I could hear my brother talking in a muffled voice downstairs. The old memories were starting to swim to the surface. I couldn’t deal with that. They’d be fighting in two seconds, Cross was in the mix.

Yes. I was sure.

Cross was standing in front of the door, arms crossed over his chest as I came down the stairs.

My dad was standing just inside the door, to the right. He was throwing a look my brother’s way, while alternating with a different one toward Cross. His eyebrows were furrowed, and the sides of his mouth were turned down.

I’d been more shocked at seeing him the last time, seeing him out of prison, so I hadn’t really taken him in. This time I did. No one looked up at me. I was still barefoot, so I was silent, and I paused, taking a moment, taking a breath, and really looked at my dad.

He’d always been trim, almost lean, but there was slightly more bulk to his frame now. I was guessing from lifting weights in prison. His hair was kept the same, trimmed, but it always pushed the line between being trimmed down and starting to get a little curl to it. He had it almost military shaved this time. No beard. No mustache that he used to keep. He was tan, but he’d always been tanned. And he liked to wear frayed, yet baggy, jeans along with a white shirt and a jean jacket over it. The shirt was usually stained. The jacket was always tossed on to cover the stain, so the jacket ended up frayed to match the jeans. It’d been his go-to attire, and that was the biggest difference now.

He was still wearing jeans with rider boots, but his jeans were new. They were almost trendy jeans.

I felt a little kick to my sternum because I didn’t know how I felt about that.

New jeans. A belt, for the first time I ever saw one on him, and a buttoned-up shirt. Dark blue to match his jeans. It almost looked denim, but it wasn’t. But that wasn’t it. He had a tie, too. A dark gray tie.

I reached out without thinking, grasping the handrail, and I squeezed.

I didn’t know why I was squeezing.

He looked like someone who was coming from church, and that gave me pause.

I must’ve made a noise.

All three looked up, but those eyes—they were mine.

I sucked in a breath at that.

I knew. I always knew, but in the past few years, I had started to dream that I had Mom’s eyes. I didn’t. Channing did. Me. I had our dad’s eyes. And his hair because I was remembering that he spent so much time outside that his hair had gotten sun streaks from it. Not now. It was dark like mine, though mine was still darkened black from this summer.

I wanted new hair for a new chapter in my life.

Having him here, he was bringing an old chapter back, a lot of old chapters back, actually.

My heart started pounding. My vision started to swim.

I didn’t know how I was feeling about any of this.

“Hey.”

There. I drew in another harsh breath, because that was Cross. Low, gravelly, and smooth at the same time. He was my anchor. That voice, I clung to it, and let it pull me back in. I felt it readying my world again, making everything go back to equilibrium.

I turned my head, finding Cross and only Cross.

His eyes were narrowed slightly, concerned, but also patient. I saw it all, and I felt it all.

He’d let me lead.

I gave him a slight nod, and he returned the motion, moving back a little as I descended the rest of the stairs.

Channing was standing in the small clearing that led past the stairs and in front where the television was. It was the way to the kitchen.

He didn’t look like he’d slept either. His hair was sticking up, like he’d been grabbing at it. Unlike Cross, my brother had pulled on some sweats that rested on his hips, and like Cross, he was also shirtless. His tattoos seemed to stand out more this morning for some reason. It might’ve been my concussion. Everything was brighter, more detailed, more blinding.

The scowl on my brother’s face was almost more glowering than I remembered last night.

Then, because I had to address him, I lifted my gaze and felt another piercing effect. His eyes were on me, searing me, looking into me. They were warm. Sparkling. Almost glittering. And he was looking me all over, tracing my face, looking down, taking in my toes, sweeping back up, and as he did, I warmed under the scrutiny. I didn’t know why.

Yes, you do.

I paused, hearing my own voice mixed with my mother’s voice whispering in my head.

She/I was right.

Me and Dad. That’s how it’d been for so many years.

Mom was gone. Channing was gone. It’d been him and me. There’d been bad years, but there’d been good, too.

My throat swelled up, remembering that last night so many years ago.

