Page 166 of Five Brothers

“Macon?” Army shakes his shoulder. “You okay? What are you doing?”

Army’s worried expression searches his brother’s face, and I can see how hard he’s breathing. I don’t think

Macon’s pulse has changed.

I swallow hard. I can’t move.

He cares more about their lives than he ever did his own.

The guys think I went to work. I wait in Liv’s room until I see all the trucks make their way down the road, in the direction of St. Carmen, and then wait at the door with my hand on the knob.

I listen for him.

Something slams downstairs, and I feel the garage door vibrate through the house. Another door closes. Maybe the kitchen door. He probably needed a drink.

Then, there’s no more noise. I wait another minute or so, confident Macon’s in the garage, beginning his day’s work.

Slipping out of Liv’s room, I head over to his bedroom. I don’t know why I tiptoe. Stopping short, I pluck a few clean, folded towels out of the hallway closet. If he catches me, I’ll just tell him I was stocking his bathroom.

Stepping into his room, I quickly close the door behind me. And I look around, feeling immediately stupid.

Am I really afraid he’s going to do something to himself? I could be way off. His brothers don’t seem worried enough to intervene, and they’ve known him a lot longer.

But his mother suffered from depression, and it can be hereditary.

If I’m right, what then? He won’t accept help.

I look around, knowing the signs won’t be obvious. There won’t be a pile of crumbled-up drafts of a suicide note, but I am looking for signs that he’s drinking and hiding it.Empty liquor bottles. Pills. Drugs.

My throat tightens.Or objects to cause himself harm.I’ve never seen deadly weapons in the house, though.

I look in his bathroom first, seeing clothes on the floor and a pile of towels. I inspect them for blood, and then I check his sink and shower, looking for anything that raises alarm.

Heading into his bedroom, I find unmarked boxes on the top shelf of his closet. I reach up to look inside one, finding it full of pictures. I smile a little, immediately recognizing the Jaegers long before I knew them. A very young Army, his arm around Macon, who’s dressed in camouflage pants and a T-shirt, his hair so short.

More pics of the family, but I force myself to put the lid back on and stack it back on the shelf. I’m only invading his privacy for his safety.

I open his dresser drawers, feeling around just enough foranything hidden, and then look under the bed and pillows. I whip open the drawer of his bedside table, spotting some money, a watch, and a …

My heart pumps hard, seeing it and knowing what it is without even pulling the drawer all the way out. I reach in and take the handgun by the grip, holding it up.

My hand shakes, looking down at it and curling my finger around the trigger but not pressing. I don’t even know how to check for bullets, much less take them out. I swallow hard.

This is the Bay. I guess I should’ve known they’d have weapons. It’s not uncalled for and no reason to worry. Especially given how many people Macon pisses off. I would probably think it odd if he didn’t have one. Careless, even.

And also, he was in the Marines. He was trained how to use it. I don’t think they’re allowed to keep their service weapons, but it’s entirely possible he’s had his own for years.

But the mess in the room …

I look around at all the clothes, the shit piled on his dresser.

Macon’s not like this.

Keeping the gun in my hand, I close the drawer and turn to walk out, but I see the rafter in the corner of the room, posted between the two walls. A small, thin groove dents the wood, the color stain worn away to reveal the natural tone underneath. That’s where the rope was. From his mom.

I flex my jaw. My God, why does he sleep in here? I run from the room, scanning the hallway as I dash into Liv’s room and stash the weapon in the back of her closet.

But I pause, my hand still wrapped around the grip. What if the gun really is for self-defense? Should I be hiding it? What if he needs it?