My eyes pop open and Jacey is watching me, her face pale.

“I’m going to shower,” I tell her as I get up. And I walk away.

A minute later, though, Jacey calls me.

I hesitate at my bedroom door.

“Yes?” I call back.

“I looked in the box.”

Her words are simple, her tone calm.

Suddenly, I want to know. What the fuck did my father have to say? What could he possibly have to say to me?

I stride back to the living room and find Jacey standing over the shattered remains of the box. She turns to look at me, her face pale, her eyes huge.

There, dangling from her fingers, is the old sliding lock from my sister’s bedroom door.

The paint is peeling from it, it’s old and it’s rusty, but it’s as familiar to me as my own hand. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the sound it made when it slid into place every night before bed.

If I close my eyes, and imagine the sound, I also know something, something that I’ve purposely not thought about over the years, but something I’ve known since the night my sister died.

I didn’t hear the lock slide into place that night.

It’s something I’ve never told another living soul.

Jacey stares at me.

I stare at the lock.

“I knew my father didn’t lock Allison’s door that night,” I finally say. “I knew. I waited until he left for the bar, and I snuck downstairs for a snack, for some cookies. I meant to lock the door when I went back to bed, but I forgot. I walked right past and I forgot. I laid in bed that night, staring out my window, staring at what I thought was a silver ball floating away in the water.”

I pause, and the silence is pregnant as Jacey waits.

“It wasn’t a ball,” I say starkly. “It was my sister.”

Jacey’s eyes widen a bit more, but she remains silent.

“So all along, my parents were right. I guess that’s why I always felt like I deserved whatever my father gave me,” I admit, my words wooden. “I knew her door wasn’t locked and I forgot to do anything about it. She’s dead and it’s as much my fault as it is anyone’s.”

The guilt, the guilt that I’ve carried my entire life feels like a weight now, a heavy weight, an albatross of iron around my neck.

I glance at Jacey. “So now you know. Everyone has been right all along. I’m just not good enough.”

There are tears streaking down Jacey’s face now and she drops the lock. It makes a heavy thump as it hits the floor and Jacey rushes to me, burying her face in my chest as she cries. But she’s not seeking comfort for once. This time, she’s the one comforting me.

“Brand, you’re amazing. So, so amazing. You were six years old. There’s no way that you could’ve known that your sister would get up that night. It wasn’t your responsibility to make sure that door was locked. It was your parents. People suck because they have to always find someone to blame for bad shit… someone besides themselves. You’ve been carrying this guilt for too long… and it’s not yours to carry. It’s your father’s. And I think… maybe…this was his way of saying that.”

I look down at her and she wipes at her eyes.

“Look.” She points with a shaky hand at the inside of the wooden lid. Inscribed with perfect craftsmanship, the words stand out starkly.

It was me.

“I think he’s finally trying to set you free.”

The silence of the house is huge, reverent.

My father’s guilt is not my burden anymore.

* * *

Because it stands a hundred yards away from the house, my father’s woodshop was undamaged in the fire.

This morning, I stand in the doorway, assessing it. Distracting myself from the massive hole that Nora’s absence has left.

She’s gone.

I can’t believe it, and I feel it in every part of me. Every cell in my body is in shock, every molecule screams with the pain.

Fuck it.

I take a few steps inside, picking up half finished pieces of wood. She’s gone because I’m not enough for her. I’m not good enough.

The old feelings of inadequacy slam into me, again and again and I groan, slamming the wood in my hand into a table.

Fuck her.

I begin picking up all of my father’s half-finished projects and taking them across the room, stacking them neatly in a corner. I’ll discard them later. It takes a few loads because my father had tons of projects. But anything to keep my hands busy, anything to keep me from punching a million holes into the wall.

I pause and remember my father puttering around out here for hours on end. I used to hear the saws and be thankful… because it meant he probably wouldn’t go to the bar that night. And if he didn’t go to the bar and get trashed, then I was safe from his wrath. He only beat me when he was drunk.

As I reach for another handful of wood, I catch a glimpse of a red metal box sticking out from under the workbench. Bending, I pull it out, expecting to find tools. But no.

