I watch the Harborwalk come into view with this deep sense of foreboding. I know we have to return, but a weight sinks my stomach lower with each passing minute.

My phone dings when we get within a hundred yards of the harbor. I tuck it in my pocket and focus on Dean’s instructions. I’m supposed to help tie off the boat, and I don’t want to mess up. Especially since the breeze has turned into something slightly more, rocking the ocean and turning it into a darker gray. By the time we get the Heroine into her slip, I’m windblown, exhausted and ready for land. Dean gives me a soft kiss on the cheek before I go.

I miss him already.

By the time I’m up to the Harborwalk, my phone has vibrated twice more. I pull it out to find a number I don’t recognize and a few texts.

where r u?

benny isn’t happy to c me

I stop on the second one.

Me: Anthony?

Him: who else?

I bounce on my toes, looking up and down the Harborwalk.

Me: Where are u?

Him: that was my question

There’s a man standing outside the bakery. His face is shadowed by a gray hood. A black backpack hangs over one shoulder. The strap is duct-taped together.

The way he stands is so familiar. One hand clutches the homemade strap. The other dangles at his side.

Anthony. My feet skim up the dock to the cement past the ticket huts. My heart is pounding by the time I crash into my brother. He loops me into a hug.

He’s taller than I remember. He’s a gaggle of bones and tendons that might break if I squeeze him too tight. He smells like cigarette smoke and orange candy. Long-missed scents that make tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” I don’t want to let go of him. He might float away.

He releases me and stumbles. He’s scruffy—a shower wasn’t on the agenda for today. Or last week.

Dark eyes regard me—almost. They’re glassy, as if they’re wrapped in plastic. I don’t remember that. But I do remember the dark lashes framing those eyes. The way he keeps a cigarette tucked behind his ear under his hood. His rough edges and a gravelly voice.

“Hey, Elly.” The backpack falls down to his hand. One bag.

He shifts to the left—so far that he has to catch himself on a lamppost. His hands slip, and he pitches forward. His knees hit the cement hard.

I reach down and help him up. “Are you okay?”

The question’s stupid. He isn’t okay.

“Fucking tired.” He wipes his mouth, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tin of orange candies. Paper rustles as he clips it open and pops a few.

“Come on.” I wrap my arm around his thin waist to keep him steady.

He tucks the candy into his pocket and stumbles along next to me. “Shit, Elly, whatever the hell I took is making my brain swim like a jellyfish.”

I keep him pointed in the right direction. It’s not too far to my apartment. Better to keep him talking. “How does a jellyfish swim?”

“I don’t fucking know. All crazy.”

I thought with our mother gone, he’d straighten out a little. Instead he’s always worse. We make it to my apartment, and I lead him through, snagging a towel out of the closet and pressing it into his chest before pointing him to the shower.

“Shit, I just want to lie down,” he says, eyeing the small bathroom.

“Shower first,” I order. “Then some food.” I don’t know exactly what he’s on, but it seems like some food might be a good idea.

Anthony pulls off his hoodie and splashes water on his face. I head to the kitchen, pulling together a plate of bread and crackers, but listening to make sure he doesn’t pass out and crash into the toilet. A light rain pelts the windows, and the sky is a dark-gray sprawl. It makes me think of Dean, and I wonder if he canceled the afternoon charter trip.

The shower runs for so long I start to worry about Anthony. But it finally turns off, and I hear him moving around. The sink water turns on.

“You’re out of hot water.” His voice is muffled by the wall, but clearer.

“You used it all,” I call.

A minute later, he steps out in a black t-shirt and ragged jeans. Dark circles are under his bloodshot eyes. It must be tenacity that keeps him standing. He sits across the table from me and drags the plate toward him.

“Have you talked to Carly?” I ask.

He shakes his head, focused on devouring the crackers. It’s always strange when Anthony’s here—as if the whole world is set on pause for a few days. And then he disappears and everything slips back to normal.

“Have you heard about our mother’s pleadings?”

He looks up and swallows a bite. He’s so skinny that I should give him a second plate of crackers. And a third.

“So she’s doing it?”

I blink. “Doing what?”

“Getting herself out.” His forehead wrinkles. “That was always the plan, Elly. Ronald Carthright taking back his testimony. Time alone with guards. Opportunities for prison transport. There are a thousand different ways this could go. But you didn’t think she was just going to roll over and stay there, did you?”

He reaches for another cracker, breaking it in two and putting half in his mouth.

I couldn’t have heard him correctly.

“The plan?” My voice is so small. So far away.

I set my hands on the table, and I realize they are shaking.

A game. Anthony’s words confirm that little voice in the back of my head. Although I still don’t believe she’d really get out. It’s not possible, right?

“No, that can’t be,” I argue. “There are lawyers and judges and guards and a whole system put in place to make sure stuff like this doesn’t happen. Carly said that there’s hardly a chance.”

“Yeah, people.” Anthony stands, stretching out his arms. “People who can be bought and swayed and make the same fucking mistakes as everyone else. She just needs an opportunity. Just one. And you know she’ll find it.”

I shake my head. “No. I-I… You can’t believe this, Anthony.”

He walks over to the ratty couch I never use and drops into it, pulling a pillow over his chest. “It’ll be over soon. She’ll get here, and then we’ll get out of here. Go to Mexico and bake in the sun.”

