Derrick stiffened, his head raising up. His hand was gentle on me, but his arm was rock solid. “Don’t narc. Let Channing do his job. Let my girl do her job, but no snitching. That ain’t a problem for you guys to take on. You hear me on that? You guys are clear of this, so stay clear.”

Cross’ head dipped again, his gaze meeting mine.

I was at a crossroads, it seemed.

Then the decision was made for me, in that moment.

A guy rushed inside. “Cops coming!”

Another guy yelled out, “Let Prez know. Get the civvies out of here.”

Girls were running around. Guys were dashing. Windows were locked up.

Heckler came over, at a more leisurely stroll and dug inside his pocket. He pulled out the phones, putting them on the table. He said to Derrick, “Get out of here. Your kid, her friends, you. You’re clear of this, Pops. That’s how Max wants it.”

My dad’s fingers now curled tighter into me, but his head jerked up and down. “I’ll be at the house.” His words were for the biker.

Heckler moved his head up and down, staring us down for a beat. “Get a job, Pops. That’s what Max wants for you. Keep clean.” He said to me, “You don’t need to worry about your dad. We got no plans to dirty him, hear that? And we’re taking off. Your boss asks you questions, you don’t say shit. Got it?”

My lips parted. My throat went dry.

I said, “Got it.”

Yeah. Seems like I chose. I was on the side of no-snitching. Then again, when had it ever been an actual question for me? I was crew through and through.

Cross grabbed up the phones and took my arm. “Let’s go. We gotta jet now.” He pulled me toward the door. Jordan was already heading out. When I lingered, he said, “Now!”

So, we went.

I looked back, seeing my dad one last time, and then we were gone.

From: Tazsters

To: Cain Group

Subject: why why why

Why has everyone stopped calling, texting, and emailing. I need my emails. I live for my emails.

Where have all the emails gone?

—The Best Twin

Chapter Forty-Eight

BREN

I was experiencing déjà vu, but not at the same time.

This time was different.

Another year, another time, and we’d been driving Alex Ryerson back.

Another month, another time and I’d be walking out of jail.

Another moment, another place and we’d be at the hospital getting someone patched up.

This time, it wasn’t us. It wasn’t our fight. We were heading home, except for a quick stop at the drive-thru for Jordan. He wanted food since we never got the burgers or chicken baskets from The Twister Sister.

Walking into our house, one after the other, we moved around the kitchen.

I grabbed the plates.