“Always, kid.”

  He lets out a chuckle at my response and I watch as his eyes slowly move toward Atasha, who’s sitting on the counter still in nothing more than my plain white t-shirt, sipping her coffee and inspecting him carefully.

  “Breakfast, Robbie?” I ask louder than I mean to. I’m not sure what the fuck is going on with the way they’re looking at each other but I’m going to end the social experiment before it begins.

  “Thanks, Aug,” he nods as I slide a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast in front of him. Robbie reaches up and grabs my wrist before I have a chance to walk away and I glance down at him curiously. I damn near melt when I see the boyish way he’s looking up at me—something as small as a plate of food these days is enough to get that silent gratitude from someone so dangerously damaged, and it only solidifies what I’ve decided.

  Robbie needs to be my main focus right now. Then Atasha and then my dirty little secret.

  In that order.

  I fix myself a plate and walk over, setting it down across from my brother who’s thoughtfully chewing on a piece of bacon and looking out the window.

  “I fucked up, Aug. I fucked up bad,” he says quietly.

  “Not now,” I whisper.

  He nods and takes another bite of his bacon as a single tear starts to roll down his cheek. I spare a glance at Tash, and she’s dismounted her perch, in the act of topping off her mug.

  Robbie clears his throat and uses the back of his knuckle to wipe away the tear and manages to fake a big smile in my direction.

  “You’ve got bacon in your teeth,” I say with a soft smile.

  “I’m still a slob. You used to find that hilarious,” he recalls thoughtfully.

  “I still do. Pig.”

  Robbie’s grin widens into a genuine one as he rolls up a napkin and tosses it at me. It gently whacks me on the forehead and I laugh.

  “Finally. I never thought I’d hear you laugh again,” he remarks, shaking his head.

  “I’m happy you’re home, kid,” I say softly to him.

  It’s true. No one has ever been able to make me feel normal like Robbie can. The only time I ever feel truly comfortable in my own skin is when I see him and it’s a terrible thing really.

  Monsters that hide in plain sight—one easier hidden than the other, but both of the same mind and cut from the same cloth. Together again and only something tragically beautiful can come of this.

  I truly can’t wait to see what it is.

  “Marty. Can I borrow your spare razor?”

  My boss cocks a bushy eyebrow and swivels his client 45 degrees so he can spare me a disapproving frown.

  “First you’re late to work and now this? When did you become so needy?”

  “I always rely on the kindness of strangers,” I drawl in an over-the-top southern accent, winking at my client. Marty cracks a smile as our regulars chuckle amongst themselves.

  “Second drawer in the cabinet.” He gestures with his suds up shave brush. “Help yourself.”

  Sauntering over, I bend over the drawer far enough to give the old guys a good show. I make surprisingly good tips from these harmless old men, most of whom live off of fixed pensions and social security checks. Making a senior citizen’s day with a wink and a smile is an acceptable way to pay the bills. These guys have manners, which is more than I can say for most of my generation.

  I could make more elsewhere, but as August loves to lecture me, a girl has to know her limitations. Working at a chain catering to ex-jocks reliving their glory days, I’d surely strangle some bro with a hot towel. God forbid I sling hair at a beauty salon with a bunch of passive aggressive she-bitches. The mere suggestion makes me shudder.

  “Nice handle, Daddy-O,” I tease, flipping the vintage razor open and closed in a flashy display. I admire the iridescent perlex handle enviously. “Very retro.”

  “Don’t get any ideas. It was my father’s and I paid a fortune to have it restored. What’d you do with yours, anyway?”

  Drenched it in some douchebag’s blue blood and tossed it into Puget Sound.

  “I sent it off to have it sharpened,” I lie, my mind flickering to August. He didn’t blink when I left after breakfast, and it had everything to do with his brother with the wandering eyes. “They misplaced it, so they’re ordering me a new one.”

