And it’s not the car.

He looks over my shoulder at Chelsea, and I bristle that even his gaze is touching her.

“Do what he says, Lucas. Nikki and Kevin will be up in a few hours. Then you can all go.”

With a final glare, he walks, hunched over, out the door. Which I slam behind him.

• • •

I turn the lock and the bolt to make sure he stays the fuck out. Or maybe to make sure I don’t go out and kill him. My hands shake, my whole body still vibrating with barely restrained fury—and something else that I don’t want to put a name to.

From behind me, Chelsea’s voice trembles. “I can’t believe Lucas tried—”

I whirl around like a roving volcano and erupt all over her.

“Of course he fucking tried! What the hell did you expect? You thought he flew across the country for a hug and a peck on the cheek?”

Arms hug her waist tighter. Her voice goes quieter. “I thought he was my friend.”

“The naïve thing is cute, Chelsea—being a goddamn idiot is not.”

She rears back like I’ve raised my hand to strike her. “Excuse me?”

Unfamiliar feelings bubble inside me like black tar, coating my insides, thick and clinging.

And ugly.

“Your friend?” I laugh. And drag my eyes up and down her body. “You dress like that for all your friends?” I click my tongue. “Lucky guys.”

Her voice rises an octave. “There’s nothing wrong with how I’m dressed.”

My questions slice through the air. Sharp and cutting. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Are you high?”

“No!”

“Have you fucked him before?”

“That’s none of your business!”

My mouth twists. “That’s a yes.”

“Don’t cross-examine me!”

“Do you know what could’ve happened to you if I wasn’t here?” I yell, forgetting about the six sleeping children upstairs.

Because that’s the core of it, what has me craving murder. What makes me want to put my fist through the wall—or, more accurately, makes me want to grab that worthless piece of shit outside and put my fist through him. It’s the unspeakable things that might’ve happened to her if I anyone but me had been here.

I’ve looked into survivors’ eyes. I’ve seen the aftermath. And, sure, maybe they move on. And maybe they get past it. But they never forget.

And they’re never, ever the same.

“Yes, I’m well aware, Jake. Contrary to what you think, I’m not stupid. I’m grateful that you were here.” Her voice goes from flat to cold. “And now you can go.”

I point at the door. “I’m not fucking going anywhere as long as he’s outside.”

“Fine. Enjoy the couch.”

Then I’m dismissed. Chelsea turns around, her back as straight as a soldier’s, and walks toward the hallway. After three steps she looks back, and her words hit me like a wrecking ball. “I see now why you’re such a successful defense lawyer, Jake. You’re so very good at blaming the victim.”

For a second I just stand there. Too stunned—maybe too ashamed—to reply.

She walks up the stairs, and I’m alone. With the echo of all the things I shouldn’t have said ringing in my ears.

12

Five minutes later I’m in the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets and drawers like an addict who’s forgotten where he hid his stash.

And I’m muttering to Chelsea’s dead brother.

“Come on, Robert, I’ve met your kids.” I check the back of the fridge, moving aside a jug of almond milk, a block of tofu, and a bag of organic pears. “There’s no fucking way you don’t have alcohol somewhere in this house.”

At this point I’d settle for a bottle of NyQuil.

I burrow in the freezer. And there, below containers of frozen spaghetti sauce, I hit liquid gold. A bottle of Southern Comfort.

I gaze at the label, already tasting relief on my tongue. “Attaboy, Robbie. My kind of guy.”

I unscrew the cap and take a swig, too eager to wait for a glass. The cold liquid burns a pleasant, numbing trail down my throat. Before closing the freezer, I grab a bag of frozen peas for my screaming knuckles. Then I take a glass from the cabinet and fill it halfway with the amber-colored alcohol. As I swirl it in the glass, the pitter-patter of sock-covered feet comes down the back staircase.

And a moment later, Rory stands in the doorway, in blue sleeping pants and a white cotton T-shirt, with his brown curly hair sticking up in all directions. But his eyes are alert and wide, telling me he’s been awake for some time.

“What are you doing out of bed?” I ask gently.

“I was thirsty,” he lies. “Can I have a glass of water?”

I motion for him to sit down at the center island, then fill a glass with cold water from the sink. I slide it in front of him, and for a few moments we sip our respective beverages in the still silence of the dimly lit kitchen.

Until he confesses, “I heard you and Aunt Chelsea.”

I just nod.

He peers up at me with a hesitantly probing blue gaze. “You were loud. You sounded . . . mad.”

I swallow a gulp and breathe out, “Yeah. I was mad.”

Guilt is already eating me up. But when his features tighten with worry, the bite of regret feels particularly sharp. “Are you gonna leave?”