Renee starts to laugh when I tell her about our father reconciling with my mother.

“That’s in really bad taste,” she says, and then she sees the expression on my face, registers my tear stained cheeks.

“Renee—“

“You’re not fucking joking, are you?” she says.

She’s standing in the entrance of our apartment, still flush from being outside in the streets of New York City, looking glamorous and perfect for this time and place.

And I’m breaking her heart.

“I’m as shocked as you,” I tell her. “I don’t know how anyone can stand to be around him, let alone bring him into their home after all he’s done.”

“Your mother has always been intent on getting him back,” Renee says, her voice strained. “And it looks like she got her wish, finally. At my mom’s expense.”

“That’s not fair, Ren,” I say. I can’t believe she’s taking it this way. Lashing out at me. “We should be sticking together, not fighting amongst ourselves. We’re all victims of his behavior.”

Renee drops her purse on the table. “I’m so tired of hearing you badmouth him, and insinuating that everything he’s ever done is bad because he fell in love with my mother.”

“And left his family!” I say, my voice rising despite myself.

“Shit happens, and you need to get over it,” she replies. “Instead you and your mother act bitter and treat me and my family like second class citizens. We have as much right to happiness as you.”

“I’ve never said any of that.”

“Well now you have him back. Happy?”

“No. I never wanted him back.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she says, rolling her eyes and then turning away from me and walking to the couch, sitting down and texting on her phone.

“So that’s it? That’s all you have to say? You’re just going to blame me, kill the messenger?” I say. “I let you come and live with me. I’ve always treated you like my full sister.”

Renee laughs bitterly. “Lucky me. I wonder how you’d treat me if I was a stranger.”

And then I’m grabbing my pure and heading out into the night, hailing a cab, wiping at my eyes, knowing I can’t stay in the apartment with Renee after the heated words we’ve exchanged.

“Miss, where will you being going tonight?”

The cab driver’s voice lulls me out of my misery. When I ran out of the apartment, I didn’t know where to go, just that I needed to run away. I have no friends in New York, no one to talk to. Nowhere to go.

I give him Mason’s address.

* * *

I’ve been to Mason’s penthouse enough times for the bellman to recognize me. He waves me into the elevator without acknowledging the mascara streaks on my cheeks. On the long way up to the thirty-ninth floor, I peer into my compact, and try erasing some of the signs of my distress. Foundation covers the surface, but it can’t heal my bruised heart.

Mason hasn’t answered my texts, and I knock tentatively at the slightly open door. I’m on instant alert. Mason is borderline obsessive about security. I wedge my way into the foyer and squint. The suite is mostly dark, save the soft lights around the waterfall and two fluorescents over the kitchen stove.

I call out his name.

Nothing.

“Mason?”

Yielding no results, I tip toe into the kitchen and find a crumpled piece of paper on the counter. I skim the penmanship—bold printing—heart catching at my throat as I see the signature at the bottom.

Samuel Kratky.

Scanning my memory, I’m fairly certain that’s the son of the teacher killed during the tragic shooting.

I’d read he’d disappeared for a while after the murders, spending a few years in foster care, and then in a treatment center for addicts after he turned to drugs to cope with his grief. In the letter on the counter, he thanks Mason for taking care of the expenses, as well as his family while he is in recovery. Mom would have been grateful for that—she always said you were one of her favorites.

Samuel goes on to talk about his kids and how his daughter reminds him of his Mom. We think she’ll grow up to be a teacher.

There’s a family picture taped to the back, as well as a photo of Mrs. Kratky, who I recognize from the newspaper articles. I stare at her face, getting lost in her kind eyes, mourning for a life taken too soon.

Quietly, I set the letter down and pad down the hall, peering in each of the rooms for Mason. When at last I reach the master suite, my stomach is a twisted mess. He isn’t in bed either, but the door to his private theatre room is wide open. I peer inside.

Mason is sunken down on one of the couches, his legs sprawled out wide in front of him. An empty bottle of whiskey rests on a side table next him. The Outsiders plays on the giant movie screen.

“Mason?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t lift his head.

It’s possible he’s passed out, but I’m not going to leave him on the couch in a drunken stupor. With a deep breath, I wind my way to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “Mason?”

He peers up at me blearily. His eyes go wide, and then cloud over. Wet streaks mark his cheeks. I run my hand through his hair but he groans at me in response. “I want to be left alone,” he slurs.

I almost leave when I notice his laptop beside on the couch. The screen is open to an active trade, and my heart picks up speed. “Come to bed, Mason.”

A strangled sob comes from deep in his chest. “I said leave me alone.” His fingers move across the keyboard, and the screen switches to an investment page showing a trade totaling just over 100 million dollars. Any transaction over five million dollars needs approval from the three partners—and I have a gut feeling Mason hasn’t cleared this.

“You’re drunk,” I say, firmly. “Come on.” I look closer at the screen, relieved to see the transaction deadline isn’t for another two days. “Why don’t you take another look at this when you’re sober.”

“I’m the best in the business,” he says. “I can trade better drunk off my ass than ninety-nine percent can do on their best day sober.”

It’s probably the truth, but I’m not willing to let him have the chance.

“I know you must be feeling raw right now, but--”

“You don’t know what I’m feeling,” he yells, words almost indecipherable. “You don’t know, Liv. You don’t know.”

I sit next to him. “I’d like to.” I reach for his hand. He flinches but doesn’t pull away. “Why don’t we talk about it?”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Mason says. He pushes the laptop aside. His eyes lift to the movie, and a ghost of a smile forms on his lips. “She loved this movie.”

“Mrs. Kratky?”

He nods.

I squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”

“Stay gold,” he murmurs.

I stand and grab both his hands, tugging him to his feet. He’s dead weight, slumped up against me.

“Come on, big guy. Let’s get you to bed.”