“So Jackson, where'd you get this van?” I ask my brother as we roll down the highway in the ten-year-old Ford van. It's not pretty, but it certainly runs well, and when Jackson showed it to me this morning, I was amused. Guess Jackson hasn't run out of surprises for me yet.

Before Jackson can answer though, I feel a wet nose in my ear and I laugh, turning around and petting Maverick. “You big love sponge! You realize most women don't like having cold, wet things shoved in their ear, right?”

Maverick pants and gives me a big doggy smile before turning around in a circle and sitting down, comfortable on his oversized dog bed. He yawns once before lowering his head and closing his eyes, content. As long as someone gives him attention, the gigantic Great Dane is happy with his lot in life. I think a lot of people could learn from Mav.

“You can thank Nathan for the van,” Jackson says from the shotgun seat once he stops laughing about Maverick's antics. The van is huge, and even with the removed seats in the back for Maverick's bed, there's more than enough space for five adults and one baby in her car seat. “Katrina and I only have a little Honda in Baton Rouge. You saw it, right?”

“That thing Nathan was driving Thursday?” I ask, and Jackson nods. I look at Katrina, who's patiently playing with Andi in her safety seat. “Do you even have a license?”

“I don't even have a Social Security number,” Katrina answers with a chuckle, and I'm reminded that my sister-in-law and Jackson now live an underground lifestyle. No real IDs, no paper trails, nothing that means they really exist. They're ghosts in the shell, phantoms that don't even have a marriage license, although that doesn't diminish their vows one bit in my eyes. While they've shown me a lot, I have tons of questions still, and I hope that maybe this trip and reunion will give me a chance to ask them. “I do drive, though. Trust me, when Jackson brought that Honda home the first time, I nearly went into labor laughing so hard. From limos, Audis and sports cars to a family-type Honda. Fatherhood changes a man, I guess.”

“It did indeed. Love more than fatherhood though,” Jackson adds, and Nathan, who's driving, makes a hurling sound that makes me break into giggles. “What?”

“I think the sweetness levels are getting into diabetic shock territory,” I say, leaning forward and patting Jackson on the shoulder. “But okay. Nathan, where'd you get this monster? And I don't mean Maverick, I know him.”

“He missed you, too,” Nathan says from up front, eyes still reading the highway. Ever the bodyguard, he hasn't stopped scanning for threats since the second we rolled out of my parking lot. “ I got this van from a connection who deals in used military hardware. The military loves these fifteen-passenger vans for transporting troops around base when you don't need tactical vehicles. Since I left my Tahoe behind at the DeLaCoeur estate, I found this the best way to keep Maverick with me.”

“How did you get Maverick back, anyway?” I ask. “You certainly didn't have him with you when we were hauling butt on those 4-wheelers through the wetlands.”

“I circled around late in the afternoon, snuck him out,” Nathan says. “I was not going to leave my dog without at least trying to get him back. I feel bad enough about my fish.”

Talk about a man of contrasts. I know Nathan would have no problem putting rounds in the head of any man he feels is a threat to him or our family, but he still grieves for the loss of a dozen exotic types of tropical fish over a year ago. We drive another fifteen minutes before Nathan pulls off of Highway 90 and onto a parallel road. “We are about five minutes out. Andrea, are you sure about this?”

I nod, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror and seeing the concern there. “Absolutely. If what you found was true, Melissa Sands is either a nice woman who's very shy, or a psychopath. If she's nice, then she should get a chance to meet her family. Carson says she has some problems because of what happened to her mother. That at least I can understand.”

“And if she's a psycho?” Katrina asks, and I give her a raised eyebrow.

“I've got two of the most dangerous badasses in the country with me. Oh, and the Godzilla of dogs back here, and he likes me. I think I'm safer than if I had the Secret Service watching my butt.”

“Speaking of which, you're looking a bit curvier since last time,” Katrina notes. “Any secret?”

“Yeah, trying some of the exercises you gave me and not doing an hour a day of torture therapy on the StairMaster any more,” I answer, patting my slightly larger hip. She's right, I've gained a few pounds over the last year, and I'm glad that it's almost all in the right places. I feel like a woman and not a girl any longer. “When I went to the movies two weeks ago, would you believe I actually got into an R-rated movie without having to show ID proving that I'm over seventeen?”

Jackson laughs, shaking his head. “You're half-Asian, Andrea. You're always going to look youthful. Besides, speaking from a purely male perspective, you were always cute to me.”

“Kimoi, oniichan,” I tease, but still feel good about it. I know that Jackson isn't perving on me, and his knowledge of the female figure is pretty much top-notch. “Creepy. Katrina, can you kick his ass for me?”

