Chapter 33

They're not safe around you. You should go.

It's a voice I've heard before. It won't shut the fuck up, to be perfectly honest.

It felt like an unburdening, telling Claire the truth—it felt like I was taking some of the weight off the scales damning my soul. I'm honored by the way she's withheld judgement and accepted me. Knowing her as I've come to, I didn't expect anything less, but I still don't feel I deserve it. If I were a stronger man, I would have stayed away.

So I'm glad Claire knows everything now, but it makes me feel like insects are crawling over my skin, because Nicole and Damien are next door—they're next door, and they know too.

Claire texted them before coming into my house, and it felt like she was telling her attack dogs to Stay.

The second we got inside, Rosie shot me a withering look, like I'd peed on the carpet, and whisked Claire off for some dry clothes. I'd gone upstairs to change out of my wet stuff, too, and Rocket had padded up there with me, wagging his tail as if to tell me that I'd done a good job, finally, by bringing people over.

Now, we're all sitting in the living room with hot toddies Rosie made—Claire on the couch with me while Rosie sits in an armchair across from us. They're talking about baking, and Rocket's curled up at our feet with a buffalo horn, and it's such a normal scene—such a comfortable scene—that there's an ache in my chest. Because I never thought I'd have anything like this again—Rosie and Claire, in my space. Because I still don't think I deserve it. Because that voice in my head makes me abso-fucking-lutely certain I'm going to lose it.

Claire squeezes my hand and gives me a sidelong look. She seems worried, and I wish I could tell her not to be.

"Sorry, did I miss something?" I ask.

"Oh, he's off in his own world," Rosie says dismissively, waving a hand. "He likes to live there."

Claire smiles for a second, but a serious look slips back in. "And what's happening in your world?"

It's been a hellscape, full of brimstone and fire and ash, but a few weeks ago, something changed. The sky opened up, and it rained…and suddenly plants are sprouting up out of the cracks of ruin.

I smile. "Just listening to you two. I'm used to the house being empty. It's nice to have guests."

Her hand flexes around mine again. "I seem to recall you saying that you don't want to learn how to be pleasant because then people would talk to you."

Rosie snorts. "Wow. He's a real charmer. No wonder you fell for him."

I'd throw a pillow at her if one were within reach.

"It doesn't hurt that he's incredibly hot," Claire says, her eyes twinkling.

Rosie mimes covering her ears, but she looks pleased. I can see it now—how worried she was for me, how much better she feels now that she's here. And it hits me that I was wrong to stay away from her and Shay. I thought I was only punishing myself, but I was hurting them too, Rosie especially.

"Did he really have a greenhouse with your mom when you were kids?" Claire asks.

"Oh, yes," Rosie says, her smile more indulgent. "They could grow anything. They grew a tomato that was as big as a melon. People down the street came by to look at it for a week, and then Shay cut it up for a salad without a second thought. Our mom was so pissed she didn't talk to him for a day."

They talk for a while longer, Rosie sharing more stories about the time before. It feels good to talk about my parents, and it hurts because it's part of another life.

Rosie suggests we order pizza, and is appropriately horrified to discover that there's not a single delivery place that will bring one to us.

"Let's make some!" Claire suggests. Her excitement is adorable, and it makes me feel like an ass for not having had the foresight to buy yeast even though I've never made a loaf of bread or a homemade pizza in my life.

We make pasta and heat sauce instead, and when we sit down to eat, I feel it again—the pleasure and pain of being a part of something larger. Of having a family again. Of knowing it can be taken from me.

Still, there's an uncomfortable tugging inside of me—you should go. They'll be safer if you do. She might not think you're a monster now, but she'll find out.

"I'll clean up the dishes," I say after dinner, because I like that Rosie and Claire are getting along so well. Because I want them to talk—and also because I need a minute alone to process everything. But I'm still finishing up when Claire steps into the kitchen.

He hair is dry now but messy. She'll probably fuss over it if she finds a mirror, but I like it this way. It's like it's been blown dry by the wind.

