The way Mike referred to him as “our housekeeper’s son,” as if that made him too low to attend the same school as him, made my blood crawl. Another feeling I remember clearly from That Night.

And it must have done something to Colin’s inside, too, because his fist bunched at his sides, even as he flashed another charming smile my way.

“You should come back with your guitar sometime,” he said to me, like Mike wasn’t even there. “We could try our hand at some Mark O’Connor.”

“You play guitar?” Mike asked me. Like this was some kind of state secret I’d kept from him on purpose, as opposed to one of the many things we’d never gotten around to talking about since he never seemed all that interested in actually talking to me.

“I do,” I admitted to Mike. “But I’ve never heard of Mark O’Connor,” I confessed to Colin.

“You should look him up. He’s mostly known for his fiddle work, but he plays guitar, too—”

In a sudden burst of violence Mike yanked the violin case off the ground and flipped open its latches.

“No!” I yelled, instinctively knowing what he planned to do.

But Mike already had the violin case open. I only got a small glimpse of the frail instrument, its smooth wood gleaming underneath the back stairs light, before Mike took it by the neck and flung it with all his might against the side of the house.

The next thing I heard was it hitting the house with a sickening crack.

“Oops,” Mike said to Colin, his face shining with smug triumph. “I guess you should have gotten out of my way when I told you to the first time, huh, Fairgood?”

“You son of a bitch!” Colin ran over to where the violin had fallen to the ground.

“How could you do that?” I asked Mike.

Mike sneered again and shook his head. “That kid’s gotten uppity lately, forgetting about who employs who around here. Now he knows not to cross me.”

I had no idea how to answer that seriously fucked up explanation for ruining somebody’s instrument. So I didn’t. Instead I went over to Colin and bent down next to him over his broken violin. Colin was looking it over like a doctor trying to decide what to do next. But even I with my limited knowledge of violins could tell it was too late. The instrument was lying there in two pieces, its stringed neck hanging at a crooked angle from the rest of its wooden body.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my heart breaking for both Colin and the beautiful instrument.