The veins on Tully’s arms are the same blue as her ankles. I jerk my eyes away. “Cassie fell off the couch. Hit her back on the corner of the coffee table and landed on her knees.”

“If that’s all it was, why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“She’s shy.” Even I can hear that’s not much of a response.

Tully says, “You’re into protecting Cassie. You’re doing your best to be a good brother, that’s what I’ve decided.”

“Until you change your mind.” C’mon, Brick, you can do anger better than that.

“You love each other.”

Well, duh. Although what I feel for Cassie is a lot more complicated than love. Why do girls always have to drag love in, anyway?

“Rolf,” Tully says, “now there’s a man who’s into protection with a capital P. Mom, me, the baby, Caramel, Cassie, Glenn— you name it. When I told him about you and Glenn, I knew he’d come on strong, that he’d turf you out the door. I was too angry to care. But then he had to go to work, and I was left home to stew.” She grimaces. “After he talked to Mom and they both agreed they didn’t want you at our place, I argued with them. Sort of. But another thing about Rolf is he can be real stubborn. You being a bully—that did it.”

“I noticed.”

She scuffs the bare floorboards with her sneaker. “I went along with Rolf—Brick-the-bully, who everybody hates. I still hate what you did to Glenn. But I’ve had time to think. You see, I want a new bike, a Kona, even if it’s only the basic model ... so I’m saving every penny I can lay my hands on. Ever since you started mowing Della’s lawn, I’ve been mad at you, which made it easier to side with Rolf. The truth is, you got to Della first. I was mad at myself and took it out on you. I shouldn’t have and I’m sorry.”

Her eyes look greener inside the shack. Green. Generous. Honest.

“I—okay,” I say.

“How did you get those scrapes?”

I wore my oldest T-shirt this morning, the neck stretched way out of shape. “Sharp branches in the woods.”

She stands straight. “If you don’t want to tell me, say so. But don’t lie.”

“I can’t tell you!”

Now she’s chewing on her lip. Taking a deep breath, she says, “If I had to guess, I’d say your dad.”

I stare at her blankly. She’s only guessing. She doesn’t really know.

But my heart’s pounding as if Floyd is about to march through the doorway of the shack and punch the living daylights out of me. “You’re out of your mind,” I mutter.