I reach for her without meaning to, my hand still wet with sudsy water. She doesn't hesitate to take it, and that ache inside me turns warm. "Stay with me tonight."

Her lips part in surprise, and I realize it's a stupid request—she's soaking wet and would probably prefer to go home to shower. Maybe she also needs time to herself to process everything. To consider what I've told her.

Maybe, I realize, I should have asked her before. We spent most of the last week together, but I've never had the joy of having her sleep in my arms. I was holding back, keeping a slender space between us, because I was convinced she'd reject me once she knew everything—and in the back of my mind, I knew it would break me.

She spans the few steps between us and wraps her arms around my neck, her fingers playing with my hair. "Yes. But I need to go back and get a few things."

"You won't need any clothes."

Her eyes are bright as she studies me. "No?"

"You can wear one of my T-shirts if you get cold. You seem to like them."

"You haven't asked for yours back."

"And I won't. I like thinking about you wearing it, lying in your bed. Touching yourself while you think about me."

"Do you have a camera in my bedroom?" she teases, her hand still playing with my hair, sending zips of sensation across my scalp.

Fuck, that means she's done it.

My cock takes an interest in that piece of information, but truthfully I'm not just hoping she hangs around so we can have some fun. I want her in my bed. I need her there. I want to wrap myself around her so nothing else can touch her, hurt her.

She lifts onto her toes and kisses me, and I feel desperate in a way it takes me a moment to understand.

I don't want to lose her, this.

I don't want to seam the sky shut and lock myself back up into that hellscape divested of color.

"I still need my toothbrush," she says.

"I have a new one in the closet," I say, not sure why I'm pushing back on this. Of course she can go next door to pick up a few things…

"You really don't want me to go over there," she comments, watching me. "Why?"

It's only then it clicks.

"I'm worried you won't come back," I admit, my voice hitching, because I can't help but feel like less of a man again. Right from the beginning, I've cracked myself open for her, letting her see my fears, my strangled hopes. My softness. "I'm worried they'll convince you not to come back."

She brings her hand around to cup my cheek. "I used to be the kind of woman who could be talked around and told what to do. But I'm not anymore. No one could convince me not to come back. Not even Nicole."

She sounds almost angry about it.

"I know," I say. "It's another irrational fear, Claire. Like with airplanes. Or you, with roller coasters."

Except it doesn't seem so irrational to me. The irrational thing would be for her to return.

"I'm going to go," she says to me, her hand still on my cheek. "But only to prove to you that I'll come back."

I put a hand on her waist. Squeeze lightly, to assure myself she's here. "Okay."

And then I kiss her again because I want to—because if the opportunity to kiss her arises, I'm not going to waste it. Not anymore.

I go to the front door with her and watch her leave, her figure climbing up the steps to Dick's house and opening the door, where she's greeted by a woman with pink hair. Rosie comes up behind me and pats me on the shoulder.

"I overheard everything you said in the kitchen."

A sigh escapes me.

"Don't worry, I have really good earplugs. Top notch." Then she turns me around to look at her. She's fussing with the purple streak in her hair, as if she's not quite sure how it got there. When she was a kid, she always used to suck on the ends of her hair. It got so bad at one point that my mom threatened to cut it short. Her hair is a gauge for how she's feeling. How she's feeling right now is apparently anxious.

"Please, please don't fuck this up," she says.

I can't help but grin. "From your mouth to God's ears."

It's something our dad used to say, and for a second we just smile at each other. It's like no time has passed at all, until I hear myself murmuring, "I'm sorry, Rosie. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I screwed everything up so badly."

Her expression shifts—sorrow filling her eyes for a moment before her hand tightens around my shoulder. "Now I'm even more desperate for you not to lose her. Because I'm relieved someone's finally gotten through to you. And you need to realize that it would have been worse if you'd listened to Shay."

I nod firmly, even though there was never a chance I would have listened—or allowed him to get sucked further into that life. I would have zip-tied his wrists and dragged him out if I'd needed to.