“Nah, I'll convince him other ways,” Katrina throatily purrs, and Nathan coughs up front in surprise, causing her to laugh.

Nathan glances in the mirror again, a ghost of a smile on his face. “TMI, Katrina. All right, it's just up here on the right.”

Nathan turns onto a dirt driveway, a short one that winds around the back of a classic wooden farmhouse. It's not a plantation house like the DeLaCoeur home, but more of a working farmer's house. It's still big, but nowhere near as grand as my former home. The front lawn is nicely maintained though, and I can see a barn around back that Nathan suspects is used as a workshop or garage by the Sands. “Well, here we are.”

I can see movement inside, and the curtain in front of what I assume is the living room window twitches as someone lets it fall back. The front door opens, and a man comes out, hidden somewhat in the shade of the porch, but I assume it's Carson. As soon as I hear his voice, I know for certain. “Can I help you folks?”

I open my side door, holding my hands up, signaling that I want everyone else to wait inside the van. They don't need to get out yet and freak him out. “Carson Sands?”

He steps forward, but his face is still somewhat obscured in the shadows of the front porch. I have a decent view of his body though. He's taller than me, lean, but it's hard to tell much more with the turtleneck, jeans, and light sport coat he's got on. “That's me. You... oh. It's you.”

His voice is surprised, and I shrug, trying to smile. I know I look more dressed up than he probably expected. I wanted to make the event special, so I wore one of my favorite outfits. I'm wearing a blouse and slacks, my take on a modern power suit, plus a pair of high-heeled boots that add four inches. “It's me. I'm Andrea. I brought some friends and family with me, I hope you don't mind.”

Carson studies the van, and I'm sure he can't see much because of the glare from the sun, but he waves to his right. “Tell your driver to pull around to the back, there's a shady place he can park. It'll help keep the heat down inside. Also, Melissa's in the barn right now, she's a bit nervous today and she feels safer there.”

“Should I walk around?” I ask, and Carson shakes his head.

“No, you can come through the house. How many people did you bring with you?”

I motion to Nathan, who nods and puts the van back in gear after Katrina leans over and closes the door. I watch the van start to pull forward before walking up toward the porch, wincing as my eyes adjust to the shade.

What I see when my eyesight adjusts is just... I don't know how to describe it. Carson Sands is maybe six foot or so, with a slim, sort of fashion model-like build to his face as well as his body. His hair is maybe brown, or maybe black, but he's got the most arresting eyes, a silvery-gray that glimmer like hidden treasure. He looks artistic, kind of like you'd expect a gallery owner to look, but not soft or wispy. He offers his hand, and when our fingers touch, there's a spark that I can see he feels as well in those magnetic, amazing eyes...

“Sorry, I'm being rude,” I apologize, unable to tear my eyes from him. I don't normally apologize for anything, but there's a sense of power in his eyes, and it just feels right with him. “I brought my brother, his wife and daughter, and a family friend. Oh, and his dog, if you don't mind.”

“We've got plenty of room,” Carson says, his voice sending shivers down my spine. He had a good voice on the phone, but in person... get a fucking hold of yourself, Andrea. Yes, he's handsome. Yes, he's got a look in his eyes that's sending quivers down your spine, but I don't need to turn into a pile of goo just over that.

“That's great. So, let's go meet your sister, right?”

“Right,” Carson says, his own voice sort of breathless as well before he regains his own composure. He felt it too, and the way he looks at me, the quivers down my spine are starting to find a home in the long-neglected space between my legs. “If you'll come with me. Welcome to the Sands house.”

Carson holds the door for me, and when his fingers touch my elbow another little thrill goes through me where his skin touches mine for the briefest of instances. It's like there's electricity in his body, and my arm tingles where he made contact. I rub the spot, taking a few more steps inside to make space for Carson, and to try and gather my wits. Seriously, it may have been a while since I've been with someone, but I'm not so desperate that a handsome guy has me melting already, right?

“It's a nice place,” I comment to distract myself as Carson closes the front door. I'm immediately struck by the two paintings on the wall. They're absolutely beautiful landscapes, one of the Mississippi on a foggy morning, but the other is someplace I've never seen before. “Those are... those are by Melissa?”

“Yes,” Carson says, noticing my look. “She says those two are trash that would never be worthy of being sold, but I couldn't make myself throw them away or let 'Lissa recycle the canvases. So I hung them up in here, and told Melissa that they were my birthday gift to myself that year.”

