"Maggie." His voice cracked. "God, Maggie, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
I believed him.
I looked at my baby brother—hurt, scared, apologizing—and I believed every word.
"They think Mom left us something," he said. "Some hidden account or property. They've been interrogating me for days. I don't know what they want, but if we can just sign the trust documents, show cooperation, buy time—maybe we can figure out a way to escape together."
Together.
That word. That promise.
And I believed it. Because he's my brother. Because I raised him. Because family doesn't?—
The sob breaks free before I can stop it. Raw and ugly and coming from somewhere so deep I didn't know it existed.
He was never kidnapped.
The bruise on his face—probably self-inflicted. Or maybe one of the cartel enforcers hit him for taking too long. For not being convincing enough.
The split lip—makeup, maybe. Or real, but not from torture. From failure.
My baby brother stood in front of me three days ago with tears in his eyes and lies in his mouth, and I fell for every single one.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. But I can't unsee it. Can't unknow it.
Tyler wasn't a victim.
Tyler was the architect.
The memories keep coming, relentless and recontextualizing:
Tyler's new Tesla. "The company gave me a car allowance."
His downtown loft. "Great signing bonus with the promotion."
Always picking up the check. "Let me get this—I'm doing well."
Never wanting to talk about work details. "It's boring logistics stuff, you don't want to hear about it."
Canceling plans at the last minute. "Work emergency, sorry sis."
Not answering calls for days. "Sorry, crazy week."
Every single red flag I explained away because I trusted him.
Because he was my responsibility.
Because Mom made me promise on her deathbed:Take care of your brother. He needs you.
And I did. I gave up college. Joined the Army so he could stay in school. Worked overtime so he'd have spending money. Made sure he had everything Mom wanted him to have.
I loved him.
And he sold me.
The grief is physical. It's not crying—it's something rawer than that. It's my body trying to reject a reality it can't process. Shaking and heaving and making sounds I don't recognize.
I loved him.