My sister releases me and nods, then says "I'm going upstairs to call Shay."

I nod, mute. But I don't move. I stand there until I see Claire coming back to me.

I stand there, and something inside of me breaks and is reborn as she walks back up the steps of my porch.

When we get upstairs,I undress Claire slowly, taking off the clothes she changed into at the other house. Making love to her thoroughly, slowly, until she's moaning, her mouth a perfect oh that I capture, sucking down her cries and making her mine.

Afterward, we lay together, talking, and I stay awake long after she falls asleep in my arms. I watch her for a while, soaking in the sight of Claire at peace. Claire, safe. Then I head downstairs with a book, Rocket following me.

Something in me already knows that I'll have a visitor. So I'm not surprised when Rocket stiffens at my feet and then races to the door.

I follow him, then look out before opening it to let her in.

"So you're not totally stupid," Nicole says. "You knew I'd come."

"I suspected," I agree. "Would you like a drink?"

She lifts a flask out of her pocket. "I brought my own."

"So you won't mind if I pour one for myself." She gives me a look that my hospitality is time wasting, so I shrug and pour myself some whiskey.

"Do you want to talk on the back deck?" I ask, remembering all the time I spent out there with Dick. Now, those memories are layered with memories of Claire. All of them are good. I've been creating a life here without meaning to, or even noticing. It just happened. Because of them.

"As long as you don't push me off," Nicole says.

"A sentiment I agree with—and return," I reply.

We head out onto the deck and each claim a chair, looking off into the blackness, a few distant stars sparkling overhead with a half moon.

Neither of us says anything for a moment. We just sit there and drink, both of us mired in our thoughts.

Finally, I say, "I'm glad you dealt with Agnes and Doug, but I wish I'd been able to help. I don't like that I didn't have any part in it."

She studies me for a moment before nodding in what looks like approval. "Next time someone fucks with Claire, I'll give you first swing."

We exchange a smile, then Nicole lifts her flask to tap to my glass and we drink together.

"I'm not going to screw you over," she says after another moment. "Not unless you give me a reason to."

"What constitutes a reason?" I ask, leaning back in my chair. "Am I going to get picked up by the cops if I accidentally cut you off in traffic?"

"You treat my sister well, you have nothing to worry about," she says pointedly.

"I know she deserves someone who's—"

A finger jets into the air, interrupting me. "She deserves whatever the fuck she's decided she wants. And if it's you, you should feel lucky, and do whatever you can to deserve it."

"I don't know if it's safe for me to be with her," I grind out. Because for so many years, I've been looking over my shoulder—waiting for someone to come, to make me pay. Because, my uncle's death was, in many ways, a relief. It was freedom. But freedom paid for by blood is never truly free.

"No one's looking for you," she says. "The police think the guy who took over for your uncle did it, if anyone did, and his people could give a shit about you and your siblings. They're happy you're gone. If you were to randomly show up, sure, they might feel motivated to kill you to keep you from taking a piece of their pie, but as long as you stay away, they couldn't care less. You can believe me when I say that, because I'm good at collecting information. I collected your information."

"Because you did something with my burner phone."

"You left it out in a kitchen that was half mine. It was practically an invitation."

I shrug, because it was a stupid mistake, and I own it. Besides, her words are a relief. I've wanted to believe it. At certain points I've dared to…

This means Rosie can stay with me. It means Shay could join us…if he wants. It means I don't have to be alone, and I've only been keeping myself that way as a punishment, the way both Claire and Rosie have told me.

Except Nicole knows…

She lifts her eyebrows at me, almost as if she knows what I'm thinking, and maybe she does. Maybe the ability to read me runs through their blood, because Dick could do it too. "You want something on me so if one of us slips we can be assured of mutual destruction?"

I gape at her. "You'd do that?"

She shrugs. "Sure, why not? You'd be a fool to try to ruin me. I'd eviscerate you, and that's nothing on what Damien would do—but if it would make you feel better, I'm not opposed. I've done tons of illegal shit."

