Page 2 of The Night We Lost Him

I smile, motion between them. “Do you two know each other?”

It’s a little unfair. I can count the number of times I’ve been in the same room as Sam. We didn’t see each other often while we were growing up. We see each other even less now that we’re adults. I’m the only child from our father’s first marriage. Sam is one of two kids from his second. You could argue that Sam and his twin brother, Tommy, are the reason there was a second marriage—their mother’s surprise pregnancy a small tip-off to the fact that my parents’ relationship wasn’t exactly working.

“Sam. What the fuck?” Morgan says. “You didn’t think this was something you should’ve mentioned?”

I’m not sure if the “this” she’s referring to is my brother hiring me without telling her who I am—or whether she’s referring to Sam even having a sister in the first place. I’m leaning toward the latter, but before Sam can answer her, Morgan’s phone buzzes with an incoming call. She mumbles that it’s their wedding planner. Then she disappears into the hallway to talk with her.

I turn back toward Sam, who gives me a smile. “It’s good to see you,” he says. “How have you been?”

“Why do you have to be so shady?” I ask.

His smile disappears.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for over a month. You haven’t returned any of my calls. But I’m the shady one?”

He has called me—that part is true. Since our father died, I’ve avoided his voice messages and a couple of cryptic emails. Our father hadn’t wanted a funeral, so I’ve avoided seeing my brother in person too.

The truth of the matter is that I don’t want to get into anything with Sam. History has shown me it’s best not to get into anything with him—or anyone from my father’s second family. From my father’s third family, for that matter.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

“You bought an eight-million-dollar brownstone to have a conversation?”

“It’s a pretty important conversation.”

I start reaching for the blueprints, putting them back in their tubes. “I’m late for my next client.”

“Morgan actually had you block out the rest of the afternoon, so…”

I don’t often take on residential projects like this brownstone anymore. But Morgan had paid a hefty retainer up front—the kind of retainer that gives me the latitude to do more of the work that I love the most, the kind of retainer that allows her to request extra hours of my time.

“Happy to void the check,” I say.

“Can we just sit and talk for a few fucking minutes?”

“I thought I made my position clear,” I say. “I don’t want Dad’s money. I didn’t want it when he was alive. I certainly don’t want it now.”

“I’m not here about that,” he says.

I look up, meet his eyes. A familiar hazy-green. My father’s green. They have the same eyes, same light hair, same skin. It stings, but I force myself to push that down.

It’s easier when I remind myself that my brother is only ever here about that. Even on the other side of our shared loss, he’s certainly not suddenly interested in us having a relationship. Which, as far as I’m concerned, is fine. I have no interest in having a relationship with Sam. And I have even less interest in having anything to do with my father’s company.

As I replied when I forwarded Sam’s latest email (Subject line: We need to talk) to my father’s lawyers, Sam can have anything of our father’s he wants. They all can.

“Take care of yourself, Sam,” I say.

I start walking toward the front door. The door that will lead me outside and down the front steps and away from here.

“Would you wait?”

I keep walking and I’m almost free. I’m free of him again and his family again and the world of them again.

And then, my hand on the doorknob, my brother says one thing. The only thing that would stop me.

“Nora. Dad’s death?” Sam calls out. “His fall…”

I stop moving. I don’t take my hand off the doorknob. But I do stop moving.

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