She stared at him. His mirror-smashing fury had drained away, and he looked like a soldier after a long campaign. His eyes were pleading, but not hopeful. She murdered half a dozen thoughts before they reached her lips. Finally, she pointed to his hand. “You’re bleeding.”

He looked down. “Oh.”

She stepped forward, took his hand gently in hers. The cut was in the meaty part beneath his little finger. There was a chunk of glass stuck there, and she used her nails, catching a reflection of herself in the mirror as she pulled it from his skin. Thick blood oozed. She looked around for a rag or a cloth, and seeing nothing, pulled off her shirt to wrap his hand. He gasped as the fabric touched the gash. “Come on.”

She led him up the hall to the bathroom. Spinning the faucet to cold, she held his hand under the water, the blood streaming thin and pink to spatter against the porcelain. “Keep it there.” She went to the kitchen pantry, found gauze and Neosporin. Back in the bathroom she used a paper towel to pat the wound dry. Clean now, it didn’t look so bad. Jagged, but not too deep. The lips of it already quivered red, so she moved fast, squeezing the ointment, placing the rectangle of gauze and then deftly affixing it, wrapping the white tape in a stripe across his palm. She didn’t meet his eyes, just worked on his hand, and throughout he stood silent and let her. It was calming, something she could handle. Just a cut, a perfectly normal cut. It was life-sized.

But eventually the bandage was in place, and she couldn’t distract herself from everything larger.

“Danny.” She held his hand by the fingers, her gaze darting around the room. “What are we going to do?”

He put his other hand on her cheek. It was so familiar, so safe, that she both feared and wanted to fall into it. She met his eyes, saw herself mirrored in them. She saw him weighing words, and realized she was praying he found the right ones. Whatever they were.

“I don’t know.” He paused. “But,” his hand caressing her cheek, “I’d like your help figuring it out.”

For a long moment she stared at him, tried to think dispassionately. She wanted to make proclamations, to hear him swear that there would be no more lies. She wanted him to feel what she’d been going through, and promise that he would never turn away from her again. But none of the phrases she auditioned sounded right. Maybe there was nothing to say.

In the end, she just put her arms around him and laid her head on the hollow of his chest. They stood together under the bright bathroom lights, holding on to keep from being swept away.

For a moment, it worked.

And then she realized something terrible.

35

Despite the impossible mess that had become his life, despite the soreness of his aching body and the steady throb of his cut hand, as Karen put her head on his chest Danny felt strangely safe. Spent, both physically and emotionally, but safe nonetheless, as though the confession had created some sort of karmic loophole, a time away from reality. He knew none of their problems had been solved. But he was so tired. Everything could wait, at least a little while. He just wanted to lose himself in their warmth.

Then she pulled away from him. “Baby?”

“Yeah?”

“What about Patrick?” She bit her lip. “Did he know about Evan threatening us?”

He’d been honest with Patrick, but not with her. That would cut. But he’d had enough of lies. “Yes.” He stepped away and leaned against the counter, his good hand holding the lip of the sink. “I told him when he came over for dinner.” She stared back at him with an intensity that scared him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I needed to talk to someone, and it should have been you.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s-” Her voice broke.

Fear ice-picked him. “What?”

“Patrick…” She paused. Took a deep breath, very deliberately, then stepped closer, her eyes locked on his like she was trying to beam him something from inside herself. “He was murdered.”

“What?” He couldn’t have heard her right.

“He was shot. That’s why Nolan called.”

No.

Oh Christ, no.

The room seemed to pitch, the ceiling looming. A giant fist gripped his heart. Not Patrick. The ten-year-old boy who’d replaced the holy water with Sprite. The joker who always had a story. The friend who’d been part of every stage of his life.

The closest thing he had to a brother.

Spots danced in front of his eyes, and he squeezed the counter. He willed his lungs to breathe, to suck oxygen in, but the air felt thick. He let himself slide down the face of the cabinet to squat on the floor. “What happened?”

Karen’s voice was raw. “Nolan wouldn’t tell me very much.” She sat across from him, her legs folded, and took his hands in hers.

“What did he tell you?”

“Just that Patrick was shot last week.”

His throat filled with bile. Last week. His friend had been dead for days, and Danny hadn’t known it. Then a far worse idea occurred. “When?”

Karen hesitated. “They think Monday or Tuesday.”

Right after Danny had told him about Evan. Patrick had promised to stay out of it, but Danny knew with bitter certainty that this was one promise his friend had broken. “Evan killed him.”

Karen stared at him, her lips trembling, and nodded.

Blackness swam at the edges of his vision, and his chest felt tight. He scrambled to his feet and stormed out of the bathroom, habit carrying him toward the front door before he realized he had nowhere to go. He wanted to smash something. To smash everything. He spun in the living room and kicked one of her moving boxes, sending a pile of loose photos flying, each image spinning in flashes of color and memory as it fluttered to the floor.

Patrick was dead.

Because of him.

“It’s not your fault,” Karen said from behind him, her words so eerily aligned with his thoughts that he wondered if he’d spoken aloud. “It’s not. If you want to blame someone-”

“I do,” he said. “I do want to blame someone. I want to blame Evan.” He looked at the mess of photos around him, then sighed and dropped on the couch. “But it’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because none of this would have happened if I’d just…” He trailed off. If you’d just what? Not told Patrick? Not walked out seven years ago? Not swiped that first Playboy in ’81? How far back do you want to go with this? Because your catalog of errors is many things, but short ain’t one of them.

“I fucked everything up, baby.” He felt bone weary. The world had hollowed him out. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She sat beside him and stroked his hair. Her voice was soft and unhesitating. “We’ll find a way.”

He wanted a quiet, dark place to cry. To mourn his brother.

But more than that he wanted to find Evan, pin him to the ground, and beat him to death. Punch and kick until his legs failed and his knuckles broke.

Hold on to that. Anger is a gift.

One deep breath, and then another. There would be time to mourn Patrick later. The question was how many other regrets he’d be carrying at that point. Painful as it was, he couldn’t think about Patrick right now.

Instead, he had to think about the man who killed him.

“Evan is still out there.” He could feel her muscles clench at the mention of his name. It didn’t matter. “I’ve got to go after him.”

“You?” She jerked away. “No. We’ll call the police.”

“They can’t help us.”

“If we tell them about Patrick-”

He shook his head. “It’s past that.”

“Is this some macho thing?” She stared at him. “I don’t want to lose you over something from the movies.”

“It’s not that. It’s Tommy. Richard’s son. Evan will kill him at the first siren.”