I can't help but laugh as I shake my head. "No, I'm good."

"You're just being polite. You're going to hire someone to go through my shit, and I'd honestly rather give you what you need."

She's not wrong.

"I'll send you proof that I staged the whole Agnes thing, how about that? If you turn me in for helping your girlfriend, you'll be a double asshole, so it's only appropriate."

"Okay," I say, pausing. Then, "Thank you."

"Claire says you don't think our old man was murdered."

I shake my head. "No, but I'm not the private investigator."

"You know, I keep going back to Mark."

"He liked Dick," I say, not surprised she'd be suspicious but certain that line of inquiry will get her nowhere. "Besides, Mark was in Charlotte that weekend. Restaurant was closed and everything. He had me come in and water the plants."

"I know he has an alibi," she says, "and I've verified it. But it all feels connected to me. The betting. The holes in the yard. Claire and I were wondering if Dick might have buried money back there. Maybe someone lost a big wad to him, and they didn't like it much." She rubs her forehead. "Normally, this shit would all net together in my head, but I can't get it to—"

"You're too involved. It's personal."

Her lips firm into a flat line. "Maybe. But it's not because I care about that asshole. It's because there have been distractions."

"Sure," I say, but here's another thing my dad used to say: don't kid a kidder. An interesting sentiment for someone who got bilked by his own brother, but maybe he knew what to do and just didn't do it. That's something I understand well enough.

"You have a background in organized crime," she says easily, like it's something I talk about at dinner parties. "What do you think about the money theory?"

I nod slowly. "I wouldn't be surprised if he buried a stash. I know a lot of people who have, and Dick didn't trust banks. But it sounds like he left a pretty in-depth will. Why wouldn't he have mentioned something like that?"

She grins, but there's something sad in her eyes. "You don't think the wily old bastard would have wanted to challenge us one last time? He wanted us to stay in his house for a month. I'll bet he was hoping we'd figure it out. Besides, if it's money he won gambling, something told me he didn't pay tax on it. Maybe he didn't want us to have to either."

"What if the instructions were in those photo albums?"

She snorts. "Maybe. He'd figure it would serve us right for not being nostalgic and looking at his shit." Then something sparks in her eyes. "Hey, good idea, Claire's boyfriend."

"Yeah?" I ask, not at all disliking the nickname, even if it means she's forgotten my name. "What's that?"

"I know just where an asshole like my father might have hidden a thing like that."

I don't ask. It's none of my business, really, and if she wanted to tell me, she would. Besides, this peace between us still feels like a new thing, potentially breakable. Which is why what I say next is really fucking stupid…

"You remind me of him, you know. Both of you do, but more you than Claire. He was funny. Loud. Said what he thought when he thought it. Manipulative, too."

She surprises me by tipping her head back and laughing. "Good for Claire. Bad for me, maybe, but my old man did have a passable sense of humor, I'll give him that. And he knew how to make a good puzzle." She rubs her chest, like part of her knows that he did it for her, because he knew who she was. I have to believe he did—he was like that, too lazy to take out the trash, but on the ball enough to research the lives of his daughters. He probably followed every milestone from a distance. It's a lonely thought, a lonely life…

"And he knew what he wasn't," I blurt. "He knew what he couldn't be. I think he cared about both of you as much as he was able to."

"And you?" she asks pointedly. "How much are you able to?"

I look out at the expanse stretched out before us, remembering the first time Dick came out here. Remembering the sight of his body, broken at the bottom of those stairs. Maybe I was on the same track as him—living alone, gearing up to die alone, with only a few people to feel sorry about it. With nothing to do but figure out ways to make my death more dramatic, my legacy something people had to pay attention to, whether they wanted to or not. I don't want that life, or death. The need for something more burns in my chest. "More. I want to be more for her. She's already changed everything for me."

She holds out her hand for a shake. "Then welcome to the family, Declan Whatever-the-fuck-your-last-name-is. I have some work for you to do."

And that's when she tells me what else she's been up to these last few weeks.