“I’m going to be pissed about it, though. And I’m going to start asking people you know what the fuck is going on. I’m going to call your buddies at the old firm.”
“They won’t talk to you.”
Tucker’s voice from right behind the door is rough, like he hasn’t spoken in days. It’s testament to how good my brother is at his job that he crept up to the door without making a sound.
“They might talk to me if I tell them I’m fucking worried about you.”
Long pause. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Then open the door and tell me that to my face.”
The moments tick by, and I can hear the sounds of the tenants of other apartments going about their business—banging pots and pans, fighting, groaning in pleasure or pain—it’s hard to tell.
The door slowly opens.
Tucker’s the biggest of all of us, the physical type they call a brick shithouse. He’s always had the look of a guy who works out—hard—on a daily basis.
But he never looked haunted until recently.
“You’re a dick,” he says, without heat in his voice.
“Can I come in?”
“If you have to.” But he steps back and lets me in.
The apartment’s no nicer inside than outside—banged-up walls, a kitchen that’s seen better decades. “What’s up with this shithole?”
“This shithole is where I live.”
“You could afford a lot nicer.”
“Yeah, well.”
“You going to tell me what’s going on?”
He shakes his head.
“We’re all worried about you, you know.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m fine enough.”
This time, he meets my eye. Levels his gaze at me. It’s fierce and stubborn, more like the brother I remember. Tucker was the toughest of all of us, physically and mentally, the one who could run longer and play harder, the one who once hiked seven miles out of the woods with me on his back after I broke a leg on the mountain. It surprised none of us when he chose private security for a career.
If he doesn’t want to tell me what’s going on, he won’t, and it’s not like I can beat it out of him. One of us would end up dead, and it isn’t him.
“At least tell me why you turned around and left.”
I figure there’s about zero chance of that, so I’m surprised when he heaves a sigh and gestures me toward the couch. “You want a beer?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Sit.”
I do.