“She’s not getting out.” I stare down at the half-eaten plate of crackers.

“Okay.” His voice fades. “But what if she does?”

“There’s a witness. Someone who could testify against her.”

His eyes open. “The fuck, Elly? You’re not serious, are you?” He yawns and sinks back into the couch. “She’ll get what she wants. It doesn’t matter if you have a hundred witnesses. She always gets what she wants. That’s her talent, Elly. Shaping the world however she decides it should be.”

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly freezing, as it all sinks in.

“Family first, Elly,” Anthony mumbles.

Her words.

Then he’s asleep.

I sit at the table and listen to my brother snore. We shared a room growing up a lot. Usually didn’t have to, but it made me sleep better when Anthony was there.

I can’t believe he’s on her side. I thought that when he stepped out of that house with me—Charles strung between us—that he wanted what I wanted. A normal life without her. And all of a sudden he’s talking about following her again—to Mexico.

Family first.

No. She’s taken so much from me, and I won’t let her take more. The night with Dean—I want that again. That feeling of safety with him, wrapped around him, his easy grin. I’m so close to the kind of life I want for myself: dating a man I like, afternoon coffees with my sister, festivals for kites and cupcakes.

I won’t let it go.

“I’m here to see my grandmother,” I say.

It’s a lie, and I wonder if the man before me sees through me. He introduced himself as Paul, the administrator for the facility where Charles lives. I stand across the desk from him, bending down to write my name on the register of visitors.

I scan the names ahead of me. Dean’s nowhere on the page.

Paul leans over his desk, peering at me doubtfully. “And who did you say your grandmother is?”

“Deanne.” I give him an easy-Ella smile. “I just need to see her for a s-second. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“I wasn’t aware that Deanne had a granddaughter.” Paul flips open a file and traces a long finger down the paper. “I’m aware of a grandson.”

“Eli. The family cookie maker,” I say quickly and take a step toward the door. “I’ll only be a minute. Why don’t you look me up, and then I’ll stop by the office on the way out?”

His forehead wrinkles. “Well, I guess there’s no harm in that. Deanne doesn’t have any visitor restrictions, so—”

“Great!” I’m already halfway out the door. “I’ll just show myself the way, then.”

I shoot out the door, not giving him any time to think about it, and hurry down the hallway. I don’t have any clue where Charles’s room is, but I figure it’s best not to linger. Down the hallway, there’s an atrium in the middle of the building, and I turn toward the right, only slowing when I’m sure that I’m out of Paul’s view. The long white halls are sterile and more like a hospital than a home. A few pictures decorate the walls, but they all feel forced. As if just putting up a facade of a home. Kind of like my apartment, actually.

With every step down the hallway, my heart thumps more wildly in my chest. I shouldn’t be here, but I’m not sure what else to do. At a minimum, I have to know if Charles is coherent enough to give a statement. Then maybe Carly can subpoena him or something. I have no idea how it works, but I’m confident she can work some kind of magic.

Each door is labeled with a name, so I hurry down the hallway, keeping my eyes on them. It’s not until I’ve rounded the far side of the atrium that I stop.

Charles Archer. There’s a red dot next to his name. I’m not sure what it means—probably some kind of medication or alert. The door is slightly open, a television playing a nature show. Birds fly across the screen, and a man’s voice talks about migration.

I put a shaky hand on the door and push it open, stepping inside and closing it behind me. The dot might mean that he’s not allowed to have visitors, and I don’t want to get kicked out before I can speak to him.

He’s sitting in a chair, staring straight ahead at the television. The curtains are closed, and the only light is a low desk lamp that leaves most of the room in shadow.

“Ch-charles?” My voice is too shaky.

He turns to look at me. Blue eyes. His hair shaggy and falling over his ears. He’s wearing an old sweater that’s been patched a few times. He looks so different, and somehow also the same as I remember him on that mattress.

He blinks at me. “Why are you humming?”

I hadn’t realized I was. I cut off the lullaby and approach him slowly, like he’s some kind of wild animal. I sit in a chair across from him, snag out my phone, and pull up an app I’d downloaded on the way over. I figured I should record our conversation.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask.

He looks at me, tilting his head. I keep the door in view, not sure how long to let him sit for. I don’t know if I’m going to have much time.

“Elly,” I say when he doesn’t respond.

He turns back to the television. “It’s almost dinner. You can eat with us.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

He grunts, staring at the birds landing on the water.

“Do you know Mira?” I ask.

He flinches at the name, but keeps watching the birds. He must remember her, though. Or else he wouldn’t have flinched.

“Would you be able to tell someone about Mira?” I lean toward him, trying to get him to look at me. “About what she did to you? The mattress and the wooden box and—”

“What I did,” he says gruffly. He turns his attention to the arm of his chair and picks at a thread. “No.”

“No? You mean you remember but won’t talk?” Is that good? If he remembers, maybe I can convince him to talk. Maybe there’s still a way.

“No.” He stands abruptly. “I don’t remember. And I won’t talk.”

My breath catches. “Please, you have to. Even if it’s just right now, with me.” Desperation clutches at me. “Please, Charles. Can you tell me about my mother?”