In my room.

Hearing his footsteps going to bed.

Feeling that guy with me, hoping, praying, needing a miracle that he would check on me, and then he did. But he didn’t open the door.

I needed him to open the door.

Then his hands, and his words when he did come in, after I stabbed the guy, and after I was getting ready to finish the job.

“Bren.”

I forgot he said that.

I rocked back, almost falling until a hand touched my arm. Cross. His strength moved through me, and I clung to it, remembering. I was allowing myself to remember.

I was straddling the guy, already stabbing him.

Then, a hand to my arm. My dad. He was so gentle at that moment.

“Bren. Sweetheart.” He drew me off of him, setting me on my feet, while at the same time taking my knife in his own hand. He moved, touching my shoulders and guiding me to the door. “Go, Bren. I don’t want you to see this.”

He thought I went to the door.

He thought I left.

And he turned, the guy had made a gurgling sound.

My dad didn’t look to make sure I was gone. He just knelt and finished what I’d been about to do.

It all hit me right then, all at the same time.

I’d forgotten what he said exactly, and the aftermath, how he saw I hadn’t left, but he wasn’t mad. He took a deep breath, the sound of both of us panting in that quiet room, sounding like deafening echoes to my eardrums.

He crossed the room, took the phone, and dialed 9-1-1. He held it to me, saying, “You should be the one to call.” He nodded to the guy. “I’m the one who did it all. Not you. Got that?”

I swallowed all those emotions as I was brought back to the present, feeling tears threatening to fall. I said, my voice shaking and in a whisper, “Hi, Dad.”

“No.”

Channing broke the tense silence that had fallen over the room.

He moved forward. “No. This is enough. You came here? To her house? Just go.” He rubbed between his eyes. “We will come to you. I’ll bring her to you.”

Derrick.

I was going to use his first name because it felt wrong to call him Dad. He wasn’t, not really, not anymore.

Derrick turned to him, a gleam of pain tightening his features, but he masked it. His jaw clenched, and his Adam’s apple moved up and down. “Channing—”

“Don’t Channing me either. You’re here for her, not for me…and by the way, are you actually here for her? I had a word with her boss yesterday. He filled me in a whole bunch about Red Demon activity. Your timing is suspect—”

Derrick glanced my way but didn’t say anything.

Well, leave it to me because I would say what I needed to. “I called him. Channing—”

“No.” Channing looked my way. His eyes were burning, blazing. “I knew you would, Bren. He knew you would because that’s who you are. You handle things eventually, but I told him.” He swung back to Derrick. “I told you to call me before even thinking of heading her way. I told you.”

“I know.”

Channing tipped his chin up, his anger radiating off of him in waves. “Then why are you here?”

Derrick held his hand in the air, then he blinked a few times. The side of his mouth flattened, and he swallowed again. “I’m—she called me, Channing. My daughter called me. You’ll understand one day, too. I came. I didn’t want to give you the chance to stop me. I—” He swung his hand toward me in an almost helpless gesture. “She called me. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, and she called me. Me, dammit.”

He was whispering by the end, pain filling his gaze, and he hung his head.

Channing drew in a sharp breath, seeing it all.

He looked at me. “You want this?”

He was trying to protect me.

“I—” I closed my mouth because what could I say here? He was finally being my brother, something he’d fought to achieve for so long, and I was letting him. I needed it now, welcomed it, but … He was our dad, both of ours.

Channing’s next words were stricken, cutting to the bone. “You got so dark, Bren. So dark. I thought we were going to lose you one day.”

Derrick closed his eyes, as if physically struck. Then he held firm, standing still.

He was doing what I used to do, standing so still that I thought I could disappear.

I was so like him.

I hadn’t realized it until now.

“I have to talk to him, and it’s time. Things are happening. His world is mixing with mine, so I made a call.”

Channing’s gaze held mine, weighing my words, and he dipped his head down. “Fine.” His hands went to his hips. He cursed. “I should put a shirt on.” He eyed Cross. “That’s what you sleep in? When you sleep next to my sister?”