“They're amazing. I recognize the one of the Mississippi, but what's the other?” I ask, so entranced that I feel like I could walk through the canvas to the painting itself. It's both hyperrealistic and surreal at the same time in some strange way. The reds are just slightly off, the mists are slightly too luminescent silver, but it adds to it. It's not a foggy morning on the Delta, but it's the way you want a foggy Delta morning to look.

“The cliffs above the Malian Gulf in Greece,” Carson says. “She painted it for me when I was really into history, back in high school. It was the site of the battle of Thermopylae. So the painting is her interpretation of how it looked in 480 BC, a month after the battle itself.”

I look more closely, and can see the churned-up ground in the lower right half of the painting, and recognize the mounds for what they are. “She makes it sad, like a graveyard. But noble too, like the people tried to do what they could to honor the dead.”

“That's what I said too, the first time she showed it to me,” Carson says. “Come, let's go to your friends. You said you brought Jackson with you?”

“Yes... actually, you've met our family friend as well perhaps,” I tell him, figuring I might as well get it out of the way. “Nathan. He came here Thursday.”

“Your friend. I see. Being cautious,” Carson says, but I don't hear any anger in his voice. Instead I hear a wary sort of respect, like he knows that we're living a dangerous life, and thinks our idea was a good one. “'Lissa might be surprised, but I don't fault you. Not with what your father has done.”

“Peter DeLaCoeur isn't my father,” I reply shortly, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. Carson didn't mean anything by it. Still, he gives me a questioning look, so I feel like I have to explain. “He may have fucked my mother, so I may carry half his DNA, but that son of a bitch is not my father.”

“I understand,” Carson says gently, and in his voice I can hear something that neither Nathan nor Katrina has said. Not even Jackson. They accept me for who I am, but in Carson's voice I hear more than just acceptance. I hear agreement as well. There's also a hint of attraction in it, which makes me wish he'd take me upstairs for an extended tour of the house instead of out the back.

We come out onto the back porch, and Carson stops, staring as Maverick climbs out the back of the van. “You said a dog. That's not a dog, that's a small horse.”

“Maverick is a dog. He's just a big puppy,” I reassure him as the three and a half foot tall dog walks around, sniffing happily. Then I notice the bulge at the back of Carson's pants, and see he's carrying a pistol. “And you should tell Katrina and Nathan that you've got a weapon. They're both very protective of their family.”

“I understand,” Carson says, reaching behind his back and unclipping the concealed carry holster and taking it out. He holds it at arm's length and then brings it back in, clipping it instead to his right hip where it rests in plain sight. “And no offense, but I am too.”

“Well, let's say our hellos then, and go meet Melissa.”

Introductions are pretty short in the dirt yard, Jackson giving Carson a quirky smile as they shake hands. “Sorry about that when you called. Your timing was too Twilight Zone to not trip a few alarms in our heads.”

“Not a problem. Shall we go see Melissa?” Carson asks. “I can hear her in the barn. It sounds like she's grinding on her newest piece, so if you all can please stay behind me, I'll go in first and help her get ready. Can you wait in the dooryard?”

“Sure,” I agree readily, smiling despite myself. Carson's eyes meet mine and hold me for just a few seconds, but in that look I know for certain that he's attracted to me, too. He smiles, and it's so handsome, it causes another little warm tingle to build in my stomach when he turns and walks away. He goes into the barn by a smaller side door, leaving the rest of us in the dooryard. “Well?”

Katrina, who's holding Andrea, gives me a knowing look and chuckles. “He seems nice. Good piece on his hip, too. Smith & Wesson. What do you think, Nathan?”

Nathan smiles, but in his eyes I see some anticipation as well. He's met Melissa before, I wonder if she's as magnetic a personality as her brother. “Jackson?”

“I think Maverick's happier than he's been in a long time,” Jackson says, his eyes following Maverick as the dog breaks into a big, galloping run around the property. “You sure he'll be okay?”

“Yeah,” Nathan says, unconcerned. “He knows how to stay away from snakes, and nothing else around here's gonna mess with him. Maverick, you stay close!”

Maverick woofs once and turns, running and loping along. The door to the barn opens, and Carson comes out, holding the hand of a willowy, obviously shy blonde woman who is wearing a pair of coveralls and work boots. Streaks of some sort of blackish dirt run across one cheek, probably a result of her work. Everyone goes quiet as she comes out, and I step forward, drawn in by Carson's wave. When I'm about three feet away I stop, suddenly nervous. Carson nods and lifts the woman's hand. “Andrea DeLaCoeur, this is my sister, Melissa Sands. 'Lissa, this is Andrea.”

