Luckily, no one’s on the road when we finally reach the car. Grant slips the tarp off. Brendan watches curiously but doesn’t remark on it.
“You two can’t return to Blackwood, looking like that,” Grant says, unlocking the car. “I have a place we can go.”
I squeeze into the nonexistent backseat, so Brendan and his stork legs can sit in the front. Grant steers us away from the woods, leaving the clouds of black smoke in the distance. We pass fire trucks when we hit the main road. It seems like it’s taken them a long time to respond, but then again, the barn doesn’t have neighbors nearby. I wonder how they’ll reach the fire. Or maybe they’ll just make sure it doesn’t set the rest of the forest ablaze. Guess it’s a good thing it rained last night.
About fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling up to a house with a tall, peaked roof. It’s basically triangular, and the front of it is almost entirely made of windows with a few enormous beams of dark wood for support. The foundation and chimney are stone, and a huge deck wraps around the entire structure.
“Whose is this?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Our family’s,” Grant says, walking up the steps. “The entire Philips family, to be more specific. We share it in the winter, for skiing.”
“Oh,” I say, following behind Brendan. Why doesn’t anyone I know here own anything small? “It’s … impressive.”
“You’re talking about the house, right?” Brendan teases. I punch his arm. He chuckles. “Well, I don’t know how serious you two are.”
“We are none of your business.”
“But you are a we,” Brendan notes with interest.
“Shut it,” I threaten, walking past Grant, who’s holding the door open. “Can I take a shower?”
Now that we’re away from the burning barn, all I can smell is smoke. I feel like a walking campfire.
“Yeah, there’s a shower upstairs. And another in the master bedroom.”
“I’m not sharing,” Brendan tells Grant. “You two will have to make do with the master shower.” Brendan climbs the stairs without looking back at the stunned expression he left on Grant’s face.
“Shall we?” I offer, walking in the direction of what I think is the master bedroom.
“Take a right,” Grant directs as I’m about to enter the wrong room.
He follows me into a large bedroom with a king-size bed set in a dark wooden frame and enormous headboard.
“That way.” Grant nods.
Tearing my eyes away from the bed, I look at him.
He shakes his head and laughs. “Not sure where your head’s at, but you almost got burnt to a crisp. And your maybe brother is upstairs. That bed is not an option right now.”
“Oh, right. No,” I fumble. “Not what I was thinking. I smell like someone tried to roast hot dogs off my skin. Shower first.”
“First?”
“Just a shower,” I correct. “Then we tie Brendan to a chair and interrogate him.”
Grant raises a brow.
“I promise not to pull out his teeth or his fingernails. I’ll only poke him with a sharp blade a couple of times.”
Grant shakes his head, smiling. “Go shower. I’ll see if I can find clothes for you. My sister may have left some things behind.”
Sadly, I shower alone. I step out of the fogged glass stall, having stayed under the hot stream until the water went from black to clear. I had to scrub and wash everywhere at least twice. A T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants are waiting for me on the counter.
When I emerge, Brendan is on the deck, looking out at the forest and the mountain in the distance. He’s wearing a pair of shorts that are a little too big on him. Grant’s probably. His platinum hair is slicked back, hiding the cut somewhere beneath.
“How’s your head?” I ask him.
“Fine. How’s your temper?” He turns to face me, leaning against the railing.
“Under control … for now.”
“Come here.” He holds his arms out.
“Are you trying to make me cry again?” I accuse.
“Just get over here and fricken hug me,” he orders impatiently.
I walk over to him hesitantly, like I’m expecting him to take it back at any second. But when I’m within reach, he pulls me to him, and I stumble against his chest. He hugs me tight, and I swallow down the stupid tears, sniffling into his shirt.
“Are you crying again?”
“No, I’m blowing my nose on your shirt.”
He laughs and kisses the top of my head. “It’s not my shirt.”
“What are you doing to my shirt?” Grant asks from behind me.
I shove Brendan away and take a breath. “You better have answers.”
I spin away and enter the house. Brendan loiters behind me.
Grant offers each of us a glass of water.
I chug half of it and then point to a chair. “Sit.”
Brendan huffs but complies. He lowers onto a large, worn leather chair. I stand in front of him, my arms crossed. Grant pulls me from behind, and I holler in surprise when I land on his lap.
“Go easy on him,” he says into my ear, then adjusts me so I’m on the couch next to him.
“What do you want to know?” Brendan asks, steepling his fingers like an evil mastermind.
“Everything,” I insist, already frustrated. “You knew Vic, even before Joey and I mentioned him. How?”
“I can’t believe you broke into my room,” Brendan says incredulously, like I violated some sort of code of trust. “How did you—”
“Brendan,” I threaten through clenched teeth. “How do you know Vic?”
“From here,” Brendan answers but doesn’t.
“You’re going to make me strangle you,” I growl.
“I needed answers.” He shrugs. “But you know that.”
“Why would Vic have answers? Both his parents are dead. What could he know?”
Brendan stares at me wordlessly. I’m trying so hard not to lose my patience; it’s too easy for him to set me off—just by existing. I stand and position myself in front of him.
“Aren’t you the one who said that the truth is more interesting than any lie? So why lie about when your mother died?” I demand vehemently.
“Because the truth doesn’t have an explanation,” he snaps passionately. “I don’t know why she killed herself. She never left a note.” He leans back and looks out the window. “I’m the one who found her. But, yeah, I was fourteen, not four.”
Grant tugs on my hand, urging me to take a step back. I concede and drift over to the window to focus on the trees and calm down. Or try.
Brendan continues, “That school year, I lost it. I could barely function. When I finally went through everything my mother owned, searching for some sort of explanation, I found a letter from Julia Thorne. She had recently been diagnosed with cancer and wanted to make things right before she died. A month later, my mother was dead. That letter triggered something. My mother was always … unpredictable. But that letter sent her over the edge.”
“What did Julia need to make right?” I ask, trying to sort through what I know and still don’t. Too much is coming up on the unknown side of that list.