I wanted to tell him I’d rather be poor and struggling than live the life he planned for me, but I was too scared to step out of line. Not to mention, our family was already falling apart at the seams; if I didn’t try to hold us together, who would?
After practice, I drove my BMW S2 Coupe down Ridge Road to our family home. I idled in the driveway, staring at the big house on the water. Narragansett Bay lay behind it, our speedboat docked in the backyard. (The yacht was at the marina, of course.) I should’vefelt grateful, but being rich wasn’t the same as being happy. This house was just a fancy prison.
I parked in the garage. Jack was already home—his beat-up Camaro sat outside, ready for a quick getaway. Dad’s black sedan was there too. He was home early, and I knew why.
I sighed. “Time to meet the warden.”
Inside, I passed through the enormous kitchen, which had bay views and was filled with the scents of Belinda’s dinner.
“Hello, Miss Emery,” she said, stirring a pot of something on the state-of-the-art gas stove. “How was your first day?”
“Fine,” I said, offering her a smile. A real smile. “Smells delicious.”
She beamed like a grandmother—she was pushing seventy and had been with us since Grant was a baby. Then her smile tightened. “Mr. Wallace would like to see you in his study right away.”
My stomach twisted. “I’m sure he does.”
“Will you please tell Mr. Jack?” Belinda asked. “I reminded him when he came in, but he muttered something and stormed off.”
Probably “Tell Dad to go to hell.”
“I’ll get him.”
I moved through the house, past the dining room, two sitting rooms, and the formal living room, until I reached the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. No trace of Mom’s Chanel No. 5 in the air—she must be out at some late luncheon or charity meeting. Whichever one had more vodka.
Jack’s and my bedrooms were on the left wing. Very loud, very angry music thumped behind his door.
“Jack?” I knocked. “Dad wants to see us.”
I thought he’d ignore me—as usual—but the music went quiet, and Jack threw open the door. His T-shirt and jeans looked slept in and rumpled, his hair long and messy, and his blue eyes were ringed with dark circles.
“Ah yes, our first day of school tradition,” he sneered, crowdingme away from his door so he could slip out and shut it behind him. “Let’s get this over with.”
We took the stairs down, Jack just ahead. One year older than me and my total opposite: dark-haired to my blond, tall to my short, angry and rebellious to my obedient and dutiful. Our parents pretended that Grant never existed, so grieving for him was out of the question. I stuffed all my pain down, letting it out in little bits when I couldn’t take it anymore, but Jack wore his out in the open.
Our brother’s death had torn him apart so badly, he needed to repeat the sixth grade. I thought us both of in the same year would bring us closer together, but every day, Jack grew farther and farther away.
“I didn’t see you today,” I offered in a friendly tone. “I guess we don’t have any classes together.”
“Guess not,” he muttered.
“Too bad. That would’ve been kind of fun—”
“Can we not, Emery?” Jack snapped. “I’m not in the mood for your fucking chitchat.”
I recoiled at his cold snap. Moments like these reminded me that no matter how hard I tried to push it down, I couldn’t help but feel that when Grant died, I lost two brothers.
At Dad’s study, Jack knocked on the door but didn’t wait for a response before throwing it open and striding inside. Not for the first time, I wondered how he and I could share so much DNA when he was far braver than me. I followed him in and quietly shut the door behind me.
“You beckoned?” Jack drawled.
Two huge windows overlooking the bay bathed the study in amber twilight, but somehow the room still seemed dark. Heavy drapes and floor-to-ceiling bookcases took up almost every wall. A sitting area with a couch, table, and two chairs was in the center of the room, while my father sat behind a large mahogany desk. Behind him, a fireplace, now cold.
Dad didn’t look up from his desktop as we entered but typed in his slow, methodical way, his half-moon reading glasses perched at the end of his nose. At nearly sixty, Grayson Wallace was thin and balding, the top of his head gleaming in the lamplight. He wasn’t big or imposing; his intimidating aura came from within. A prickly barbed force field surrounded him, and his eyes were like two shards of colorless glass that cut right through you. Like now, as he looked up at my brother and me.
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating the leather chairs in front of his desk.
I sat and rested my backpack on my lap. Jack was slower, sliding into the chair and slouching down.
