Mom and Dad, driving home from dinner. Craig hadn't been there. Said he'd been out of town that weekend, showed up two days after the funeral with red eyes and a story about bad cell reception.
But there'd been other things. Small details that hadn't made sense at the time. The way the police report mentioned brake failure. How Craig had been the last person to work on Dad's car, claimed he was just helping out, being a good son.
Zack's mind went blank. Completely, utterly blank. Like someone had flipped a switch and shut down every thought except one.
Craig did it.
Understanding crashed over him in cold, nauseating clarity. Not an accident. Not bad luck or faulty parts or any of the explanations everyone had accepted without question. His brother had done something to their parents' car. He’d killed them.
“Why?” The word scraped out of his raw throat, barely more than a whisper.
“Dad kicked me out.” Craig straightened, hands sliding into his pockets like they were discussing the weather. “Said I was too aggressive, too much of a problem. Told me not to come back until I got my shit together.”
Horror mixed with the pain still radiating through Zack's torso. He stared up at his brother, seeing him clearly for the first time. Not the troubled kid who'd always had a temper. Not the sibling who just needed understanding. A killer. Someone who'd murdered their own parents because he got kicked out.
“You were always aggressive toward them,” Zack managed, each word an effort. “They were trying to help you.”
Craig shrugged, the gesture so casual it made Zack's stomach turn. “Didn’t matter. Dad was too controlling. Always telling me what to do, how to live my life. Got tired of it.”
Indifference. Pure, complete indifference. Like he was talking about throwing away old clothes instead of ending two lives.
“You think you’re so much better than me.” Craig’s voice dripped venom, each word landing like another blow. “Living here with your fancy new boyfriend, acting like you've moved on. Like you’re too good for your own brother.”
Still kneeling on the floor, Zack watched his brother's hand slide around to his back. Muscles tensed throughout his body, screaming at him to move, but breathing still came in shallow gasps that made his ribs ache.
Metal glinted in the early-morning light streaming through the window.
Craig’s fingers wrapped around something tucked into his waistband, and when his hand came forward again, a small serrated knife gleamed in his grip. Rust spotted the handle, and the blade caught the light in jagged teeth that promised nothing clean.
“Should've done this years ago.” Craig’s thumb ran along the blade's edge, almost lovingly. “Gonna gut you like the pig you are.”
Terror flooded through Zack’s veins, cold and electric. Every nerve ending lit up with primal fear, the kind that bypassed thought and went straight to survival instinct. His stomach clenched so hard he thought he might vomit, and his vision tunneled until all he could see was that knife, those serrated edges, the casual way Craig held it like he’d done this before.
Adrenaline finally overrode the pain. Zack scrambled backward on his hands and knees, feet slipping on the hardwood as he tried to gain purchase. Craig lunged forward, blade arcing downward, and Zack threw himself sideways. The knife missed his shoulder by inches, close enough that he felt the displacement of air.
Grabbing the edge of the couch, Zack hauled himself upright. His legs wobbled, threatening to give out, but he forced them to hold. Every breath still hurt, ribs protesting the sudden movement, but staying down meant dying.
Craig charged.
Zack bolted toward the kitchen, feet pounding against the floor. If he could just get to the knife block, grab something to defend himself—
Strong fingers caught the back of his shirt, yanking him backward. Momentum carried both of them into the coffee table. Wood cracked under their combined weight, the sound splitting through the apartment like a gunshot.
Landing hard on his side knocked what little air Zack had managed to recover right back out of his lungs. Craig’s weight pressed down on him, crushing, suffocating. The knife flashed again, and this time Zack caught his brother's wrist with both hands.
Muscles in Craig’s arm strained against his grip, pushing the blade closer. Serrated teeth hovered inches from Zack’s face, close enough to see the individual notches in the metal. Both of them shook with effort, locked in a struggle that Zack was rapidly losing.
Craig was stronger. Always had been. Years of working construction sites and bar fights had built muscle that Zack’s waiter shifts could never match.
But Zack wasn't giving up.
Twisting his hips, he bucked upward with everything he had. Craig’s balance shifted just enough for Zack to wrench one hand free and slam it into his brother's jaw. The punch lacked power, barely more than a slap, but it surprised Craig enough to loosen his grip.
Zack shoved hard, rolling out from under his brother's weight. Broken coffee table pieces scattered across the floor, and he grabbed one—a leg that had snapped off clean—and swung it like a club.
Wood connected with Craig’s shoulder with a satisfying thud. A grunt of pain escaped his brother's lips, and for one glorious second, Zack thought he might actually win this.
Then Craig’s free hand shot out and caught Zack’s wrist, twisting until the makeshift weapon clattered to the floor.
