Page 50 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

M att takes one look at Toby before he starts, “Wow, you look like—” Toby manages to clap his hands over Haley’s ears just as Matt finishes with, “—shit.”

Toby gives him a faux smile. “Thank you. You always know how to boost my confidence.”

“Like shit,” Haley repeats, not without relish.

“You’re not supposed to listen when he says stuff like that.” Toby removes his hands before he plucks the gift-wrapped dreamcatcher from his pocket. He pretends not to notice Matt’s heavy stare. “Brought you something,” he tells Haley. “It’s from Ecuador.”

“Ecuador,” Matt repeats. “Is Ecuador the reason you look like Jada just stamped all over your heart again?”

It’s a low blow. They made a deal not to bring Jada up in casual conversation, and Matt’s usually pretty good at it—unless he’s worried, which means Toby really must look as shitty as he feels. It’s no big deal, he just hasn’t been sleeping well.

Haley stops shaking the parcel to frown at her father. “We don’t say her name.” Her lips purse. “It makes Bas sad.”

“I’m sorry, Princess. You’re right, of course.” Matt follows it up with a narrow-eyed glance that tells Toby the topic isn’t dropped, just parked for the moment.

With a satisfied expression, Haley returns her attention back to the parcel, and Matt crouches down to get a better look. It’s a rushed wrapping job, two pages Toby tore out of an advertising brochure and tried to shape into some kind of gift-appropriate form—his skills lie elsewhere. As Haley tears right through the paper, it’s not like it matters.

She retrieves the dreamcatcher with a look of delight.

“The man who sold it swore that it really works,” Toby tells her. “Put it up over your bed, and all your bad dreams go away. Like a mosquito candle that makes all the mosquitos stay away.” He almost smiles at the memory of Mike faking a keen interest in the science of dream catching; how does it distinguish between good and bad dreams; does the effect lessen after a certain number of absorbed dreams?

“How nice,” Matt says, sugar dripping from his tone. “Why don’t you look for a good spot right now, sweetie? We can test it tonight.”

Matt’s not subtle. But then, he isn’t trying to be.

The moment Haley leaves the room, Matt prods Toby over to the couch, tells him to sit your ass down, and gets two beers from the fridge. He joins Toby with a weary sigh, passing one bottle over before he lifts his beer in a lazy toast. “So. Will you be moving in with us again?”

Toby gives the couch a loving pat. It’s a purple monstrosity that Haley’s mom picked, but it’s comfortable. “I’ve got very fond memories of this couch. It’s been my faithful companion for several months, so there’s always a chance I’ll be back for more.”

“I’m serious.” Matt’s tone is entirely devoid of good humor, and that happens so rarely that it pulls Toby up short.

Taking a sip of beer, he waits for the taste to fade, then tips his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “Don’t worry about me.”

Matt’s response consists of unimpressed silence.

“It’s work-related,” Toby tells him. “Sort of.”

“So you can’t tell me.” Matt doesn’t sound bitter, just resigned.

“I...” Toby trails off, glances over. My sister has a general idea. He trusts Matt; that’s not the issue. But would Matt enjoy hearing that his older brother routinely kills people? They’re bad people, granted, but they’re still people.

Then again, Matt may be mistaking him for an internationally operating criminal, so the truth might be a pleasant surprise.

Toby swallows another gulp of beer. “My work is not illegal, if that’s what you think. Honestly, I haven’t so much as disobeyed the speeding limits in a while.” Not in the U.S., at least—anywhere else, he’s had reasonable cause.

“Okay,” Matt says slowly. He rolls his beer bottle between his hands and keeps watching Toby.

“Okay.” Toby looks away after a beat, out the window, but the sky holds only clouds, no answers. He has to find his own: truth or flare?

“If I wanted to break into this apartment” —he lifts one shoulder and doesn’t look at Matt— “I can think of three different ways I could get in, all of them promising because you don’t care about security and always leave the windows in the bathroom and Haley’s room ajar. You should stop doing that, by the way.” He takes a sip of beer and focuses on his hands. “Hacking into your computer would take me three minutes, max, and if I wanted to destroy all evidence, I’d find everything I need to burn down the building in your bathroom and kitchen. Boom.”

No reaction from Matt; he’s sitting still and quiet.

“All in all,” Toby finishes, “I could be in and out in a quarter of an hour. Maybe less.”

A second of silence stretches into two, and three. It expands to fill up all space behind his forehead.

Matt snorts softly. “Am I supposed to be scared?” He props one foot up on the couch, turning slightly towards Toby. “Try harder, Bas. You could recycle those bedtime stories you told me, about red-eyed monsters in the cupboard that would creep out at night and eat my face? Only when I woke up, it was always you breathing on me, and hey, I was four. That was scary.”

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