The treatment center’s staff was hopeful, clearly taken in by whatever show Michael put on. The district attorney or the parole board were ready to give him another chance. The only person who’d ever seemed to know I might be right was the aunt I’d lived with after my parents were gone. She’d wanted me to take every precaution I needed to.

Sometimes, I doubted myself. I’d sat across from Michael in the visitors’ room at times and thought I saw a change in my brother. Healing. But then I’d get a glimpse of who I knew he would always be. Someone who got joy from pain. Someone whose currency was my tears. Someone whose thrill came from my breaking.

I returned my gaze to the water. Michael couldn’t change. It was how his brain was wired. By some luck of DNA and neurons, I could empathize, care…feel. My brother would never be able to do that. My only hope was that he’d violate parole, and quickly. And that the break wouldn’t come at the expense of someone’s life—or mine.

6

Brody

I dropped the can of spray paint to the floor. It wasn’t right. Somehow, I’d lost the ability to translate the things in my head to the canvas. Whether the loss was from doubt or fear, I didn’t know. And it really didn’t matter. The only thing that counted was whether I could get it back. So far, that endeavor didn’t look promising.

My gaze traveled around the sunporch that I’d turned into a temporary studio. There were at least a dozen canvases at various beginning stages. Even a few pieces started on scrap metal or wood. Nothing that had any hope of turning into something worthwhile, though.

I pulled off my gloves and ran a hand through my hair. I had the sudden desire to throw everything into a pile in the yard and start a bonfire. At least then, I could roast marshmallows.

A notification trilled from my laptop, and I crossed to my makeshift desk. I sighed but hit accept on the video call. I’d ignored at least a dozen texts and calls. If I kept this up, she’d show up at my door. “Hey, Lara.”

Her face appeared on the screen, makeup impeccably done, black hair in some sort of updo. “Brody, what the hell? I’ve been calling for days.”

“Sorry. I’ve been busy. Getting unpacked and all of that.”

She took in the space behind me, and her expression grew excited. “You’re working. That’s wonderful. I knew you’d get it back. Let me see.”

I grimaced. “Not now.”

Her lips thinned. “You’re still blocked.”