“You’re welcome,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets awkwardly. For that moment he reminds me of the old Officer Rodriguez—the skittish, subpar cop, instead of the crack investigator he turned out to be. “Hey, so, this is maybe not the time or the place,” he adds, hesitantly, “but … if you’re feeling well enough, my sister’s having a fall open house in a couple of weeks. She does it every year. She wants to meet you and Ezra. If you’re up for it.”
“She does?” I ask, surprised. I’d almost forgotten that Ryan has siblings.
“Yeah, but no pressure or anything. Just think about it. You can let me know later if you’re interested.” He smiles warmly and lifts one hand in a wave. Then he turns, disappearing into the hallway.
I sink back onto the thin pillow, my haze of tiredness suspended. I’ve almost gotten used to Ryan, but I’m not sure how to feel about even more strangers that I’m related to. Going from a family of three—four, with Nana—to this sudden influx of half siblings, their spouses, and their kids seems like a lot.
I kind of like the idea of a sister, though. Maybe a half one wouldn’t be bad.
There’s a rustling sound at the door, and the scent of jasmine. I half twist on the bed, and spy a cloud of dark curls framed in the doorway.
“Ellery,” Sadie breathes, her blue eyes sparkling with tears. Before I can remember that I’m mad at her, I’m returning her hug with every ounce of strength I have left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Malcolm
Saturday, October 26
“This kid hates me,” Declan says.
I don’t think he’s wrong. The six-month-old baby he’s holding is sitting stiff as a board on his knee, red-faced and screaming. Everybody at this party feels sorry for the kid, except Daisy. She’s beaming like she’s never seen anything so adorable.
“I can practically see her ovaries exploding,” Mia murmurs beside me.
“You’re holding him wrong,” Ezra says. He scoops the baby up in one deft motion, cradling him in the crook of his arm. “Just relax. They can tell when you’re nervous.” The kid stops crying and gives Ezra a giant, toothless grin. Ezra tickles his stomach before holding him out toward Declan. “Try again.”
“No thanks,” Declan mutters, getting to his feet. “I need a drink.”
A pretty, dark-haired woman climbs the porch stairs, squeezing Ezra’s arm as she passes. “You’re so good with him!” She’s the baby’s mother, Ryan Rodriguez’s sister, and we’re all hanging out at her house two weeks after Peter Nilsson’s murder attempt like everything’s back to normal.
I don’t know. Maybe it is, or maybe we’re finally figuring out that we haven’t been normal for years and it’s time to redefine the word.
Declan heads for a cooler in the backyard, and Mia nudges my arm. “No time like the present,” she says.
I glare at my brother’s back. “Why is it even my responsibility? He’s older. He should extend the olive branch first.”
Mia adjusts her cat’s-eye sunglasses. “You thought he was guilty of murder.”
“Yeah, well, Ellery suspected me at one point. I got over it.”
“Ellery had known you for less than a month then. She wasn’t your brother.”
“He didn’t even visit me in the hospital!”
She enunciates every word carefully. “You. Thought. He. Was. Guilty. Of. Murder.”
“I almost got murdered.”
“You could do this all day, or you could be the bigger person.” Mia waits a beat, then punches me in the arm. “At least he showed up.”
“All right, fine,” I grumble, and take off after Declan.
I wasn’t sure he’d be here. We’ve only spoken a couple of times since I was released from the hospital, mostly to sort stuff out related to Mom. That’s a mess; all of Peter’s assets are frozen, so she’s got nothing to her name except a bank account that won’t cover more than a couple months’ worth of expenses. We’ll be moving to Solsbury soon, and while I can’t get out of the Nilssons’ house fast enough, I don’t know what happens after that. Mom hasn’t worked in over a year, and my dad’s harder to reach than ever.
We got a semilucrative offer to tell our side of the story to a tabloid, but we’re not desperate enough to take it. Yet.
Declan’s at the far corner of the yard, pulling a frosted brown bottle from a blue cooler. He twists the cap off and takes a long sip, then catches sight of me and lowers the bottle. I’m a few feet away when I notice how white his knuckles are. “What’s up, little brother?”
“Can I have one?” I ask.
He snorts. “You don’t drink.”
“I might need to start.”
Declan reopens the cooler and plunges his hand into its depths, extracting a bottle identical to the one he’s holding. He hands it to me, expressionless, and I manage to get the top off without wincing when the sharp edges cut into my palm. I take a tentative sip, waiting for bitterness to explode in my mouth, but it’s not half bad. Smooth and almost honey flavored. I’m nervous and thirsty, and a quarter of the bottle is gone before Declan grabs my arm.
“Slow down.”
I meet his eyes, and force out the words I’ve been practicing for two weeks. “I’m sorry.”
Seconds pass that feel like minutes. I’m ready for just about any response; for him to yell at me, to walk away without saying anything, even to sock me in the jaw. The bruises from Kyle’s attack are almost gone, just in time for some new ones.
But Declan doesn’t do any of those things. He sips his beer, then clinks his bottle against mine. “Me too,” he says.
The bottle almost slips out of my hand. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“So you’re not …” I trail off. You’re not mad still seems impossible.
Declan looks back at the porch we left, squinting in the bright sun. It’s one of those incredible late-October days we get sometimes in Vermont, upper seventies with a cloudless blue sky, the trees around us exploding with color. Daisy is holding the baby now, talking earnestly with Ryan’s sister. Mia and Ezra are sitting side by side on the wooden railing, knees dangling and their heads bent close together. The sliding door to the house opens and a girl steps outside, dark curls bouncing around her shoulders.
I’ve been waiting for her to show up, but I guess I can wait to talk a little longer.