* * *

“So that's why you decided to come by the way you did,” Carson says, nodding wisely as Nathan finishes his story. Melissa's changed out of her coveralls into jeans and a t-shirt, and is currently sitting between her brother and Nathan on the porch. She still looks a little shy, but it's clear she's drawing strength from Carson being nearby. She gives little looks to Nathan too, and I think she's attracted to him. Nathan's got a calm, assured presence to him, and to a woman like Melissa, who looks like she jumps at the sound of a loud hiccup, he must be like some sort of powerful alien.

“With Peter threatening Andrea and Jackson, we felt it was the best way to make sure that this was not a trap,” Nathan says in his quiet, rumbling voice before he glances at Melissa and gives her a small half-smile. “Personally, I am glad that it isn't.”

“Me too,” Carson says, his eyes finding mine. My mouth goes dry again. It seems to have been doing that all afternoon, and I'm both distracted and annoyed by it until Katrina clears her throat.

“So Melissa, can I ask about your past?” she says. Andi's asleep on a sheet next to her, Maverick laying protectively nearby. I've read about Great Danes being family-oriented dogs, but to see it in action is heartwarming. Andi rolls a little in her sleep, and Maverick sniffs, making sure his new companion is safe before putting his head on his paws and huffing. Katrina rubs the big dog's ears and laughs quietly. “I understand, Maverick. Trust me.”

Melissa nods, looking up at me. Her eyes are gray like Carson's, and I'm reminded that they are effectively brother and sister, even if there's no blood there. Which I guess makes Carson sort of family. The knowledge twists in my gut. He's so handsome, and I'm having thoughts I should never, ever have. Thoughts that honestly, I haven't had about any other man, ever. Thoughts like being on my knees in submission and serving him, not caring if I'm his equal or not. No man has ever driven me to these dark, delicious areas inside my soul, and I've only ever thought about them in my fantasies. So how is Carson bringing me to thinking about this already?

Melissa clears her throat quietly and begins. “I think my mother may have been Peter DeLaCoeur's first affair with a married woman, although I doubt she was his first... conquest. He was just eighteen when they started, from what I can tell. He and Janice met through her husband, Michael Sands.”

“The Michael Sands?” Nathan asks, and I give him an irritated look. “Sorry. Continue.”

“It's okay, Nathan,” Melissa says, and I swear there's warmth in her voice. She feels comfortable for some reason around him, that's for sure. “But yes, the Michael Sands. He was one of the biggest industrial bankers on the Gulf Coast, and one of Peter's first business partners. Carson suspects that some of Peter's profits were laundered through Michael's accounting division. Anyway, when I was born, somehow Michael knew I wasn't his daughter. I look mostly like my mother, and have her eyes. I didn't inherit the DeLaCoeur blues, as you can tell. By that time however, Peter had also gotten married to Margaret DeLaCoeur, although they didn't have a child for years.”

“I remember she used to say that she put off having a child for as long as possible,” Jackson muses. “She said she wanted to keep her figure as long as possible, and only popped me out when she had to.”

“Margaret got pregnant about six years after I was born,” Melissa agrees, giving Jackson a sad smile. “I didn't quite understand it, I just knew that most of the time Father was... distant at best. Then he died suddenly, had a stroke on the golf course. Margaret was in fact pregnant with you when that happened. Soon afterward...”

Her voice trails off, and Carson picks up the story. His eyes are burning again, but this time with a passion different from when he looked at me earlier. It's the intense anger of a man who's watched injustice for too many years and couldn't do a damn thing about it, and it still eats him up inside. “When the will was revealed, Michael Sands stated that he had known for years that his wife had been unfaithful with him, although he never said with who. In order to punish her, he expressly had his will tailored so that Janice got exactly fifty dollars, 'the price of a decent whore,' quote-unquote, and Melissa got nothing, stating, 'She's not my daughter. I have no blood children, so I choose to give it all to the only person who might be worth a damn in my household, my adopted son Carson.' It was cruel of him.”

“I'll say,” I say sympathetically. To be cut out of the will is one thing, but the language Michael Sands used is just too much. “And so Janice was desperate.”

Melissa nods. “Mom tried to be brave about it, since the court named her as Carson's guardian. As his adoptive mother, she would have been able to administer the trust fund in his name with the court's guidance until he was eighteen. But more than that, she wanted me to be acknowledged as Peter DeLaCoeur's daughter. Apparently he'd been stringing her along for years, saying that he would leave Margaret for her, and she thought with Michael's death, they'd be able to be together.”

