The house is eerily quiet when I pull up in my truck, but I'm used to that. It's near two in the afternoon, and Melissa is normally out in the barn at this time of day. The barn's out around back, so the lack of noise makes sense. Even though Paradis only has a population of about twelve hundred people, for Melissa Sands, most of the time that's about eleven hundred and ninety-eight too many.

I get out of my truck, a three-year-old Ford F150 crew cab and make my way across the area that Uncle Trent used to call the dooryard. Uncle Trent was certainly the country uncle of the family, and in a lot of ways he was a cruel bastard, but he raised Melissa and me properly after... after what happened.

My Ted Baker shoes crunch in the dirt and gravel of the yard as I walk toward the barn, listening for the distinct sounds of Melissa at work. There's nothing though except the cicadas and the soft hum of the vent fan. I'd insisted on installing the fan after Melissa nearly had heatstroke after working too hard in there about four years ago. Artists seem to forget about everything else once they get focused on something. If I didn't come home at night and make sure she eats, I'm not sure she'd remember to eat. And she'd probably be in worse shape than she is…

Still, I have to earn a living to support us somehow, not that she doesn't help. By selling her art throughout the series of galleries that I've been able to build up from my inheritance, we live well, if simply. Actually, we could live much better than we do, but Melissa is most at home in the simple country lifestyle. While I wish I could get her to be better around people, at least she doesn't insist on a place that's ten miles from everywhere. The galleries still require time and effort, even if I've turned as much of the day-to-day operations over to the individual gallery managers that I can.

All of this runs through my mind as I reach the big doors of the barn, pulling them open and letting in some more light. “'Lissa? Hey sis, you in here?”

“Here,” a quiet voice says from the shadows off to my left, and I leave the doors open to let in a little bit more light as I go inside. Melissa's in the old cow stall, and even before I kneel down in front of her, I can see that she's having a bad day. She only ever takes out Mr. Trumbull, her teddy bear, when she's having a very bad day. “Hi.”

“What happened, 'Lissa?” I ask, kneeling down and taking Mr. Trumbull out of her hands and setting him on his shelf that's a little above where Melissa is sitting. Taking her by the hands, I help her up off the hay that I keep in the barn just for this purpose, and wrap my sister in a hug. “Did another group of middle school boys throw things at the house?”

“No,” she replies, her voice sounding better already with the physical contact. She doesn't allow anyone else to touch her most of the time, but since we've been a team since she was seven and I was two years old, she considers me safe. And I have to admit, I love being able to hug my big sister since she's just as important to me as I am to her. “He was on the television.”

Oh hell, I hadn't thought of that. This morning before I left for work, I'd watched some news, and when I turned off the television before leaving, I'd forgotten to change the channel to something safe like sports or the Disney Channel. Today was an even more idiotic time to forget to change the channel. I'd seen on the news this morning that Peter DeLaCoeur was possibly getting released on bail. When the biggest crime story in years hits with an already assigned nickname like “The Don of the Delta,” I knew the press would have a field day.

Melissa must have seen the news at some point, probably at noon when she normally comes in for some lunch. She's in her coveralls and work boots, and I can see the welding stuff set up. She's been working on a new experimental piece, a grouping of angels and people in steel and copper. I don't know if her welds would hold up to structural standards, but my sister can certainly create some fine art in metals, and the piece is coming together well.

“It's okay, 'Lissa,” I reassure her. “You're safe, he's still in jail. Come on, tell me about how your work went this morning.”

Talking about work is safe, and watching her transform from the timid, insecure and scared woman I found in the corner of the barn to the confident artist who creates some of the best metal sculptures in the entire world is remarkable to me. It happens periodically given her triggers, but it still always amazes me. We talk for nearly an hour about what she's working on, and how she's trying to bring the copper and steel together to create a dichotomy between the angels and the people in her piece. She's an accomplished painter as well, but I really love her sculpture more. It's dynamic, it's alive, and it tugs your mind in new directions constantly.

Finally, after she's told me again how she's trying to create an interplay between the mixed metals, she turns to look at me with a sigh and a smile. “You've kept me out here talking just to cheer me up, haven't you?”

I shrug, smiling. “I do what I do, 'Lissa. Besides, it is interesting to hear about what you do. I'm at the Quarter gallery so much that I feel like I come back here in the afternoons or evenings and it's like you just grew this stuff by magic.”

Melissa laughs softly, the loudest she ever laughs, and brushes off her hands on her stained coveralls. “Whatever, Carson. Okay, let me shuck my coveralls and then we can go inside.”

I turn around to give her some privacy even though I know she doesn't think about it. We grew up together, and I've been her friend, protector, and benefactor for twenty-three years now. She doesn't get the fact that stripping down to her panties and a thin tank top in front of me is just not normal. Especially since she's my sister.

