Page 2 of Brother's Keeper

That wasn’t true. I did very little of what he asked, but it was all I could manage considering the obstacles in my way.

Had I chosen incorrectly? Deceived the wrong person? I’d followed Grimm’s orders, like always. I heard once that was the definition of insanity: doing the same thing and expecting different results. If someone told me I was crazy now, I wouldn’t doubt them.

A barn swallow dipped under the porch, swooping into a mud nest stuck to the overhanging roof. Babies poked up hungry heads at their mother’s arrival, chirping in chorus.

This was wrong. Sunshine and birds, air scented by magnolia blossoms, and everything light and bright when all of me was so damn angry. I thought I had an escape, a way out from under Grimm’s crushing heel, but the door slammed shut in my face. Figuratively. Why Maximus hadn’t tried to close his actual door on me yet remained a mystery.

“Holland said I could be an investigator one day. Was that true?” Now I was really reaching, dredging up every dashed hope and hurt feeling to fling in the old man’s face.

Maximus’s features shifted into something so near pity it made my skin crawl.

“Forget it.” I shook my head. “Forget I asked that.”

I must have looked pathetic standing on his porch in the middle of the afternoon, asking questions I wouldn’t get answers to. It didn’t matter why Maximus ordered my death. Any one of a hundred reasons would suffice. And it didn’t matter whether Holland’s offer had been the truth or a lie because it would never happen now.

“Fitch,” Maximus began after a pause. “Why are you here?”

My gaze traveled into the house beyond him. It was a study in splendor. A place with which I’d once been so familiar. Part of a life long lost to me; something else I’d never get back.

Swallowing, I met his eyes.

“I came to kill you.”

The weeks following myvisit to Maximus Lyle were eventful. I resumed work at the Capitol as a consultant, now under Grimm’s supervision. He wasted no time filling Maximus’s shoes, turning over Jacoby Thatcher’s position to Avery incognito, and leaving the gang in the care of God knew who.

I tried to stay out of it and kept Donovan clear, as well. My most successful effort toward that end happened yesterday, funded by money Holland insisted the Capitol refund me for the cost of repairs to the Porsche.

Today, I was playing show and tell with my brother, dragging him across town on a joyride in my newly repaired car and ending here.

I led the way along the boardwalk that bordered the ocean. Small waves crested, and the sun beamed across them, casting everything in stark, bright light. Pointing out the boats bobbing in their slips, a bank of mailboxes,dumpsters, and the waste station, I might have been overselling the place.

Still, disappointment stung me when Donovan said, “It’s a dump.”

His expression was full of disdain for the houseboat tethered to the dock.

“A dump?” I frowned. “And the motel wasn’t?”

He shrugged and walked ahead toward the ‘70s model Cruise-a-Home Caprice so newly mine I had the title in my back pocket.

Paint flaked off the faded blue and white hull, and the whole thing was splattered with dried gull shit. Bleached plastic lawn chairs littered the upper deck, left behind by the previous owners. Not a luxury vehicle, by any means, but it was the best I could afford. If Donovan was already turning up his nose, he was in for a rude shock when he saw the interior.

“Do we have our own rooms?” He glanced back with a raised brow. “You snore.”

Of all the sleeping habits he could have bitched about, that was, objectively, the least offensive. More than once, he’d pummeled me awake with a pillow to stop a telekinetic tornado borne of my unconscious mind. Shouted me out of a dead sleep for assaulting him with fearful thoughts that bound him to his bed. That was without mentioning the times I’d woken myself up strangling, crying, or soaked in sweat. I couldn’t blame him for asking for separate digs. I’d want a room away from me, too.

“Nope.” I blew a breath upward to ruffle my hair. “But you can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Sliding past Donovan, I opened the door then dipped in a mock bow. “After you.” I waved him ahead.

The musty smell of the interior wafted over me anew. It must have hit Donovan about the same time, judging by the way he swayed backward and stopped in his tracks.

“Aw, come on, Fitch,” he groaned.

I’d considered the ad’s mention of the boat being “fully furnished” a perk. My brother and I were used to living on little. A decade spent in a shared motel room gave no opportunity to amass possessions, so we didn’t leave much behind. Not having to buy every necessity seemed like a good thing until I got an eyeful of the stiff curtains and threadbare bedding, and bonus items like the leaning tower of VHS tapes and the tiny console television.

Donovan tiptoed across the floor and down the aisle that cut between the kitchenette and the single bed. We’d gained amenities—namely the two-burner stove and mini fridge—but lost square footage. There was barely room to walk around the drop leaf table and two chairs, and the tub shower from Lazy Daze had been replaced by a cramped shower stall and camper toilet.

Cleaning supplies scattered across the few available surfaces—sprays and sponges that weren’t new, but definitely hadn’t been used here.

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