I have one big fucking advantage.

Braxton and I are identical twins.

I shave my beard off, and there is no telling us apart.

Which means I can play him perfectly. I know him better than anyone else. I can walk like him. Talk like him. And nobody would ever know.

And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

At least, I will, when I lose some weight and make myself look a little shittier. That isn’t hard, for someone that works out daily and eats well, I just have to reverse it, give myself a lack of sleep, and in a week or two, I’ll look nearly as shitty as he does. Baggy shirts will cover most of my muscle tone. I’ll pull it off. If anyone questions me, I’ll say I’ve been working out a little.

As for Braxton, he’s going to rehab.

I didn’t give him a choice.

A very good friend of mine, and cop buddy, went and paid him a visit. I gave him enough information that he was able to give Braxton enough to scare him. Of course, he owes me big, so he was never going to lock Brax away, but that wasn’t what he told him. He gave him a choice, he either goes to rehab for three months and he’ll forget what he has on him, or he goes to prison.

Braxton chose rehab. It’s shorter. It’s quicker. And he can get out fast.

Braxton is fully aware it’s my doing. And it’s safe to say he’s wild with me. He’s also paranoid. He has jobs to do. And if he disappears for three months, those jobs will hunt him down and when he gets out, those jobs will kill him. But if he went to prison, and those jobs found out he spoke to police, he’d never get out of prison alive.

And he knows it.

Rehab gives him a chance of getting out of it alive.

He just doesn’t know while he’s in there, I’ll be picking up the slack.

He doesn’t want to see me. He doesn’t want me to visit.

That’s fine.

At least in there, I know he’s safe.

And outside of my good buddy, Connor, the cop, I’m the only one who knows Braxton is in there.

My next move is sorting his roommate out.

I’m going to pay him off, tell him he needs to move out of the house. I need to live there, and I need to live there alone. The reason? So that anyone who comes past thinks I’m Braxton. I need everyone and anyone to think that. So, the roommate has to go because he knows I’m not Braxton, and he’ll interfere with my plans. Far as I know he was plannin’ on going anyway, so it won’t take much convincing.

Once I’ve done that, I’ll let most of it come to me.

I’ll answer text messages on his phone. Calls. And hopefully a few people will come around, leading me exactly where I need to be led.

My brother isn’t going to die because of whatever he’s gotten himself into.

I’ll finish this for him, and hopefully he’ll come out of rehab clean, and I can get his life back on track.

That’s the plan, anyway.

I arrive at his apartment late in the afternoon. There are no cars here. Using the key I took off Brax, I unlock the front door and walk in. The place is mostly empty. He’s already gone, by the looks. Can’t say I blame him. I walk through the house warily, checking out all the rooms. Braxton’s stuff is all that remains. He bailed, without a call or a text. Which tells me one thing—he was concerned enough to run and not look back.

I walk into the kitchen, and there are broken cups all over the ground, the toaster is on the floor and things are knocked over. I move to the counter and see smears of blood.

Someone paid him a visit.

No doubt demanding to know where Braxton is.

Fuck.

I can only hope he’s still alive and that they just gave him a touch up. I guess it all depends on who we’re dealing with. Although, his stuff being gone is a good sign. It means he very likely packed up and got the hell out of here.

I exhale and go over what I’ve got left to work with. An old sofa, a few kitchen items, and Braxton’s room. I’ll have to bring some of my own stuff over without anyone noticing.

Fuck me, Brax.

What the fuck did you get yourself into?

First thing I do is pull out my phone and dial a locksmith. Getting all the locks changed is the first thing on my list.

I’ll have no fucker coming in in the middle of the night and putting a bullet in my skull.

I organize that and then check the house once more before moving to Braxton’s room and stripping everything. It fucking stinks in here; his dirty clothes are scattered all over the ground. I pick them up and start tossing them into a pile. One pair of his shorts makes a jingling sound, and I shove my hand into the pocket and pull out a set of keys.

They’re for a storage locker.

What the fuck is Braxton doing with a fucking storage locker?

I shove them into my pocket.

Guess I’m about to find out.