“You fucking—”

“I will end you, boy. Don’t say another goddamn word.” Magnus pushes the barrel against Harrison’s forehead to shut him up. “I’ll make a hell of a mess at this range.”

“Don’t kill the boy. Even if he isn’t my grandson . . . I don’t need that on my conscience.” Commodore’s words are slurred and slow, but clear enough for us all to understand.

“What?” Lincoln snaps out the question, the gun in his hand wavering.

“He’s not your father’s son.”

“You fucking knew! She told me you didn’t!” Harrison ignores Magnus’s order. He holds his arm against his chest, blood pouring from what’s left of his hand. The color is already draining from his face, and I might not know shit about shit, but I’m guessing he’s going to bleed out if we don’t get him help, and fast.

“Everyone to the chopper. The police can meet us at the hospital,” Lincoln says.

Magnus lowers his rifle. “Piece of shit. Doesn’t surprise me you’re not a Riscoff. At least they’ve got balls.” He reaches for the handles on the back of Commodore’s power chair. “Let’s get the hell out of here before you’re even more useless than you are already in this damn chair.”

With blood trickling down his forehead, Commodore half laughs, half groans. “You’re lucky you didn’t hit me with that shot, with how your hand shakes. Could’ve killed me.”

“Then who would I hassle on a daily basis? Pissing you off is the only thing keeping me alive at this point.”

Forty-Six

Lincoln

When I dropped to my knees to lift Goose’s body and carry him out of the house, Commodore ordered me to leave him. His exact words were, “If the house burns, it’s a fitting funeral pyre for a damn good dog.”

For the first time in years, a tear trickled down my grandfather’s face as Magnus wheeled him away.

Harrison kept up his tirade until he lost consciousness, and the entire chopper flight was a blur of smoke and ash and disbelief.

When we land at the hospital, cops and an emergency crew meet us on the front lawn. Commodore and Harrison are both wheeled inside on stretchers, with the cops beside Harrison’s, per my orders.

A lone photographer snaps pictures as we make our way into the hospital. Thunder booms overhead, and the sky is black from ash and smoke.

Whitney tilts her face skyward. “Please, let it rain.”

I echo her plea silently, because the last thing we need is for the fire to make it all the way into town.

The fire my brother set.

My brother who isn’t my full brother. Yet another family secret that’s been kept from me my whole life.

One more secret that doesn’t matter right now.

As soon as we make it into the ER waiting room, the sheriff stops me. “You want to explain to me what the hell is going on, and why we’ve got a man on your brother like he’s some kind of criminal?”