He kept his eyes on his food. “Actually what?”

“Sometimes I forget to pay attention.”

“Attention to what?”

“To you. I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on Chris and Gabriel. I know when they’re veering off the rails. You’re a little more challenging.”

Nick met his eyes. “I’m all right, Michael. I’ll work it out.”

Michael picked up an onion ring. “See, that’s why you’re tough to crack. Even keeled, nothing wrong. I’d almost buy it if I hadn’t frozen my ass off on the drive here.”

“I was just pissed at Tyler.”

“Yeah, and who else?”

“I really don’t feel like sitting through an interrogation.”

Michael shrugged. “I’m not interrogating you. Talk or not.”

“Not.”

So they ate in silence. When the waitress brought platters of ribs, Michael thanked her, but Nick remained silent.

He wished Michael had pushed. Did everyone think he had it all together? He felt like his life was a hot mess of lies and secrets and betrayals.

Quinn.

His fury had faded, but now he felt bewildered. Why had she told Tyler? Why? Why was she spending time with him? Was he the one who’d hit her in the face?

Or was Nick misreading everything?

He used his fork to pull a new section of ribs apart and kept his eyes on his plate. “Will you tell me what really happened with Tyler and Emily, that day at the quarry?”

They’d been silent for at least fifteen minutes, and Michael set his food down and wiped his hands. His voice was soft, but not empty. “You know what happened, Nick.”

“I know she—” He stopped and cleared his throat. He knew she’d died. He knew what had happened after. Not the details of before. Suddenly this felt cruel, making his brother relive it. “Never mind.”

“No, I’ll tell you.” Michael hesitated. “She worked the counter at that sports place on Mountain Road. I always used the batting cages. Remember, I used to take you guys there?”

Nick did remember. He hadn’t thought about it for years, but he remembered learning how to hold a bat, how to swing. It was one of the few sports he’d played better than Gabriel. He didn’t like playing baseball, not really, but he’d liked swinging the bat in those cages. He didn’t recognize it then, but he knew now: the air had told him everything. The speed of the ball, when to swing.

“She hated me,” Michael continued. “At least at first. She tried to chase me out of there—even had her parents call Mom and Dad and threaten them. I just wanted to play ball. I was pissed. Split a crack down the middle of the parking lot, right in front of her. The deal was brand new. I thought she’d turn me in for sure.”

“She didn’t?”