I went to the kitchen, trying to decide if I would be able to eat anything. A sound startled me, and I jumped.

“Charlie?” I moved in the direction of the sound.

The shadow of a man loomed in my living room. My scream came out mangled, dying halfway up my throat.

“Ben!” I threw a hand out to steady myself on the wall.

He was sitting in the armchair, Charlie panting happily at his feet. There was no dressing on his wounded ear; just a neat stitching job, black threads peeking out from the side of his skull.

Dangling from his hand was my gun.

Tentacles of fear clawed at me, my pulse racing. I eyed my brother warily.

“You’re out of rehab?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “They told you I was there?”

I nodded. “That agent. She said they questioned you. That Carlos shot you when you tried to get drugs from him.”

He laughed, a paper-dry, mirthless little laugh. “Carlos was always too hotheaded. Santiago was calmer. I’ll miss him. No matter what they think, I didn’t kill him.”

“Who did?”

Ben rubbed a hand over Charlie’s long ears, not answering. “I’m heading out of town. I wanted to give you back your gun before I left.”

He held it out to me. I gingerly took it, checked it was disarmed, and slid it into my purse.

I wanted to beg him to stay, to plead with him not to leave me. Family is family. Yes, our relationship was complex, but complex relationships, the ones you worked at the hardest, were sometimes the most important ones.

I didn’t want to lose him.

But all I said was: “What about Lucas?”

“He’s with Violeta’s mom.”

“Bring him here,” I said. “He’s my nephew. I’ll keep him safe.”

Ben squinted at me. “He doesn’t even know you. No, he’ll be happiest with his grandma.” His shook his head, looking sad. “Violeta was a good mom, but me… I’m just a fuckup. I don’t want him raised around an addict. I got enough of that from Dad.”

“You think Dad was an addict?”

“You don’t?”

I thought of how Dad drank, his gambling problems. How much of a workaholic he was. Substances weren’t the only addiction a person could have.

“Addiction’s in my blood,” Ben said, “it’s in my brain. Maybe I can beat it if I go away this time.”

“Addiction is about escape. It’s about numbing painful emotions and detaching from reality. Running away won’t change—”

“Stop,” he cut me off, his voice like a shard of glass. “This is my life, not yours. You don’t get to tell me what will or won’t work.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, you’re right.” I looked down, embarrassed.