“Let me guess,” I say bitterly. “He laughed and told her to get the fuck out of his face and out of his life. I've heard that story before.”

Melissa nods, tears coming to her eyes. “I came home from school, and I was so excited. We'd made some St. Patrick's Day things that day in school, and I wanted to show Mom the worksheet I'd done. Carson was only two at the time, and he was having his afternoon snack with the kitchen staff when I came in, I remember that much. I went up to Mom's room, calling her name when...”

Her voice fails again, and Carson reaches over, putting his hand on her shoulder. “'Lissa, it's okay. You don't have to say it.”

Melissa shakes her head, trying to work up the strength, and I know why. Nathan does too, and he puts his hand on her other shoulder, his voice low, and amazingly gentle. “Melissa, remember, the words are not reality. They are just a way we try to represent reality. Like your artwork. Emotional, impactful, but they alone cannot hurt you. You are strong enough to create the artwork, you can create this art as well.”

Carson looks over at Nathan, at first angry or maybe surprised, but then nods at the wisdom of his words. I'm sure it's been years since anyone but him has given words of encouragement to Melissa when she's struggling. Still, Melissa can't get it out, and I slide forward, taking her hands. “Melissa, I understand,” I whisper, my own eyes burning when she looks up, haunted and tearing up. “I wasn't there, but I understand. It took me years to come to grips with Peter's evil.”

“I walked in on her,” Melissa says, her eyes boring into mine, the horror clear on her face. I may be holding hands with a thirty-year-old woman, but the person behind the eyes is still seven years old, reliving the incident again. “She had bought some drugs somewhere, I don't know where. When I opened the door, she had the syringe in her elbow already, pushing the plunger. I was only seven, but I knew she wasn't supposed to be doing that. I ran over, and I tried to pull it out, but she faded so fast. She saw me and gave me a smile, and the last thing she said to me was 'I'm sorry, Mellie.' And then she was gone.”

The tears take over and I embrace Melissa, letting her cry on my shoulder. I thought I'd been through horror and terror, but my pain is nothing compared to what Melissa went through. At least I have more evidence to support my theory that my mother Aiko didn't actually kill herself. Still, for years I thought that my mother had, and I can at least somewhat understand. And at least I didn't have to literally watch my mother's death, or see her body after it had plunged the ten stories to the Osaka sidewalk. Still, I hold her and whisper in her ear, knowing I'm the only person who might be able to connect with her on this. “Melissa, it's okay to feel the way you do. I promise you though, you've gained a sister through this, plus a brother. I promise you that much. And I promise you one more thing.”

“What?” she sniffles, raising her head enough to look me in the eyes.

“That Peter DeLaCoeur will pay for his crimes. Let me tell you a bit more of why he wants us dead. You mind if this takes a while?”

Melissa smiles and shakes her head, trying to be brave. “We have space. This house has four bedrooms. Would you maybe like to stay for the evening?”

I look at Carson, whose own eyes flare with both hope and hesitation. I can understand. Without considering anyone else, I nod. “I'd love to.”

“Ahem,” Jackson interrupts, interrupting the look I'm giving Carson. “Melissa, if you don't mind, I'd like to stay, too.”

“It would be safer,” Nathan says somberly, trying to justify the decision I made without considering the others, although after seeing the way he's been looking at Melissa, I doubt he was being completely altruistic. “Peter knows Andrea lives in town. I am sure he has the resources to track down your footprint to the Baton Rouge area, Jackson. Here... there is no connection. What do you say, Katrina?”

“I'd say it's safest for Andrea. Oh, and Andrea, too.”

I roll my eyes and give Katrina a look. “How long have you been waiting to pull that one out?”

“About as long as you've been waiting for it,” Katrina replies with a smile. The tension's been building for awhile now, but the casual way Katrina jokes around helps lighten the mood. It’s good to see her this way. “What do you say, Carson? Think you can help us crash for a while?”

I look at Carson, and I can't help that I want him to say yes. Carson's eyes flash silver and sexy as he sees my face, and he nods. “Of course. Like 'Lissa said, we've got lots of space.”

Nathan gets up, and smiles. “Good. Well, I would like to add one more thing to security then. Think Maverick can stay here? I am going to go on a shopping trip. I am sure you didn’t plan for this many people to stay at the farm, even for a night. It will give me a chance to try and lay some groundwork to throw off Peter at the same time.”

Katrina, who seems to be comfortable as our little group commander, nods. “Do it. Got any more firearms?”

Carson laughs, causing us all to look at him. “Trust me, Katrina. We don't have to worry about that.”