As Jack’s gaze trailed to the right, she understood why. He’d thought their mother had come home. He’d thought she’d caught him with this person, and he was preparing himself for the attack. For all their mother’s recklessness, there were certain things she wouldn’t allow. She’d never liked Raven, though she wouldn’t admit it was because of his pale brown skin. Belle’s mysterious parentage had made her nervous. And if she’d walked in to find her eldest son tangled on the couch with a bright-eyed, brown-skinned boy, she would’ve started screaming.

At the very least.

Jack waited for her brother to relax. She waited for reality to sink in, as he realized she wasn’t their mother and wasn’t going to humiliate him. She kept waiting. But Flynn’s eyes were trained on the ground, his hands shaking so badly, she thought he might cry. He never cried. Not when their mother taunted him, reminding him that his daddy hadn’t stuck around to witness his birth. Not when she disappeared for weeks on end.

When his eyelids started to flutter, Jack strode toward the kitchen, asking, “Anyone hungry? I was going to make a sandwich.”

The boys were silent a minute, and then Flynn stammered, “No, thanks,” just as the other boy said, “I could eat.”

Jack chuckled, tossing him a glance. The kid was stick-thin. In fact, everyone in the room looked like they’d skipped their last three meals, and her own belly grumbled at the thought of a nighttime snack. She needed to get the boys out of the living room so she could burn the bags of clothing. But first she needed to take care of her family. “Turkey, ham, or chicken?” she asked, the bags swinging behind her back. “Or, let me guess, all three? That’s how Flynn likes his.”

The boy nodded, a shock of dark hair sweeping across his face. He was wearing a midnight-blue button-down shirt and jeans, but they hung off him, like they’d been handed down from a much older sibling. “Thanks,” he said softly. “I’m Diego, by the way.”

“I’m Jack.” She tossed the words behind her, disappearing into the kitchen. Before pulling three plates from the cupboard, she set the knotted pillowcases on a chair, hoping they would pass for laundry. Then she started arranging bread on plates.

She’d just applied the cheese slices when she heard footsteps behind her. She didn’t have to turn to know who they belonged to. “Your guest is here kind of late,” she said, as Flynn approached the counter, still refusing to meet her gaze. Sometimes their mother waited until their muscles had relaxed and their breathing had slowed before she reared up for an attack. Was he waiting for the cutting words? The brittle laughter that could make you curl into yourself, wanting to disappear?