“Yeah. But I’m not supposed to tell you a word about what was said,” Michael said, miming zipping his lips.

Ryan laughed. “He said that to me, too. But what are the chances that we aren’t going to tell each other?” he said, though sometimes he wondered if his siblings had kept secrets from him, as he had from them. Would John Winston be privy to those secrets if they had them? “So what did he ask you?”

With his sunglasses shielding his light blue eyes, Michael answered matter-of-factly. “Same as before. Any new friends. Anything I remember,” he said, repeating what the detective had said to Ryan. “But he also asked about Luke.”

The hair on Ryan’s neck prickled at the mention of their mother’s lover, a local piano teacher. “What about him?”

Michael sneered. “Wanted to know what I knew about their relationship. Like I had a clue about the affair. I mean, what the hell? Isn’t that the point of an affair? It was all in secret.” He made a gesture with his fingers as if he were digging and hiding something.

“Did Winston say he thinks Luke was involved?”

Michael shook his head. “Nah. That man just asks questions. Didn’t share any details. And I have no idea if Luke was part of it. They cleared him at the time, so who the heck knows?”

“Got any new theories on why they reopened the case?” They’d already speculated for hours after the detective showed up at Shannon and Brent’s wedding celebration at their grandmother’s house a week ago and dropped the bomb about the investigation’s new life. “It’s frustrating that they know something but won’t tell us.”

Michael pushed down his sunglasses, meeting Ryan’s eyes. “Here’s the thing. I watch enough police dramas to make a guess. And it’s this—I bet they think someone else helped plan the murder.”

“You think Mom will get out of prison?” Ryan asked, his voice rising with a touch of hope that he knew would piss off his brother. Michael had cut off their mom. He didn’t visit her. Didn’t talk to her. Wanted nothing to do with her. Her guilt was crystal clear to Michael.

Ryan understood why, but the world wasn’t black and white to him. He’d seen and heard other sides to the story. The side their mom hadn’t told anyone else. He couldn’t let go of the dream that she’d been framed. That he and his siblings weren’t born to a killer.

Michael lifted his chin and scoffed. “Her fingerprints are all over everything. She’s not fucking innocent. But there might be someone else who’s guilty, too. Murder for hire isn’t a to-go order. You don’t walk into a store and order a hit with fries on the side.” Michael shook his head, as if to chase the thought away. “Now let’s get this wood down to your truck.”

That was apparently all the discussion Michael wanted to entertain about the investigation. But Ryan wasn’t ready to drop the subject. He rarely wanted to drop the issue that had gnawed at him for eighteen years. “You learned that from your police shows?” he asked, teasing his brother.

“Ha ha.” Michael rolled his eyes.

“Besides, when do you even have time to watch TV? You’re always working.”

“That’s because my business partner is busy wining and dining,” he said, staring sharply at Ryan.

Ryan blew on his fingers as if they were too hot to handle. “What can I say? One of us needs to seal the deals.” He pretended to cast a fishing rod and reel in a big one. “Can I help it if I’m just a good people person who knows how to win them over?”

Michael shook his head and laughed. “Get your ass off the roof. I’m hot, and I need a beer.”

Ryan hefted a few chunks of wood under his arm. “You let me know when the next episode of CSI helps you solve the mystery, ’kay?”

Thirty minutes later, they’d finished loading up the bed of Ryan’s truck with the chopped-up tree trunk.

“Damn back,” Sanders muttered, one hand parked on the side of the truck door, the other patting his spine in frustration. “But I appreciate you coming by to help out. Couldn’t do this without you guys, clearly.”

“You know we’re always happy to help,” Ryan said.

At sixty-one, Sanders was seven years older than their dad would have been if the two men still went out for beers, or to shoot a round of pool as they had done regularly the last few years of his dad’s life. But all that time Sanders had spent as a mechanic bent over hoods or under the engine, had taken its toll on the man. With a bad back, and his own sons living in Arizona, he leaned on Ryan and Michael for heavy lifting from time to time. They were happy to help, especially since Sanders had looked out for them. Though they had grandparents who’d raised them during high school, Sanders had remained a close friend, stopping by, checking in, and making sure they knew how to change a tire and check the oil pressure—his way of passing on a part of Thomas Paige after he was gone.

“Let me treat you to a beer,” Sanders said, clapping Ryan on the shoulder.

“I’m always game for a brew. And Michael was already hankering for one.”

Sanders waggled the salt-and-pepper eyebrows that matched his hair. “Wait ’til you experience the AC in my house. It was on the fritz and I fixed it myself the other day. Replaced the air filter. See, I still can manage a few things all by my studly self.”

Ryan laughed. “I bet the missus was impressed that you didn’t have to call us on the AC problem,” he said as they walked across the front lawn.

The older man winked. “Truth be told, she likes it when you come over. Between you and me, I think she’s got a crush on the whole lot of you. Probably had eyes for your dad, too,” he said with a no-big-deal shrug, and Ryan couldn’t deny that he enjoyed the free and easy way Sanders had of talking about his father. Some people were afraid to mention the deceased. They tiptoed around the family history.

Not Sanders. He talked openly about Thomas Paige, and Ryan had always liked that.

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Michael said with a wink. “Our good looks did come from him.”

The air was heavy with silence for a brief moment. Because the natural next thing to say would be to mention the traits that came from their mom.

Ryan broke the silence. “Hey, is your wife still pissed about your speeding ticket? You do know they have apps now that tell you where the speed traps are,” he said as they reached the side gate to the backyard.

Sanders rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. What can I say? I was getting tired and was eager to get home so I gunned the engine. The highway looked free and clear. You’d think four decades of driving would have taught me better.” Ryan had been ribbing Sanders ever since he was nailed by a state trooper in California a month ago. First time ever that the normally cautious driver had landed a speeding ticket.

“They have coffee for that problem. The falling asleep at the wheel one,” Michael said as they reached the deck.

Sanders’s wife Becky stood by the sliding glass door, shielding her eyes as she waved. “I’ve got cold beer for my favorite handymen,” she said.

“You are the best, Mrs. Foxton,” Ryan said. “I’d give you a big hug, but I’m sweaty and gross.”

“I’m not,” Michael said, elbowing Ryan, as he moved in for an embrace. “I’ll hug you.”

Sanders stepped in front of both of them.

“Now, now. Keep your mitts off my woman. She’ll be liable to leave me for one of you,” Sanders said with narrowed eyes. “I’ll be the only sweaty man touching her.” He draped an arm around his wife and planted a kiss on her cheek. She smiled at him then led them into the house.

Cool air blasted Ryan’s hot skin. “This is heaven,” he said with a relaxed sigh.

Becky handed beer bottles to Ryan and Michael. “Glad you like it here.”

“Now it’s really heaven,” Michael said, then knocked back some of the beer.

Sanders squeezed his wife’s shoulder possessively. “Only four more months ’til I can spend my days drinking beer and sitting on my ass on a lounge chair on the pool deck as we circle the Bahamas.”