I was silent, my body having gone numb. This was why I avoided people. Relationships. Every tether was a chance for exposure. Every string a greater risk of discovery. Yet as I stared at Brody, this man who was working his way deeper and deeper into my heart, I couldn’t wish him away. “You didn’t betray me. It’s not your fault.”

He moved in a flash, pulling me into his hold. “I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.”

My arms encircled his waist. The strength of his embrace felt like armor against the coming storm. If I could just stay like this, I’d be safe. “I have to know how far the image of the painting has gotten.”

Brody nodded. “Come up to the house with me, and we’ll dig. I’m doing everything I can to get the photos taken down.”

“I know you are. And these are art sites, so it might not be as big of a deal.” I wanted that knowledge to calm me. Michael had gone to the same school for the arts as I had. He’d opted for cello instead of violin, wanting to chart a different path than his sister. But the path had been more challenging for him. Lots of broken bows and a handful of smashed instruments. I had to hope with what had happened, and how much time had passed, that he was no longer plugged in with any art school pals. That no one would casually mention seeing a photo of a painting that looked remarkably like his sister.

Brody took my hand. “Come on. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

I left my gardening tools abandoned in the greenhouse, mentally promising to deal with them tomorrow. Brody tugged me along the path to the main house. Not forcefully, but with gentle encouragement. Without it, I would’ve probably sunk to the ground where I was. The memories crowded in, the bite of fear still thrumming through me, feeding each and every one.

I did my best to battle them. Expel them from my brain. It didn’t do any good. The memories were like that arcade game of Whac-A-Mole. The moment I’d beat one back, another would pop up. Michael slamming me into a wall, his hand at my throat. Him threatening a little girl who wanted to come over for a sleepover. Throwing his plate at the wall when my mom said he had to finish his green beans.

But there was good mixed in, too. The fort we’d made in our backyard. The one that only the two of us were allowed in. The time we’d made pancakes for Mother’s Day and had nearly destroyed the kitchen. The good and the bad swung back and forth in my brain in a crazy-making staccato rhythm.

Strong hands gripped my arms. “Shay. Focus on me.”