Page 172 of Five Brothers

For a while after he split, I thought he wasn’t seeing us because he was in Atlanta. Settling into his new office. New house.

Then I found out he never left town.

He must’ve known I’d see him eventually. He didn’t even try to prepare me. As if my reaction wouldn’t faze him.

As if I no longer mattered.

That’s how quickly things can change.

It’s amazing how people smile at you and kiss you on the forehead and they never wanted to be there. I can’t say much surprises me anymore.

At least now I know a little more about myself because of my parents’ actions. I will be fierce about my family someday.

I slip through the door to the racquetball court and make my way for the clubhouse entrance again.

Clay’s dad shakes off his long coat, letting the host take it while his dinner party laughs and moves into the dining room ahead of him. My father cheated on my mother, and I can’t stand him. Clay’s dad cheated on her mom, and still, I don’t think he’s a bad guy. The tragedy they endured—the loss of Clay’s little brother—is something I hope never to experience, and I wouldn’t have the audacity to judge.

I pluck a stuffed mushroom off the tray heading in after them and lock eyes with my best friend’s dad, smiling. “Thanks for defending my honor, Mr. Collins.”

And I pop the mushroom into my mouth, not stopping to chat as he turns toward me.

My own dad is undoubtedly aware that Jerome Watson is circulating a picture of me. I don’t think he punched him like Mr. Collins did.

I hurry down the driveway, but someone grabs my hand. “What are you doing here?” Army asks.

I spin around, but he presses his finger to my lips before I can speak.

He pulls me across the green, around the clubhouse, to an unmarked door underneath the patio porch overhead.

I know the door.

The Wolfe Room.

He yanks me inside, and we head down a nearly pitch-black stairwell.

I step into a room, seeing Dallas and Trace standing next to a table full of beer bottles.

Army releases me. “Why are you here?” he asks again.

Why shouldn’t I be?

Instead, I ask, “Why are you here?”

“We work here, remember?”

Trace and Dallas remain quiet.

They shouldn’t be in here. Not in this room. I’ve never even been in here before. I glance around, taking note of a few leather chairs and some nice landscape art on the walls.

But very dark and moody. And very little to do. From what I can see anyway. No TV, no bar, not even bookshelves. As if the entertainment is brought in. I look up, seeing several compartments in the roof. I drop my eyes, shifting in my Converse.

“I had something to do,” I finally admit.

I’ve been here a hundred times. Did they forget I’m from St. Carmen?

Army approaches me. “Why are you keeping secrets?”

“It’s fun.” I grin. “I’m feeling very Harley Quinn. I just completed a covert operation all by myself.”