Silence greeted me as I placed my violin down in my cubby in our mudroom. They hadn’t been able to come to my recital tonight. They’d said they needed to talk with Michael, just the three of them.

Dad had later told me that they were sending Michael to a new treatment program they’d found in the Midwest. This one was specially designed for kids like Michael. They used that term a lot: kids like Michael. But I wasn’t sure what it truly meant. Kids who enjoyed hurting others? Who refused to follow the rules?

“Guys? I’m home. Where are you?” Maybe they’d taken Michael out for ice cream to soften the blow. Ice cream always made news that Michael wouldn’t like go down easier.

My stomach rumbled as I made my way to the kitchen. I could never eat before a performance, so I was always starving by the time it was over. I flicked on lights as I moved through the house. I searched for the switch on the kitchen wall, but I slipped on the floor as I moved to flip it up. My arms windmilled as the light flashed on. What the heck?

Everything came into focus at once. Blood. So much blood. Smears of it across the white-tiled floor. A handprint. A pool. I scrambled to a sitting position. As I did, I saw her.

“Mom?” I croaked. She was too still. Her eyes open and unblinking.

I tried to struggle to my feet, but before I could gain purchase, a hand gripped my neck and slammed my back into the wall. Stars exploded in front of my eyes. It took a second or two for my vision to clear, and when it did, my brother appeared, a knife tip hovering just over my heart. “We’re gonna play a game, sissy.”

“Shay. Look at me. What the hell is going on?”

Someone was shaking me. Brody, I realized in some part of my brain. Brody. Not Michael. I was on Anchor. Safe. Surrounded by water. He couldn’t get to me. “S-s-sorry.”

“Don’t you apologize. Tell me what’s going on.”

The worry etched in Brody’s face had me pulling myself together. “Nothing. Just a letter I wasn’t expecting. It was a bit of a shock. That’s all.”

“Bullshit.” Heat filled Brody’s gaze, and I fought the urge to take a step back. “That wasn’t shock. It was terror. You went white as a sheet. You’re trembling. You didn’t hear me the first five times I said your name.”

“I—I—” I scrambled to come up with an explanation.

“Shay. What are you running from?”

“Nothing. I’m not running from anything.” It was an automatic response. One borne of the time and energy I’d spent building this safe haven for myself.