Page 76 of Five Brothers

I pick up the plate in front of the little girl, inspecting that shit that’s popular in homes with women. Thank God Macon eighty-sixed that crap the day he took over. The only green things I eat are jalapeños.

“Krisjen, what are you doing to these kids?” I eye the little girl. “You want to eat this?”

But the middle schooler next to her pulls down his headphones instead. “Who are you?” Mars asks.

I like the scowl on his face. It’s protective.

I pick up the grilled cheese on Paisleigh’s plate and take a bite.

The butter hits my tongue, and my taste buds fucking implode. “It’s actually pretty good,” I tell Army.

There’s ham on it, and the cheese is on the outside of the bread. Weird, but massively edible.

Krisjen sets her hands on her hips. “It’s croque monsieur.”

“Croque what?” I try to ask, but my mouth is full, and she just rolls her eyes at me.

Army takes it. “Looks like ham and cheese to me.” He bites off a hunk, his eyebrows shooting up and nodding at me in approval.

“Haven’t we seen enough of each other?” Krisjen asks.

But I look at the kids. “You guys want ice cream for dinner?” Paisleigh nods so hard her head nearly falls off.

But Mars is skeptical. “You’re the Jaegers,” he says. Then, he looks to Army. “Are you Macon?”

“That’s Army,” Krisjen tells her brother and then points to me. “That’s Trace.”

“Come on.” I start to move for the door. “Get your shoes on. We’re going to make sundaes.”

“Yay!” the girl shouts.

“Trace!” Krisjen yells, but I ignore it.

I grab Dex from my brother and swing the one-year-old around my head, leading the way as the kids jump off their stools and follow.

“Is that your son?” Paisleigh asks as we walk out the door. “This?” I hold out the baby to her. “I found it outside. It’s not yours?”

She throws her head back, giggling. “Nooooo!”

I hear Krisjen growl behind me and finally hear her lock the front door, following.

Army and I strap the kids into the car, and I vaguely hear some grumbling behind me, but Krisjen climbs in, and we take off.

The drive isn’t far. We’re barely leaving her neighborhood, actually.

We turn right, climb a hill unusual to find in Florida, and thenswing left, the gas lanterns on both sides of the street coming into view and all lit.

A buzz spreads under my skin. Like it always does when I come here.

A canopy of trees hangs over the sidewalks, the soft glow of the lamps lighting the mild fog, making me feel like I’m nowhere near Sanoa Bay.

Nowhere near St. Carmen.

I remember the day I first worked on this street, and while it was beautiful, that’s nothing compared to how it looks at night. Like every house has a mom, and there’s an apple pie cooling on the windowsill.

Army stops in front of a 1930s Tudor-style cottage, white rock with patches of wear that charmingly reveal the natural brown underneath. The second floor has a lone window where the roof meets at the point, and the shutters have clearly been repainted over and over for a hundred years.

A knocker that I know is an owl adorns the green front door, and unlike most homes that have square windows, this one features domed panes.