Sinful Desire

“Did you meet with Winston?” Ryan asked, as they walked to the edge of the roof, stopping when they reached the ladder resting against the house.

“Yeah. But I’m not supposed to tell you a word about what was said,” Michael said, miming zipping his lips.

Ryan laughed. “He said that to me, too. But what are the chances that we aren’t going to tell each other?” he said, though sometimes he wondered if his siblings had kept secrets from him, as he had from them. Would John Winston be privy to those secrets if they had them? “So what did he ask you?”

With his sunglasses shielding his light blue eyes, Michael answered matter-of-factly. “Same as before. Any new friends. Anything I remember,” he said, repeating what the detective had said to Ryan. “But he also asked about Luke.”

The hair on Ryan’s neck prickled at the mention of their mother’s lover, a local piano teacher. “What about him?”

Michael sneered. “Wanted to know what I knew about their relationship. Like I had a clue about the affair. I mean, what the hell? Isn’t that the point of an affair? It was all in secret.” He made a gesture with his fingers as if he were digging and hiding something.

“Did Winston say he thinks Luke was involved?”

Michael shook his head. “Nah. That man just asks questions. Didn’t share any details. And I have no idea if Luke was part of it. They cleared him at the time, so who the heck knows?”

“Got any new theories on why they reopened the case?” They’d already speculated for hours after the detective showed up at Shannon and Brent’s wedding celebration at their grandmother’s house a week ago and dropped the bomb about the investigation’s new life. “It’s frustrating that they know something but won’t tell us.”

Michael pushed down his sunglasses, meeting Ryan’s eyes. “Here’s the thing. I watch enough police dramas to make a guess. And it’s this—I bet they think someone else helped plan the murder.”

“You think Mom will get out of prison?” Ryan asked, his voice rising with a touch of hope that he knew would piss off his brother. Michael had cut off their mom. He didn’t visit her. Didn’t talk to her. Wanted nothing to do with her. Her guilt was crystal clear to Michael.

Ryan understood why, but the world wasn’t black and white to him. He’d seen and heard other sides to the story. The side their mom hadn’t told anyone else. He couldn’t let go of the dream that she’d been framed. That he and his siblings weren’t born to a killer.

Michael lifted his chin and scoffed. “Her fingerprints are all over everything. She’s not fucking innocent. But there might be someone else who’s guilty, too. Murder for hire isn’t a to-go order. You don’t walk into a store and order a hit with fries on the side.” Michael shook his head, as if to chase the thought away. “Now let’s get this wood down to your truck.”

That was apparently all the discussion Michael wanted to entertain about the investigation. But Ryan wasn’t ready to drop the subject. He rarely wanted to drop the issue that had gnawed at him for eighteen years. “You learned that from your police shows?” he asked, teasing his brother.

“Ha ha.” Michael rolled his eyes.

“Besides, when do you even have time to watch TV? You’re always working.”

“That’s because my business partner is busy wining and dining,” he said, staring sharply at Ryan.

Ryan blew on his fingers as if they were too hot to handle. “What can I say? One of us needs to seal the deals.” He pretended to cast a fishing rod and reel in a big one. “Can I help it if I’m just a good people person who knows how to win them over?”

Michael shook his head and laughed. “Get your ass off the roof. I’m hot, and I need a beer.”

Ryan hefted a few chunks of wood under his arm. “You let me know when the next episode of CSI helps you solve the mystery, ’kay?”

Thirty minutes later, they’d finished loading up the bed of Ryan’s truck with the chopped-up tree trunk.

“Damn back,” Sanders muttered, one hand parked on the side of the truck door, the other patting his spine in frustration. “But I appreciate you coming by to help out. Couldn’t do this without you guys, clearly.”

“You know we’re always happy to help,” Ryan said.

At sixty-one, Sanders was seven years older than their dad would have been if the two men still went out for beers, or to shoot a round of pool as they had done regularly the last few years of his dad’s life. But all that time Sanders had spent as a mechanic bent over hoods or under the engine, had taken its toll on the man. With a bad back, and his own sons living in Arizona, he leaned on Ryan and Michael for heavy lifting from time to time. They were happy to help, especially since Sanders had looked out for them. Though they had grandparents who’d raised them during high school, Sanders had remained a close friend, stopping by, checking in, and making sure they knew how to change a tire and check the oil pressure—his way of passing on a part of Thomas Paige after he was gone.

“Let me treat you to a beer,” Sanders said, clapping Ryan on the shoulder.