Ransom looked at Knox, who gave him a tiny nod. Ransom’s face shifted, just enough that I could see a truce forming behind the sarcasm.
Quaid appeared behind Ransom, filling the door. “Supper,” he said, one word enough for everyone.
Knox didn’t move. He just watched me, weighing every lie and half-truth I’d told in my life. “Paintings,” he said, voice almost soft. “He never showed me.”
I smiled, a little bitter. “Ask him. He’ll want you to.”
Knox nodded, then turned and left, boots muffled in the new silence.
I followed, the air behind me lighter than when I’d come in. I’d done it. I’d made my case. Now I just had to survive the rest of the night.
We didn’t even make it to supper before the next surprise hit.
Knox lingered by the side door, still processing, while Ransom and Quiad flanked me as we crossed the yard toward the main house. The sun was gone, but the windows glowed yellow, and you could hear the faint thump of someone—probably Bo—knocking around the kitchen like a kid left unsupervised with a bag of flour.
Knox hesitated at the bottom step, hand on my arm. “You got a picture?” he asked, like it was a thing that needed physical proof.
I pulled my phone from my back pocket, thumbs clumsy from the leftover adrenaline. I flipped to the folder where I’d been collecting the shots, every one a blurry treasure. I found the one I wanted—a photo of Bo hunched over the canvas, every muscle in his back alive, the colors burning off the painting like it was on fire.
The brothers crowded around, their shoulders bumping mine, Harlow peering over the top like a curious bear.
“Holy shit,” said Ransom, voice gone low and reverent. “That’s not what I expected.”
Uncle Cyrus, who’d joined from nowhere, let out a whistle. “That’s damn near genius,” he said.
Knox took the phone, holding it at arm’s length, then up close, then at a slant, like maybe the truth would change if he viewed it from a better angle. “How come I never saw this?”
I shrugged. “Ask him. But don’t tell him I showed you. He’s weird about it.”
Harlow grinned, all teeth and soft eyes. “He’s good. Like, really good.”
For a second, the night was gentle—brothers jostling and arguing, the photo passed around with something like pride.
Then, from inside the house, a scream tore through the windows.
It wasn’t just a yelp or a startled shout—it was the kind of scream that meant terror, or pain, or both. Every head snapped up.
Knox was already moving, boots hammering the porch. Ransom and Quiad were a half-step behind. I didn’t even think—I just ran, legs eating up the ground in three big strides, the door flying open before my hand touched the knob.
Inside, the air was thick with burnt sugar and fear. Bodean was nowhere in sight, but the scream had come from the stairs.
I took the steps two at a time, the old boards sagging under my weight. At the top, the hallway was a tunnel of cold light, all the bedroom doors wide open.
Another scream, higher this time, echoing off the plaster.
It was Bo’s voice.
I slammed down the hall, shouldered past Ransom as he fumbled with a door, and burst into the guest room.
Bo was on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, arms locked around them. His face was white as paper, eyes huge. He didn’t see me—not at first—but when I called his name, he snapped into focus.
“Jo,” he said, voice shredded. “He’s here. He’s in the house—”
I grabbed his arms, hauled him off the bed and into my chest. “Who’s here?” I demanded, scanning the room.
He shook, teeth chattering. “Westbrook. I saw him, Jo, I fucking saw him—”
There was movement in the hallway—heavy, purposeful footsteps. I spun, body on autopilot, bracing for a fight. But it was only Knox, shotgun cradled in his arms. He looked past me, saw Bo shaking, then scanned the rest of the room with a cop’s precision.