“You know, 'Lissa, most sisters don't strip down to their skivvies while their brothers are around,” I say, pointedly looking out the window of the barn. “Just sayin'.” We've had this conversation countless times before, and I know what she's going to say before she says it, but I still have to try.

“First of all, we're not blood-related,” Melissa reminds me, and I hear the sound of her jeans being pulled down from her hook on the side wall. “You're adopted, remember? Second, if any man gets to look at me in my undies, he'll have to have your stamp of approval first. Okay, you don't have to be shy now.”

I turn around to see Melissa's pulled on her button-up denim workshirt to go with her jeans. She jams her feet back into the work boots that she wears when she's welding and gives me her best smile. “I know it's hard on you, Carson, but thank you for taking care of me.”

I hold out my hands and give her another hug before walking back to the house together, and Melissa yawns once we're inside. “Carson, do you mind if I take a nap in the living room? I didn't sleep well last night, and after the news, I'm pretty beat down.”

“It's fine, 'Lissa. I've got some computer work I can knock out while you take a nap, and then if you're still tired, I'll get some dinner together for the two of us. Maybe some cornbread with bacon and greens?” Collard greens sautéed in bacon and butter are one of Melissa's favorite comfort foods, and I always keep at least a pound of each of the ingredients on hand in our kitchen. Sometimes these little things help her get back on her feet and closer to the funny, insightful person she can be.

She gives me her quiet little smile again and goes off to the living room while I take out my laptop and start working on the financial spreadsheet I use to track each of the four galleries I have around the United States. Our main gallery is the French Quarter gallery, but I've got satellite galleries in New York, Boston, and Los Angeles. With as hot as Melissa's sculptures have been getting, and talks with some of the other artists I've made contacts with, I'm thinking of expanding to maybe Seattle, or Portland. In any case, I start entering data from the e-mails my site managers sent me this morning in their daily reports, and then work on composing a message to my Los Angeles manager. There's a hot new Latino street artist that he's been in contact with, and I want to know how things are going on that front. If the guy can produce enough work that's of the same quality as the images my manager sent me, I'm thinking we can maybe get a small show open for him next spring.

I'm just about to hit send on the message when I hear Melissa muttering in her sleep. Oh no. Quickly, I send the mail and close my laptop, getting to the couch just in time to be there when Melissa sits up, screaming in fear. “Mama!”

“Shh... it's just another dream,” I reassure her. I should have expected this. Melissa can barely stand to hear Peter DeLaCoeur's name, and almost always has nightmares whenever she does. Actually, she has nightmares at least once or twice a week regardless, but when Peter is mentioned, she gets worse. “Shh, I'm here, 'Lissa.”

“Carson... oh, it was so terrible!” she sobs, crying into my shirt. Years of pain on top of her own father denying she's even alive. I swear, if I get even one chance to wrap my hands around Peter DeLaCoeur's neck... “I was alone!”

“You're never alone, 'Lissa,” I reassure her. “You know I love you, and I'll never leave you alone.”

She sobs harder and I hold her close, comforting her. Finally, the sobs become sniffles, and she's able to sit up on her own again. “I guess you know what it was.”

“Same thing every time,” I say, trying to be light about it. I'm not exaggerating though. Her nightmare is exactly the same every time. In her dream she opens the door and relives the trauma of walking in on her own mother committing suicide by overdose. It happened to Melissa less than two months after her father died unexpectedly of a stroke. That'll fuck with anyone's head. All I can think of is to treat it with as little concern as possible, like something that'll eventually go away on its own. I don't know if it ever will, and even the shrinks Melissa used to talk to couldn't give us any answers. “What's this about you being alone though?”

“Just... before I actually saw the worst of it in the dream, I felt so alone. During the time in the dream when I feel myself getting younger and younger. I worry about us being alone forever, especially you. Carson, we’re not getting any younger, and when was the last time you had a girlfriend?” Melissa asks. “Seriously, when was the last time you even had sex?”

“Ah, 'Lissa, this isn't the time for that conversation,” I reply, knowing the answers to both. My last girlfriend was seven years ago when I was in high school, right before Uncle Trent died. And the last time I had sex was eleven months ago, with a horny little painter who said she was a nymphomaniac, and then proceeded to prove it in my office in the French Quarter gallery. I felt a little dirty after that, mainly because I've never polluted Melissa's art with my desires, which are so powerful that they scare me sometimes. No woman has ever been able to handle me at my most passionate, and I'm worried no one ever will. But Melissa's more important than my sexual desires. “Besides, none of that matters. I take care of you, and any woman who can't agree to that, doesn't deserve me.”

Melissa shakes her head, taking my hand. “I was thinking about it today during the time I was in the barn. You need help, and you need a chance to have a life of your own. Carson, I want you to make the call.”

