Mackenzie’s suspicious face rose in her mind.
Brendan was right. Mac did think Clay had been behind the injection given to her sons. But if he was right, that meant Clay was behind the rest of it too. John’s murder and her, Benji’s, and Brendan’s kidnapping—culminating in what those bastards had done to her. If Mac was right . . . Clay was responsible for every single horrific, devastating blow since March.
It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. She’d known Clay practically her entire life. They’d shared a home and an idyllic childhood. He’d been John’s best friend, best man at their wedding. He was Brendan and Benji’s godfather. For him to be capable of such evil, without either her or John recognizing it? No . . . it couldn’t be true.
Chills swept her. She shook her head. “Clay has nothing to do with any of this.”
He couldn’t have. He couldn’t.
Brendan just stared at her. “He was there, Mom. He brought the doctor. He’s the one who told us we had to have the shot.”
“Because someone else convinced him you needed the shots to get back into school. He didn’t realize what you were being given.” She forced conviction into her voice.
“He’s FBI, like Dad—and he didn’t check with the school? Have the shot tested? Dad would have.” Reservation and something . . . darker . . . burned in her son’s grim eyes.
“That’s why your dad was senior agent in charge, and your uncle Clay isn’t,” Amy said. “Clay misses things sometimes.”
“Commander Mackenzie would have checked.” There was no give in Brendan’s voice.
“We’ve already established that Commander Mackenzie has a suspicious nature,” Amy said, exhaustion crashing over her in an emotionally draining wave. Not that she’d sleep, or at least for very long, if she headed back to her bed.
“I think Commander Mackenzie is right. I think Clay knew what was in that shot. I think he gave it to us on purpose.”
“Oh, Brendan . . .” Amy’s voice failed.
Another wave of sorrow washed over her, only this time it was tinged with rage. Apparently they’d taken even more from her son than she’d realized—they’d stolen his trust in family too, the surety that those closest to you had your back.
“He’s never liked us, Mom.” Brendan tilted his head slightly and set his jaw.
That gave her pause.
Never?
Never spoke of long-rather than short-term. Never referenced a lengthier pattern than four and a half months.
Brendan had stopped calling her brother Uncle Clay years before. When she’d questioned him about it, he’d just said that calling him uncle was a baby thing and he was too old for that now. She’d hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming it was something he’d heard at school or through his friends. Had it been more than that? Had he been certain even back then that Clay didn’t like him?
“Clay might not always show it, sweetheart, but he loves us.” The reassurance sent déjà vu crashing through her. She’d said the exact same thing to Mackenzie in the tunnels.
Suddenly she felt mired in a case of she-who-doth-protest-too-much.
“He smiled when Benji cried,” Brendan said, a flat sheen glossing his brown eyes.
Startled, Amy straightened. “When was this?”
“When Clay’s doctor gave us the shot. It hurt pretty bad, and Benji started crying. Clay smiled. He liked seeing Benji hurt.”
She wanted to protest, tell him he was imagining things, but she couldn’t. Brendan didn’t imagine things, not ever. If he said Clay had smiled when Benji cried—then Clay had smiled.
Nausea rolled up her throat. “Could he have been thinking about something else?”
Brendan’s dark brows knitted, but then he slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. He was looking right at Benji, and he didn’t smile until Benji started crying.”
Amy sat there frozen, a dark, cold shadow settling over her.
“I know you think of him as a brother, Mom.” Brendan sat up and scooted back until his shoulders were braced against the headrest. “But he’s never liked us. He might smile with his mouth, but his eyes are mean. He’s been like that as long as I can remember.”
“Your grandpa’s always been hard on him . . .” She paused, shook her head. She was making excuses. But nothing excused this if Brendan was right. If Mackenzie was right. “Why didn’t you ever mention this before?”
“Because it never mattered until now.”
She nodded absently. “You really, truly think Clay knew what he was doing? That he injected you on purpose.”
This time he didn’t pause to think about it. He nodded solemnly.
If Brendan was right, then what Clay felt for them went a lot deeper than dislike. This skated right into hatred.
Maybe Brendan was picking up on something that wasn’t there. Maybe the past four and a half months had hardwired his natural suspicion and he was seeing monsters in familiar faces.