But no. Logan had left Endicott to make his way in the world when Chance was sixteen, barely a week after they buried their mother. It evidently never occurred to him that leaving behind a minor brother might be a bit problematic for said minor brother. Chance had spent the next year and a half couch surfing with Felix and Max, whose families had been kind enough to take him in, until he could sign a lease on his own place when he turned eighteen. Life hadn’t exactly gotten easier after that, but he’d had a good job at the boatyard and a gift for carpentry, inherited from his father, that had led to his learning the craft of boatbuilding. Not that there was a lot of that going on these days, but there was enough, along with the more regular income from his marine repair shop, for him to keep himself fed and clothed and housed and still put a little away every month for the future.

Of course, now he was going to have two more people to feed and clothe and house. Quinn and Finn. Seriously, Logan? Seriously? Two people he knew nothing about and who in turn knew nothing of him. Two people he was going to be responsible for for the next god knew how many years. He’d have to enroll them in school and become a member of the PTA. Cook regular nutritious meals for them. Keep tabs on what they watched on TV and what games they played and make sure they were home before dark.

Was Quinn a typical little girl? Did she like glitter and unicorns and all things pink? Or was she more into bugs and skateboards and mud pies? Maybe Finn was the one into glitter and unicorns and all things pink. Maybe neither of them was. Maybe they were both empty vessels hungry for knowledge. In which case, Chance was really in trouble, because pretty much the only thing he knew about was boats.

He heard a door open and close somewhere down the hall, followed by the heavy clack-clack-clack of sensible heels and the softer scuff of rubber-soled sneakers. Ms. Digby and the children had arrived.

The knot in his stomach clenched tighter. He heard another door open and close, the mumble of voices both old and young, and then the law office was silent again. Until a moment later when, out of nowhere, a high-pitched scream split the air of the reception room, followed immediately by the crash of something that sounded really, really expensive. Lionel heard it, too, his previously polite expression rocketing to panic.

“What was that?” Chance asked.

“I guess I should go check,” Lionel replied.

He stood and strode down a hallway to his left. Chance heard a door open again, then another scream—this one less high-pitched and more wild-animal sounding—followed by the thump of what could have been a baseball, a book or a body part.