He looked away, out of embarrassment or decency. “I should have been there for your brother. I see that now. From the first moment, I should have been there. But I was also in shock. Son, look at me.” He waited until I did. “Tyra’s murder was the worst I’ve ever seen, so horrible I’ll never forget it, not a bit of it. And the evidence against Jason is overwhelming.”

He looked lost, but gathered up the threads of his conviction. “When Robert died, it killed me. It killed us all, I know. But then I lost Jason, too, not in the same way, but the boy I’d raised was gone, just…” He opened an empty hand. “But I still had you. I had you and your mother and this chest full of fear, this mountain, Gibby, this mountain of fear that if I slipped or made a mistake, I might lose you, too. An accident. The war.

“A few hours ago, I learned some things about your brother’s past that help me understand the man he’s become, not just the anger and the quiet but that maddening inflexibility of his. He’s not the son I remember—not even close—but parts of him are still there, buried maybe, but not gone and not imagined.” He rolled his heavy shoulders, all but begging. “I needed answers, son, and decided to go looking. Maybe I should have done it sooner. Maybe it would have made a difference.”

“What kind of answers?”

“Things he won’t talk about. His training and the war, the things he did there.” He held up a hand, forestalling my questions. “It’s classified, son, stolen information. I could go to prison for knowing what I know.”

“I have a right to know, same as you.”

“I can’t allow you to take that risk.”

“I’m eighteen years old. That’s not for you to decide.”

“You live under my roof. So yes, it is.”

My hands clenched. His were fisted, too. “Is that your final word?”

“It has to be.”

“Then I would like to be alone.”

He searched my eyes, but I kept them cold and unforgiving. Even so, he lingered as if the rift between us was a wound that time alone could heal.

There weren’t enough hours in the day.

I made sure he saw that, too.

Chance was outside when his mother stepped onto the porch. She had coffee in one hand, but looked tired. The sun was barely up. “Have you fixed it yet?”

Chance considered the bicycle in the dirt where he knelt. He’d gone over the curb too hard, and blown a tube, damaged some spokes. “The tube is patched, but a couple of the spokes are broken through.”