Inside the old toolbox, is a stack of papers. Newspapers, letters from West Point, clippings. All about me. The old man had been keeping tabs on me over the years. He knew I graduated from West Point, he knew I’d made the Rangers, he knew I’d been sent to Afghanistan. He even knew I’d earned a Purple Heart. He was too proud to contact me, but he cared enough to follow my life.

For a minute, my heart softens.

Life really isn’t black or white.

Fuck life. It’s a vengeful bitch.

I drop the box, stalk to the fridge in the corner and grab a beer. My father’s got at least two cases left, chilled and ready for me. On second thought, I turn and grab two more, and then head for the chair at his desk. I put my feet up on the desk and lean my chair back, popping the top of beer number one. The other two are lined up waiting for me.

Yes, it’s not even noon yet.

No, I don’t give a flying fuck.

It’s hot as hell in here, but I don’t care about that, either. I just stare out the window as I gulp the cold brew down.

I don’t care about my father’s stash of newspaper clippings. I don’t care about his fucking box or the way he finally took ownership of his own guilt.

All I care about is Nora.

Why in the name of all that’s holy did I put myself in this position? I knew from the beginning that Nora only wanted the summer. That she only wanted me to fulfill some stupid fucking high school fantasy. I knew that.

Yet I got sucked in anyway.

Because I’m a stupid fuck and everything about her made me feel good.

Well, fuck that. I’m not feeling too good right now.

I crush the can and toss it to the side, picking up beer number two.

I crack the top.

“You gonna sit out here and drink all day?”

Jacey’s voice comes from behind me. I take a gulp.

“That’s the plan.”

She walks softly around me, perching on the edge of the desk. She’s still wearing shorts and flip-flops.

“Didn’t you have a flight this morning?” I ask her, taking another long gulp.

She shakes her head. “I did. But I’m not going to leave you now.”

I stare at her. “Uh-uh. Get on that plane, Vincent. I’m fine.”

She shakes her head again. “Nope. You nursed me through five million break-ups. I can be here for one.”

I down the beer and reach for number three.

“Nope. I honestly don’t want you here, Jace. I love you and all, but I think I need to be alone. I’m going to be an asshole for a few days. You don’t need to be here for that.”

She starts to protest, to tell me how she’s been a bitch around me before, yada, yada, yada, but I cut her short, leveling a gaze at her.

“Seriously, Jacey. I appreciate it. But go back to your husband. I need to be alone.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. She stares at me for the longest time, before finally nodding.

“I guess. If that’s what you want.” She takes a few steps toward the door, then turns. “Brand, one of the very best things about you is your heart. You could’ve turned out to be an asshole in life, because of all the shit you dealt with as a kid, but you didn’t. You turned out to be the absolute best man I know. Don’t let any of this change that. Please.”

I snort, lifting can number three to my lips.

“Whatever, Jace. Look where it got me. Nice guys finish last. Every. Fucking. Time.”

I turn my back on her, looking out the window as I gulp the brew down. At this rate, I very well might go through a case today. And that’s fine.

I hear Jacey behind me, lingering, trying to decide what to say. It annoys the fuck out of me.

“Just go, Jacey,” I tell her firmly. “Seriously. Have a safe flight.”

She flies back to me, throwing herself at me, hugging me tight. Her arms clamp around my throat and I have to pry them off so I can breathe.

“What the hell?”

She glances up at me, her eyes watery. “I’m sorry she hurt you, Brand. It sucks. I don’t know why she left, but you deserve to be happy.”

I look away. “Yeah. I do. But you know what they say…”

“What do they say?”

A voice comes from the doorway, a voice with a French accent.

Jesus. Do people not ever knock around here?

Camille Greene stands elegantly in the woodshop, as out of place among the dust and wood shavings as Maxwell had been on the porch.

She stares from Jacey to me, curiosity in her blue eyes, at the way Jacey is draped around my neck, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“It doesn’t matter what they say,” I mutter, and I gently push Jacey off my lap. I stare at her, my expression firm.