I rub the back of my neck, aware the tightness isn’t going away and that the sudden throb in my temples is likely only going to get worse. “I might be going out on a limb here, but I think it’s our dad’s sex fetish room.”

“Huh.” He drops the onesie on the edge of the bed. Upon closer inspection it looks more like a wolf costume. “Well, this might explain why our parents didn’t sleep in the same room.”

I clear my throat, a million new questions cropping up. Like, did my mother know? How long had this been going on? Who in the actual fuck would entertain this level of weird? “It might.”

He crosses over to the wall of costumes and pulls a red number off the rack. “I think this is supposed to be a Little Red Riding Hood getup.” He checks under the cape and holds up a very lacy, lingerie-style dress. “You think he dressed up like fairytale characters? It kinda reminds me of like those people who dress up as mascots or whatever and screw each other. I went to a party like that once. Some chick dressed like Princess Leia was getting banged by Chewbacca. It was kinda hot.”

“Can you shut up before I punch you in the face?”

“You can’t punch me in the face. We have that event coming up and that would piss Wren off, and she’ll blame me when it’s your fault.”

“Fine. Shut up before I punch you in your tiny needle dick.”

“It’s not tiny; it’s average,” Armstrong fires back, as if it even matters.

“No. It’s not. There’s even an online support group for the women you’ve been with called the Armstrong Moorehead Needle Dick Support Group.” I’m making this up, clearly. I have no idea if there’s a group for my brother’s unfortunate castoffs, but if there is, I imagine that would be the name of it.

“That’s a lie.” He motions to his crotch. “I’m definitely average.”

“Compared to what? A Chihuahua?” I wave him off. “Your less-than-averageness doesn’t matter, Armstrong. What matters is that this place has clearly been used, probably regularly, and our father obviously had some weird sexual quirks, so there has to be at least one woman out there who knew about this who likely isn’t our mother.”

He stares blankly at me for a few seconds before he finally replies. “So?”

“So?” I throw my hands in the air. “Who is she? Why was our father living this alternate life where he played dress up and did whatever the fuck they did in here?”

Armstrong shrugs. “Lots of people like weird sex stuff. Take Amalie, for instance. She was obsessed with sex toys.”

“That’s because the only person you worry about getting off when you are having sex is yourself. You have to take care of your partner’s needs.” I don’t even know why I’m bothering to say any of this. It’s not as if Armstrong has the capacity to think beyond himself.

“She had too many needs. And she didn’t know how to behave like a wife. Only mistresses should give noisy blow jobs. Like Imogen. She was very good at being quiet. She would’ve made a good wife if she hadn’t gotten pregnant. Now Wren would probably make a good fuck. She’s so uptight. I bet she’s hardly been worked in at all.”

The more he speaks, the more my skin crawls, and my disbelief mounts. His view on women is barbaric, vile, and demented. So I do the only thing I can that will make him stop and make me feel better. I cock a fist and punch him in the stomach. He drops to the floor, clutching his gut, gasping for breath.

We used to get into it when we were kids. Not a lot, because I wasn’t around all that much past the age of ten, but whenever I came home from boarding school, there was sure to be at least one decent scrap.

Armstrong is four years younger, so he couldn’t really fight back at the time. He’d pull cheap shots, and I’d have to take it because he was too young to know better, at least that’s what my mother thought. Armstrong knew he could get away with it, since I’d be the one to catch heat if I retaliated.

But now, he’s just a jackass with a big mouth and zero morals.

I straddle him and bend down, fisting his tie near his throat. “You narcissistic bastard.”

He grips my fist with both of his, manicured nails digging into my skin, and his mouth opens and closes as he gasps for air. I realize I’m at the edge right now, that what I’ve found out about my father explains nothing and everything. And that my brother seems to think his misogynistic, archaic beliefs are acceptable is really more than I can handle.