  I’m feeling pretty good considering my aching body and my lack of sleep. My mind keeps wandering to August and his black sheep brother Robbie, and their strange exchange I wasn’t meant to see. Maybe Robbie’s well-timed appearance is divine intervention. Maybe my real guardian angel is herding me back to the fold after my dalliance with the demon on my shoulder.

  Robbie’s pale face at breakfast was haunting. He reminds me too much of my foster brother who hung himself with his belt in the closet one Christmas Eve. He clearly has issues, and August was practically a different man from the moment he arrived.

  They’d had an entire conversation in front of me without saying anything. I’ve heard of twins having their own language, but being an only child—at least until I started shacking up anywhere the system decided to stick me—I always thought it was a bunch of bullshit. Until now. They may not be twins, but they don’t act like any brothers I’ve ever met. Maybe it’s best if I stay away, for them as well as me.

  August Grant is enough to process on his own, without the wrinkle of an unstable carbon copy. From what I found when I’d Googled him on my morning break, August was one of Seattle’s most eligible bachelors. He was the heir to a small shipping fortune, his father coming from old money by Seattle standards.

  His mother was also high society, her ancestors cornering the fur trade back when the city was still young.

  The article explained that August’s father, a respected anthropologist, had dragged his family on lengthy excursions to both Africa and South America when August was young.

  The reporter clearly wanted to get into August’s pants, as she rambled on about how he was just as brainy as he was wealthy, having earned two degrees, a doctorate in anthropology just like his father before him, blah blah…and a bachelors in history. Two and a half years ago when the article was written, he was on staff at the Museum of History and Industry, where his father was still on the Board of Trustees. Fascinating stuff.

  Fantasies about rolling around on a bed of fifty-dollar bills and visions of African safaris aside, I spend the better part of the morning trying to convince myself that I was coerced into participating in the events of the past few weeks…or that the barber shop incident was self-defense. In the end, I have to admit it’s bullshit. I didn’t have to kill Silver Spoon. I just really wanted to.

  And don’t forget about that clean, close shave you gave that stranger’s dick. What did you really know about him? Who was twisting your arm that time?

  I step outside for a pre-lunch smoke and notice a couple of police officers who seem particularly interested in a dark SUV parked on the next block. I’m instantly on edge whenever I see a badge or a patrol car, so I turn to enjoy the view in the opposite direction.

  I scan the street, briefly wondering if August is trailing me again, since he has a similar vehicle parked at his place. I see no sign of him, but something about the way the cops circle the scene makes me extra edgy, and when another patrol car and a news van pulls up, I retreat into Dee’s Café next door to distract myself with her legendary French Dip.

  Refusing August’s breakfast catches up with me, and I’m gorging myself on au ju when the ancient TV over the counter catches my eye. Two familiar faces flash on the screen, and I snap my fingers at Dee.

  “Your arms aren’t broken! If you want salt, get it yourself.” Her thick accent makes the tiny Asian woman sound twice as angry as she looks.

  “Can you please turn it up?”

  Miracle of miracles, Dee acquiesces. The newscaster looks constipated, which I assume is her “serious story” face. She appears to be filming down the street from where I’m sitting.

  “…no activity on their phones or credit cards. The discovery of Jones’ Land Rover is the first sign of either man since they were reported missing two weeks ago. Police decline to comment on whether they have leads at this time. The Jones family and the Thompson family are both offering a 5,000-dollar reward for information leading to the location of the men.”

  They cut to a press conference with weeping mothers and wrung out fathers, pleading with the public to stay vigilant, to come forward…that “someone has to have seen something.” A little girl stands beside one of the wailing women, clutching her doll and trying very hard to look brave. Her red rimmed eyes reach right into me. For a moment, I think I’ll vomit my lunch all over myself.

  “If you have any information on the whereabouts of Tad Jones or James Thompson, please call the number below. Back to you, Phil.”