The call. She's referring to a plan proposed by me during a late night bout of exhaustion with helping Melissa after one of her nightmares. I based it off of information that Uncle Trent had passed on to us after his death. Information about my adoption, Melissa's heritage, and a whole lot more. Most important were three names. Peter DeLaCoeur, Jackson DeLaCoeur, his son, and... Andrea DeLaCoeur, his half-Japanese daughter from an affair. Just like how Melissa is Peter DeLaCoeur's daughter from another affair. Her mother was Janice Sands, the married wife of one of Peter's industrial contacts.

“'Lissa, are you sure?” I ask softly, sitting next to her. “I know we watched the news, and I know that Jackson's disappeared, but are you sure you want to reach out to Andrea? Even after what we learned?”

It cost a lot of money and the best private eye in New Orleans, but we finally found Andrea's phone number. Like Jackson, she seemingly dropped off the face of the earth, so further information on her wasn't readily available. I decided to stop looking into her after I learned the basics of Andrea's past. Knowing that my sister wasn't the only woman in the world who's had to live through hell thanks to Peter DeLaCoeur was painful enough. Call me selfish, but I didn't want to know more about Andrea's particular brand of hell. Besides, seeing her picture was disturbing, and not in a way that I'll ever share with my sister. Those eyes...

Melissa nods, and when she speaks her voice is soft, but determined. “I have to know, Carson. Even if there's a big chance she's going to say she doesn't want anything to do with me, I have to know that maybe there's someone out there who can truly understand what I've been through. You're the best brother in the world, and I love you. But even as hard as you've tried, you can't understand. Maybe Andrea can.”

“And then what?” I ask, not hurt, but still upset. “You won't need me anymore?”

Melissa smiles and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “No, Carson. I'll always need you, and I'll always love you. In a lot of ways, this is for you, too. I've always thought you were a great man, and you should have a chance to find someone who makes you happy, who completes you. If I were stronger, maybe you could have that chance. If I can see how Andrea manages to be so strong even after what happened to her mother, then maybe I can learn to be brave, too.”

“'Lissa,” I whisper. I think back to something I told her long ago, when she was twelve and I was just seven, five years after Janice killed herself. “You know if nothing else, I'll be your man.” At the time I'd said the words with all the purity and sincerity of a young boy, not knowing any better. Over the years the words have remained a private joke between the two of us, something I say to make 'Lissa smile.

Melissa chuckles and hugs me. “If things were different, I know you would be. But even if we weren't related, things would never be that way between us. There's no spark that way, and I don't want to ruin the perfect love we have by trying to make it something it's not. No, Carson. We love each other, but you need someone you can be in love with. One word, but a world of difference.”

She's right, she always is. I love Melissa with all my heart, and while I can admit she's pretty in her own way, there's no sexual attraction between us. Even in the barn, while I always turn my back, I've never been tempted to look. So even if we weren't brother and sister, there'd still be nothing there between us. “I still promise you, 'Lissa, I'll always protect and care for you.”

“I know. But I still want to make the call.”

I nod. “Before or after dinner?”

“Let's do it now,” Melissa says, jumping a little as lightning rips the sky. “Before I get scared of the storm and lose my nerve. I'll help you make the cornbread after, that'll help.”

I go and get my phone, setting it on the coffee table. Andrea's cell phone number is already programmed in, so I just need to dial. “You know, this might not work. The info the private eye got us is at least two months old. A lot of people trying to stay hidden would change their number in that amount of time.”

“Still, it's worth a try,” Melissa says hopefully. “For me, Carson?”

I nod, and hit the dial button. “You want speaker?”

Melissa shakes her head, just in time for the phone to be picked up. “Hello?”

“Hello,” I say, amazed at how sultry the voice on the other end of the line is. There's Southern girl talk, and then there's Southern girl talk, and this woman... she's able to talk Southern. “Ah, my name's Carson Sands. Is this Andrea DeLaCoeur?”

“Why, no it isn't,” the woman on the other end answers, and my heart falls, only to be picked up a minute later. “You've reached her place though. May I ask why you're callin', Mr. Sands?”

“Well, this is going to be hard to believe... ah... what's your name?”

“Mercy. My name's Mercy, Mr. Sands. May I call you Carson?”

With a silken voice like this, she could call me anything, and I'd probably say okay. Jesus, it's been too long since I've been with a woman. “Yes, Mercy, that'd be fine. Anyway, Andrea and I... well, this is going to sound strange, but I swear on a stack of Bibles that it's true. Andrea and I are... kinda siblings. She's kind of my sister.”

“I see. Hold on just a moment, Mr. Sands.”

The phone goes on hold, and Melissa gives me a hopeful look. “I think I ran into her friend. She's getting Andrea now, maybe.”

Melissa smiles and gives me a thumbs up, and I reach out, taking her hand in mine. We sit there for nearly a minute, but I'm getting nervous, and I take the phone away from my ear to see if we've been cut off or something. Just then, the phone comes off hold, and another voice takes over. It's suspicious, but still stirs something deep inside me that Mercy's voice didn't. The dark part of me that I don't let anyone else see.

“This is Andrea. Who the hell are you?”