Of course, it’s personal, I think. The jar had my name on it, but it’s Thanksgiving and despite my sisterly duty to tell him when he makes a stupid statement, I reframe. Barely. “It’s fucked up,” I say instead, and turn and head down the hallway, calling over my shoulder, “Lucas is coming!”

He groans and not because he doesn’t like Lucas. Because he knows Kane doesn’t. Today is so much joy it can only be tolerated with whiskey. And strawberry pie.

Kane is in the living room waiting on us, facing the open window, staring out at the snowy beach. “Andrew brought whiskey,” I announce as he turns, and I show him the bottle. “The good stuff. I’ll get us all the drinks we need.” I don’t wait for a reply. I head to the bar area that’s set between the kitchen and the living room.

I’ve filled three glasses and so far, there are no voices in the living room. If my brother chickened out and ran, I’m going to be ashamed of him and I might actually have to take his badge myself. I grab two of the three glasses because I’m just not in the mood to wear the whiskey that should be in my belly. I walk into the living room and Andrew and Kane are just standing there, staring at each other. Kane, at least in my observant view, is cool and at ease, but to anyone else, he’s intense and intimidating. Andrew is stiff, edgy, his mood ping-ponging against the walls and back at us all. But he’s still here. I give him credit where credit is due.

I close the space between me and him and hand him the glass. “Drink.”

He accepts the glass and downs the contents. I hand him the second. I return to the bar and come back with two more glasses. This time I walk to Kane, hand him his glass, and then glance between them. “Okay, so what do normal people talk about at Thanksgiving?” I lift my glass. “I know. Murder.”

Kane’s lips quirk. Andrew scowls.

He motions to the tree. “Your decorator did a good job.”

“Thank you,” I say. “We did, didn’t we?” I smile at Kane.

“You didn’t decorate the damn tree,” Andrew argues. “You didn’t even help when we were kids.”

“Well, people change,” I say. “I’m more delicate and sensitive now.”

Kane laughs and sips his drink.

Andrew tilts his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with you when you weren’t accusing me of mass murder,” Kane replies dryly.

“Okay then,” I say. “We’re back to murder. Why don’t we just sit down and talk about the case then?”

Andrew eyes me. “Your husband-to-be might not like that.”