“But yours do?” Her chair creaks as she leansback. “Even though he’s the one with actual money and connections?”
“Money and connections don’t validate someone’s opinions.” The words come out harsher than intended. “And we’ve managed fine without his help.”
“Have we?” Her textbook snaps closed. “Is managing the reason why the heat only works half the time? Why we eat rice and beans every day of the week? Why you work two jobs, and we can barely afford suppressants?”
The truth of her words stings, salt in an already open wound. “We get by.”
“Getting by isn’t the same as living,” she counters. “And you’re so afraid of owing anyone that you won’t even consider accepting help when it’s offered.”
My grip tightens on the knife handle. “You don’t understand what accepting help from someone like Rowan would cost us.”
“I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” she says, gentler now. “He likes you, Ash.Really likes you. And you kicked him out because he was nice to me.”
“I kicked him out because he undermined my authority,” I correct her. “He gave you his number behind my back.”
“So what?” She throws up her hands. “He wastrying to help! Not everyone who offers help wants to control us.”
“In my experience, they do.” Learned that lesson while living on the street after I ran away from home.
“Rowan’s a good guy,” she insists. “And you’re avoiding him because you’re scared of what might happen if you actually let someone in.”
My hand slams down on the cutting board, the knife blade quivering with the impact. “I don’t need relationship advice from my teenage sister.”
“And I don’t need my paranoid brother treating me like a child,” she fires back. “If you don’t want to be with Rowan, fine. But don’t use me as your excuse.”
“This isn’t about Rowan.” But even to my ears, the lie sounds obvious. “This is about boundaries. This is about?—”
“Control,” she interrupts. “Everything with you is about control. The jobs you take, the hours you work, the money you squirrel away into different accounts. You’d rather kill yourself working than admit you need help.”
The nape guard digs into my skin, the strap tight across my windpipe as my breathing quickens. “I have everything under control.”
“Really?” The question comes louder, edged withfrustration. “Then why do we still live in this crappy apartment where gunshots wake us up at night? Why do I still have to take the long route home to avoid the dealer’s corner? Why?—”
Crack, crack, crack?—
My body moves before my mind registers what’s happening. The knife slips from my grip as I hurl myself across the kitchen toward Lena, whose mouth opens in a scream I can’t hear over the thunder in my ears. The living room window shatters and glass shards explode inward, catching light as they spray across our apartment and the dinner I’ll never finish cooking.
Lena’s scream, high and terrified, cuts off as I slam into her, the chair toppling backward. My arms wrap around her head and shoulders as we hit the ground, my body curling over hers in a protective shell.
Glass rains across the linoleum, tinkling as it bounces and settles. The sound mixes with my sister’s panicked breathing and my own thundering heartbeat in a horrifying soundtrack to the chaos that’s invaded our home.
“Stay down,” I hiss into her hair, my chest braced against her back, her face turned toward the floor beneath me.
More shots crack through the night air, fartheraway this time as the shooter moves down the street. Male voices shout obscenities, car doors slam, and tires squeal on asphalt. The entire incident lasts less than thirty seconds, but time stretches like taffy, each moment distinct.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder as they approach our neighborhood. A routine response in Brickwell, always minutes too late, always after the damage is done.
I remain frozen over Lena until the sirens pass beneath our window, blue and red lights painting strobe patterns across our ceiling. Only then do I loosen my grip, my fingers uncurling from where they’ve dug into her arms.
“Are you hurt?” I run my hands over her shoulders, down her arms, checking for injuries.
She shakes her head, her entire body trembling. “N-no. I don’t think so.”
I help her to her feet, steadying her when her knees buckle. Glass crunches beneath our shoes, and the autumn air rushes in through the shattered window, carrying the scent of gunpowder and burned rubber.
“Go to your room,” I tell her, steadier than I should be after what happened. “Stay away from the windows. I’ll check the damage.”
Lena backs away, ashen in the fading light. “What about you?”
