accept on the video call. I’d ignored at least a dozen texts and calls. If I kept this up, she’d show up at my door. “Hey, Lara.”
Her face appeared on the screen, makeup impeccably done, black hair in some sort of updo. “Brody, what the hell? I’ve been calling for days.”
“Sorry. I’ve been busy. Getting unpacked and all of that.”
She took in the space behind me, and her expression grew excited. “You’re working. That’s wonderful. I knew you’d get it back. Let me see.”
I grimaced. “Not now.”
Her lips thinned. “You’re still blocked.”
It wasn’t a question, but I somehow felt put on the spot. Pressured to come up with something to say that would placate the friend before me, who’d turned into some sort of boss along the way. “I’m still settling in.”
Lara sighed. “I knew this was a mistake. I think you should come back to New York. I found a therapist who specializes in this kind of thing. He usually works with athletes under a tremendous amount of pressure, but I told him about your situation—”
“What the hell? You don’t spread my business around. That’s