Page 39 of Five Brothers

The car veers into the wrong lane, and I jerk the wheel, correcting myself.

“What? Where are you?”

I check the clock on my dad’s dash, but it still reads 2:04 from when it stopped running years ago.

“Fox Hill,” he replies.

I clench the phone. No one’s playing golf this late. And the family men are home at dinner.

All that’s left are the plotters, pushers, and playboys—and twelve-year-olds who have “victim” written all over them. Dammit. “Be there in ten.”

I hang up before I scream at him. “Shit!” I whisper-yell, tossing the phone and kicking the floor. I hit the gas, flying to the country club and slowing down only while on Main Street, because a speeding ticket will just delay me more.

The highway curves to the right, but I keep straight, coasting between the two large stone pillars and down the dark drive. Trees line both sides of the private entrance, immediately secluding visitors in a quiet landscape that makes you feel like you’re deep in the country.

Without slowing down, I race past the guardhouse. The security detail checks in members as they arrive, but after six o’clock on a Sunday, it’s empty.

Cruising up to the clubhouse, I pull in behind a black Audi that I know belongs to Clay’s father because it’s new, and apparently a source of friction between him and her mom—his soon-to-be exwife. Something about frozen money until they decide how much belongs to who. Why do divorcing couples think that’s a good time to go buy a flashy car? I hope she takes it.Go, Mrs. Collins.

I crack my window, turn off the engine, and tilt my mirror, seeing Paisleigh’s head hanging off her neck like a tetherball. Taking my phone and keys, I climb out and close the door, dialing my brother.

He breathes hard in my ear.

“I’m here,” I tell him, checking that my sister is still asleep through the window. “Where are you?”

“Upstairs.”

“So come down.”

“They won’t let me.”

I freeze. “Who?”

But he just snickers. “Do you seriously have to ask?”

He hangs up, and I stick my phone in my pocket as the sprinklers kick on out on the course. The doorman peeks around the corner to see if I’m coming or not, but I just stand there.

I know who’s up there, and have a vague idea of what he wants. I also know that while he’s a little stupid, coercion is his strength.

Milo.

I lock the car doors and stalk up to the clubhouse. Rafe rushes to open the door, tucking his other hand behind his back as he smiles at me.

“Keep an eye on my sister, please?” I tell him.

He shoots up straight, glancing at my car. “Huh?”

“She’s asleep in the back seat,” I call out, running inside and up the stairs. “I’ll be quick! I promise!”

“Ms. Conroy!”

But I ignore his protest, swinging around the banister and down the hall to the right.

Mahogany paneling on the walls gleams in the soft light of the sconces, and I brush past the painting of my grandfather holding a cigar and standing next to a silver-haired Great Dane. He doesn’t have a Great Dane. Never did. He has four King Charles spaniels. And cigars make him sick.

Deer antlers jut from the wall, and I jump out of the way before I’m stabbed in the eye. I push through the closed door at the end of the hall, letting it fly open as I enter the Wainwright Room, andstare at my brother where he stands next to the two-seater table, waiting for me.

His blue eyes raise just enough but then drop quickly again. He knows he fucked up. I jerk my chin at him. “How did you get here?”

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