Page 171 of The Otherworld

“Jack.”

I freeze, looking over my shoulder at him. The shadow of grief in his eyes startles me more than his rage ever could. It cuts me down to size without a single word. It proves that all he sees when he looks at me is a little boy who can’t control his temper.

“While you’re out there, I want you to do some thinking. Not about what Adam did wrong, but what you did wrong… and how you’re going to fix it. Understood?”

I clench my jaw, knuckles white around the doorjamb. “Yes, sir.”

52

Khaos

ADAM

“I can’t believe Jack did this to you.” Mom sighs, handing me a bag of crushed ice wrapped in a dishcloth. “He was so angry when he left to find you and Orca, but I never thought he would do something like this…”

I lean against the refrigerator, gently pressing the compress to my swollen face. “Ow, damn it.”

Mom winces for me. “Are you all right, sweetheart? Why are you holding your side?”

“Because Jack punched my broken ribs.”

Mom sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh, my god—”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “Just… sore.”

Mom leans on the counter with her face in her hands. There’s a moment of silence; then her shoulders start trembling with silent sobs.

“Don’t cry, Mom,” I say, putting an arm around her.

“I don’t understand you boys.” She sniffs, her voice thick with tears. “I must have failed miserably as a mother—”

“Oh, stop. You’re the best mother in the world. All my life, I’ve watched you sacrifice for Jack and me. You’ve always taught us to do the right thing.”

“Then how can you fight with each other? How can Jack, of all people—”

“It’s my fault. I’m the one who should have been honest with him from the very beginning.” I sigh, leaning into the ice pack. “Don’t worry about it, Mom. I’ll make things right.”

* * *

While Jack is at work, I gather some stuff from our room. A blanket, a pillow, a fresh change of clothes, and a couple of books. I inform Mom that I’ll be sleeping at my hangar until Jack cools off. She tries to talk me out of it, but I know it’s for the best.

I miss the times when our fights were stupid and small. When Jack was little and would forgive me in a heartbeat. Like that time when I was fifteen and he caught me kissing my first girlfriend behind the barn. I was so mad when he stumbled out from his hiding place and started laughing his head off. I yelled at him and called him a snot-nosed brat, which made him run off and lock himself in our room with a “keep out” sign taped to the door. I apologized through the crack and then took him out to the diner and bought him chocolate chip pancakes, and everything was okay again.

But Jack isn’t five years old anymore. It will take much more than a simple “sorry” to make this right.

So after I drop off my stuff at the hangar, I drive up to the marina to have a talk with him. Dad has been making him clean boats almost every day, so I know exactly where to find him: in the lot beside the launch ramp, shirtless and sweating in the afternoon sun, a polishing rag in his hand.

He sees me approaching but turns away, climbing up into a sport fisher to begin aggressively wiping everything down. There’s a bruise taking shape on his abdomen and a swollen cut on his lip from where he collided with my workbench during our fight this morning. Seeing it makes me feel a twinge of guilt in my stomach.

“Jack, can I talk to you?”

He doesn’t look up. He just continues polishing the boat with a furious work ethic that apparently only emerges when he’s feeling murderous.

“Did Dad send you out here?” Jack shoots the question over his shoulder, not sparing me a glance.

I shake my head. “No. He didn’t.”

“Mom, then?”

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