“Let me get my husband, he’s inside eating.” She glares at Rylee. “You’re a shitty person and I hope you get beat up while you rot in prison. Shame on you.”

“You can’t do this to me!” Rylee yells. “Officers, I was joking. I’m not really going to leave her. And Cora gave me that money. Ava hit me first!”

“I want every dime back that you stole from Cora,” I say.

Then the officers walk to her the end of my driveway and usher her inside the car. I follow them just to make sure she gets in the car. I’m getting odd stares from my neighbors. I turn around and say, “Mind your damn business, there is nothing to see here.”

The minute I close the door, Alana stomps up to me and slaps me across my face. My cheek stings as I stroke it. I should have seen this coming. Alana puts the fire in firecracker.

“Don’t put your hands on your brother, I raised you better than that,” Ma says, then turns toward me. “Next time you want to drop a bomb on us like that, give us a heads-up. That was very selfish of you to do and if you were still living in my house, I would ground you.” She shakes her head. “Now, apologize to each other.”

“I’m sorry for hitting you, but you deserve it,” Alana says, folding her arms across her chest, then inhales and exhales loudly.

“Gunner?” Ma says, with her hands on her hips tapping her foot. “I’m waiting on you.”

“I apologize,” I mumble under my breath.

“I can’t hear you, Gunner Joshua Underwood,” my ma says.

“I said, ‘I apologize.’”

“My work here is done.” She pauses. “There’s too much bad energy here. Herold, let’s go!”

She rushes to the kitchen, then Herold strolls through the living room with a plate of food in his hand and they both leave.

“How long have you known about them, Gunner Joshua?” Alana points her bony index finger in my face.

“A year.” I thrust my fingers through my hair, then pull in frustration.

She gives me a humorless laugh. “It’s just like you to keep me in the dark about shit. I always wanted to be close to you, like a normal sibling. But you’re secretive. You treat me like I’m glass, as if by telling me things I’ll break. I might be your sister”—she pauses—“but I’m not your baby sister anymore. I mean that literally and figuratively.”

Guilt eats at me as I pace the wooden floor.

“Why didn’t you tell us about that little girl up there?” Her tone is laced with hurt.