  As Phil accepts the news baton from the anal retentive female reporter, I slowly deposit my half-eaten sandwich onto my plate. Dropping a twenty on the counter, I hurry out of the shop, my phone in my hands, fingers flying across the mini keyboard as I frantically text August.

  Houston: we have a problem.

  I’m outside smoking and milling about with the other lookie-lous when I feel my phone buzz.

  Where are you?

  I scramble to reply, my cigarette clamped between my teeth.

  The barber shop.

  My phone goes off immediately.

  I’ll be there soon.

  An hour later, Marty’s gone up to his apartment to eat and catch a cat nap. The bells chime while I’m in the back fetching clean towels. I hurry to the front of the shop with a customer service smile plastered on my face, and I freeze at the sight of Robbie lurking in the doorway. He returns my smile with a disturbing Cheshire grin and removes his coat languidly. He seems completely at ease in the worn-out barber shop, but I remember August’s tremulous voice, livid and non-negotiable.

  I don’t want you alone with him.

  Ever.

  “Sorry it took me so long.” He saunters to my chair and makes himself comfortable. He leans back casually, but his playful expression doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “A little off the top, please.”

  Atasha left for work a few hours ago and Robbie’s been lying on the couch staring at the ceiling in the living room. He seems so calm that I don’t want to bring up whatever it is that brought him back home and agitate him. Neither of us need that right now and I’m rather enjoying the silence, if I’m being honest.

  When we were kids, I used to always beg him to stop talking because once he got started, he could go on for hours at a time. It wasn’t until he aged well into his teen years that I realized something wasn’t quite right with him. There were always signs when we were younger, but being the older brother, I chose to ignore them and dismissed them as childish behavior.

  The problem is that it never stopped and I feel partially responsible for the man he’s grown into because I could have helped him a long time ago.

  I somehow managed to forgive myself for not better managing his indiscretions when he left for Singapore. I didn’t want him to go; Hell, I damn near got on my knees and begged him to stay. Robbie off on his own adventures never ends well for him, but he was damn determined that he was able-minded and ready to set off on his little retreat and nothing I could have said to him would have mattered.

  With as much as I hate to admit it—and I’ll never say it out loud—I enjoyed the silence when he was gone. It was nice to pretend that everything was normal and I really didn’t have a care in the world except for the few times I woke up in a cold sweat wondering where my little brother was and if he was okay.

  Yeah; I certainly managed to forgive myself, but I could never find it in myself to forget Robbie and his little quirks and I’m glad I didn’t try. He needs me and I need him too in my own way.

  “You still doing that, Auggie?”

  His voice snaps me back to attention and I clear my throat. “Pardon?”

  “Standing and staring; watching and waiting. You treat me like a science experiment sometimes and I don’t like it,” he replies quietly.

  He’s still on his back but his arms are now stretching over his body and he clasps his fingers behind his head.

  My face flushes with embarrassment. I may be the older of the two of us, but Robbie has always been keener on his surroundings. No one has ever been able to get anything past him and that’s just part of the charm he’s used to keep his head above water.

  “Sorry, kid,” I reply softly, entering the living room and sitting in the lounge chair almost directly across from him. He turns on his side and looks at me with his wide, innocent eyes. I can tell there’s something on his mind, but he’s thinking carefully before he speaks. Robbie always worries he’ll say something that will cross a line and overstay his welcome.

  I don’t have any lines with him. None that I can think of anyway, but it’s best not to tell him that, otherwise he’ll find one and destroy it, just for shits and giggles because that’s how Robbie is.

  “What’s on your mind?” I ask him, removing my glasses and rubbing my eyes. I’m so tired from all of the juggling I’ve been doing to keep Magda hidden, Atasha fucked and safe, and now another equation has entered into the fray; but he’s the most important one and I have to care about this conversation because God knows if we’ll ever have another quiet moment together.

  “Nothing,” he says carefully with a shrug. “Just thinking about how much I missed you.”

