“Don't go!” I yell, sitting up, sweat pouring off my body. I'm alone, but the knocking continues, and I realize someone's trying to get me to open the door. “Go away!”
“Oniichan, it's me,” I hear, and I get off the bed, going over and opening the door. Andrea is there, and I notice that it's raining, hard. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” I tell her, sort of ushering her inside. She's dripping wet, and I wonder where her umbrella is. Then I realize knowing Andrea, who tends to be her own woman no matter what, she probably rode over here on the Honda scooter she bought a year ago. I glance outside, and my suspicions are confirmed, the distinctive funky tubular frame and dual headlights making it stand out in the downpour. “Why'd you bring the scooter?”
“It didn't start raining until I was halfway here,” Andrea explains, twisting out her long hair over the sink in the kitchen area. “When Nathan told me where you were, I didn't take the time to read the weather report.”
“Why'd he tell you where I am?” I ask, instantly suspicious.
Andrea sighs and gives me a look before finishing twisting out her hair and then whipping it back. “I'm dripping wet, soaked to the skin, and to be honest, cold as hell since I had a whipping case of wind chill from riding over here as fast as I could. You mind if I at least dry off a little bit and maybe get something to prevent hypothermia before you start the interrogation?”
That's my Andrea, sweet and supporting one minute, sarcastic and bitchy the next. I nod and look around, realizing that I have no idea where Katrina even kept her towels. I go over to the cheap dresser and open the top drawer, trying not to cry again as I see the single sports bra inside, and a pair of red panties that I for some reason know were from the night we got together in the limo. There's nothing else, she packed and took it all with her in that backpack. I close the drawer quickly and pull open the next one, and can't take anymore. Inside is the pair of black drawstring martial arts pants that she wore when she was relaxing or working out, and I walk away, leaving the drawer open.
The lights deeper in the loft aren't on, but I can see the post in the middle that Katrina had wrapped in padding and tires, and I punch, letting my rage and sadness out. It's not enough, and I punch again, the pain of my knuckle smashing against the unforgiving tire rubber helping a little. Another punch, and another punch, each blow letting me vent my emotions. I feel something split on my hand, and it helps more, so I punch harder and harder. I'm gasping, crying, sobbing maybe, but I keep hitting the tires until I can't anymore, and then I punch a few more times before I drop to my knees. The lights overhead turn on, I guess Andrea's found a light switch somewhere, and I see that the tires in front of me are glistening, dark with my blood, and I drop my head, puking at the horror of the image in my mind of Katrina's head exploding as the last bullet blew out the back of her skull.
Andrea comes over, kneeling next to me, and rests a tiny hand on my back. “It's okay, Jackson. I'm here for you, too.”
“Why?” I sob, my stomach turning again before I retch. There's nothing inside anymore, just hot, burning stomach juices that barely splatter out. “Why, Andrea?”
“Because Peter DeLaCoeur is a snake who deserves to spend the rest of his life in jail,” Andrea says softly, but with steely intensity. “That's why she died, and why I'm here.”
I sit back, and look at my half-sister, who's spent most of her life in a sort of uneasy rivalry with me, but in this instant, there's no taunting, there's not even the sort of dismissive mentor look she had when lending me books on business. Instead I see a supportive, caring person, and in her blue eyes, I see something that I've missed and overlooked for too long. Peter and Margaret might be my parents, but they're sure as hell not my family. Andrea is. “What can we do?”
Andrea stands up and offers her hand. She takes my hand, and there's a deceptive strength in that grip and steel in her eyes as she helps me to my feet. “The first thing we do is get you cleaned and bandaged up. You busted the hell out of your hands, and we need to bandage them. Then... then we’ll discuss what I've been doing for the past six years.”
“What do you know of my childhood, Jackson?”
I've taken off my shirt, washing it out in the sink before hanging it from the end of Katrina's bed frame, while Andrea's changed as well, pulling on one of the t-shirts that Katrina kept in her dresser. Despite Katrina being slender and liking shorter shirts, she was still a lot taller than Andrea, and the shirt hangs past her waist, looking almost oversized on my half-sister. I'm sitting on the bed, my hands stinging from the disinfectant and half dozen bandages that we borrowed from downstairs. Andrea is in one of the chairs, the blanket from the bed wrapped around her shoulders to let her stay warm.