No time.
I answered the door.
"Matthew." Michael filled the doorframe like he owned it, shoulders squared beneath a red windbreaker. He didn't wait for an invitation or welcome, stepping inside with the casual authority of someone who'd been barging into my space since we were kids.
His eyes swept the apartment in one fluid motion. It was a detective's assessment disguised as brotherly concern. I tracked his gaze as he processed signs that I wasn't alone: throw pillows knocked askew on the couch, and my bedroom door barely cracked open instead of standing wide.
"Smells like a restaurant in here." Michael shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the hook in the entryway without asking. "Ginger and sesame oil. You been cooking for someone, or did you finally decide to treat yourself like a human being?"
It was a casual question, but I detected an edge—the verbal equivalent of frisking for a concealed weapon. I leaned against the kitchen counter with practiced nonchalance.
"Made too much stir-fry last night. Figured I'd use up the leftovers before they went bad." It was a lie, and I regretted it immediately. Michael had an internal polygraph with 100% accuracy.
He nodded slowly, moving deeper into the apartment. His fingers trailed along surfaces as he walked—table edge, chair back, bookshelf—gathering information through touch. He approached the coffee table.
"Two mugs."
"I was thirsty."
Michael lifted the second mug, bringing it close to his face. His nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled, checking for scents.
"Still warm. Ten minutes, maybe less. You didn't make two mugs of tea for yourself."
He straightened, arms crossing. "So, unless you've acquired a new invisible roommate, you're lying to your favorite brother.
"I'm lying to my second-favorite brother," I corrected. "Marcus still holds the top spot."
The joke fell flat. Michael's stance shifted—weight rolled forward on the balls of his feet, hands falling to his sides where they could move fast if needed. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable, like watching a switch flip from brother to badge.
"Someone staying here?" His voice dropped half an octave, acquiring the flat authority I'd heard him use on suspects who thought they were smarter than the evidence.
I continued to breathe steadily, forcing a sense of calm. "No one official."
Michael's eyes narrowed to slits, his jaw working as he processed my non-answer. "Don't feed me BS, Matthew."
His tone was steely. "You've been off for days. Missing calls. Kayla said she's concerned." He took a step closer, invading mypersonal space. "Then you skipped Sunday dinner without so much as a text to Ma. You know what that does to her."
Guilt twisted in my stomach. Ma's Sunday dinners weren't optional. Missing one was like skipping Christmas.
"I told you, I got called in—"
"Bullshit." Michael dismissed my explanation. "I checked. No overtime logged for you last Sunday. No emergency calls. Your rig was parked at the station all afternoon while Ma kept checking her phone, wondering if her boy was lying in a ditch somewhere."
I'd hurt her. Worried her. Made her pace the kitchen the way she'd done for months after Dad died, waiting for calls that never came.
"Michael—"
"You're hiding something dangerous." He moved closer than was comfortable. "You're protecting someone, and whoever it is has you spooked enough to lie to family."
My hands clenched involuntarily. Michael had always possessed an unsettling ability to read the undercurrents others missed—body language, vocal patterns, and the micro-expressions that revealed the truth behind careful words. It made him exceptional when he worked for the Seattle PD, and exhausting as a brother.
He doesn't bluff.When Michael makes a threat, he follows through.
In high school, he'd promised to beat the shit out of Jerry Brandon if the older boy kept hassling me about Dad's death. Four days later, Jerry showed up with a black eye and a sudden urge to find new targets for his cruelty. Michael's word was contract law—signed in blood and enforced without mercy.
His voice softened enough to reveal concern. "Talk to me. Whatever this is, we can handle it. But you can't keep to yourself something that's got you this twisted up."
Michael's expression hardened. "Alex knows how to dig up dirt when necessary. He saved all our asses when we battled Project Asphodel. If you're tangled up in something dirty, I'll find the threads."