  I put my glasses back on my face and push them up the bridge of my nose. As soon as my vision comes back into focus again, I smile at him. I can still see the innocent boy in his eyes—the one that doesn’t know right from wrong and needs to be told that things are going to be okay.

  But that innocent boy is lost in the body of this young man lying on my couch and I can’t let my emotions get the better of me. It’ll send him on a downward spiral into an oblivion that only he knows how to navigate.

  “I missed you too. I really am happy that you’re home,” I reply softly.

  He smiles, a chuckle escaping him as he looks away for a moment, before the happiness leaves his eyes again and he looks at me with a solemn secret dancing behind his lips, longing to be unleashed.

  While he stalks my soul with his eyes, my mind floats back to a particular memory that sometimes haunts me on restless nights.

  I was seventeen and Robbie was eleven. He had come home from school extremely excited about something—”a secret,” he told me in a loud stage whisper, that he would only share when we were alone.

  The only place I would be able to take him for privacy was the park a few blocks away, and he liked the swings so much. It’s the only time he said he felt that he could lose control and not care. He liked the feeling of “flying” and knowing that he would come back down when he wanted to and not when he was made to.

  It was a beautiful day—cool, but not overly cold; the sun was just hiding behind the clouds, but when the sunlight did break through, it managed to light up the excitement in his eyes.

  “I did something, Auggie. Something bad,” he said, once we were both sitting on the swings. He immediately pushed himself off the ground and began his acceleration through the air with his long legs, much like a trapeze artist would do.

  “What did you do?” I asked him.

  “You know Ms. Hagerman?” he began, turning his eyes toward me when he came back down, swooping by like a predatory bird.

  I nodded and he let out a laugh.

  “She made me stay after class because she said I was being annoying. So when the school was empty and we were sitting in the room by ourselves, I went to her desk.”

  I closed my eyes tightly as the thought of the young, blonde teacher’s assistant started to fill my mind. Ms. Hagerman had always been very sweet, but she wasn’t prepared to deal with someone like Robbie; no one really was.

  “What happened then?” I asked, with the same sick feeling in the pit of my stomach I always get when I relive the memory.

  “I told her she was a bitch. I wanted her to get up because that’s when I could… anyway. She did, Auggie. She got up and I stood there while she yelled at me and when she was done, she turned her back and said she was going to write a letter to mom and dad about my language use, but… I stopped her.”

  He let out a loud, raucous laugh at that moment and kicked his legs harder, causing the swing set to gently come an inch off the ground, but there was no stopping Robbie. He was having an episode and I knew that the best way to deal with those was to just let him have it.

  “So I took that big metal ruler she has? I hit her in the back with it. I hit her hard. And when she started to cry, I hit her again and again until she told me that she was sorry and that she wouldn’t write the letter to mom and dad. She told me she wouldn’t tell anyone what happened and she said it would be our secret if I just stopped hitting her. She said she felt like she was dying and I couldn’t stop laughing. I couldn’t stop hitting her—not right away, but I stopped when my arm got tired,” he finished with a big grin.

  Ms. Hagerman never turned him in for that, which allowed for him to behave however he wanted in her classroom. She was terrified of Robbie from that day forward, like most people tend to be, but I’ve never been afraid of him.

  He’s my brother and I know that to make him feel better, things have to happen, regardless of what they may be.

  Besides, little Robbie always had his quirks and it could have been much, much worse. He spared her because he was tired and the only people that ever knew about that incident were the three of us.

  I even went to talk to her a week later when she returned to school and made damn sure she wouldn’t turn my brother in. If I remember correctly, I’m pretty sure I told her that I’d shove the ruler inside of her and rupture her vital organs if she turned my brother in.

  “Is it safe to talk?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

  I blink—once, twice, until I find myself back in the moment again. Ms. Hagerman’s face is slowly leaving my mind as is eleven-year-old lethal Robbie’s.

 

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