Page 217 of House of Cards

He heads for the door, limping slightly. I must drift off for a second, because I don’t hear Smith coming back, just Ricky’s voice ripping me awake.

My mother’s green eyes stare out at me beneath thick, wild brows and even wilder brown hair. He’s gotten a lot paler since I last saw him, a lot skinnier. His left arm is in a sling, and he hobbles over to the bed like he has a sprained ankle or some other injury.

Zoey.” His voice cracks on my name.

I start crying again before I can stop myself.

Ricky carefully wraps his good arm around me as I fall apart against his shoulder.

“I thought you were dead,” I choke out. “I thought they killed you.”

“I’m okay, Sis. I’m okay.” His voice is thick with his own tears.

We hold each other like we did when we were kids, after one of Franco’s rages, or when the electricity got shut off again. Like we’re the only two people in the world who matter.

When I finally get myself under control, when I can sit back and take him in, my chest clenches at the sight. He looks like hell. Nose broken but healing. The mass of bruises on his face already fading to yellow-green. Midsection moving stiffly like he’s nursing broken ribs.

And, oh God, the stump on his left hand where his pinkie finger used to be.

But he’s alive. He’s breathing. He’shere.

“I’m so sorry,” Ricky whispers. “This is all my fault. All of it.”

Something in his tone makes me pull back to look at his face.

There’s guilt there. Shame, too.

“It’s okay, Ricky,” I say. “I mean, I wish you’d just told me about the money. We could have figured something out.”

Confusion, then frustration, flicks over his face. “Like what, Sis? A third mortgage on the diner?” He squeezes his eyes shut, his voice softer now. “You have no idea—” He cuts off, his gaze darting to the door.

Mine follows a second later.

Smith steps inside, dark eyes narrowed. Keeping his distance like he wants to give us our privacy, but close enough to jump in at a second’s notice.

Ricky stands. “You need to rest. We can talk about this later?—”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Sit. Tell me what you were you going to say.”

“Sis—”

“Tell her,” Smith says quietly from the doorway.

Ricky shoots him a glare. “She doesn’t need?—“

“She needs the truth. Sit down, Ricky. Tell her everything.” Smith’s voice is firm, commanding. I can’t even blame my brother for obeying.

Ricky sinks back onto the edge of the bed, his face even paler than when he first came in. But he says nothing, and refuses to meet my eyes, not even when I fumble for his hand and squeeze it tight.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to know. I’ve had enough revelations to last a lifetime.

“I didn’t leave because I owed Elonzo money,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“So why did you?”

Ricky takes a shaky breath, his good hand fidgeting with the edge of his sling. “A few months after Franco disappeared, some guys showed up at the diner late one night. You were already in bed. It was just me and Mom downstairs.”

“Some guys?”

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