“Naw. There’s nothing here to snack on,” Brian said, pushing rice around on his paper plate.
Valerie’s appetite suddenly matched her son’s. “Did you have a big lunch?”
Blake dropped his fork with a sigh. Refusing to look at his twin, he pinned her with green eyes that were so like their father’s. “He hasn’t eaten lunch all week, Mom.”
Brian continued to arrange little mounds of rice.
“Is this true?” she asked him, the tension gathering in every nerve.
Blake looked at Brian, who finally lifted his head and stared back at his brother. “I guess.”
“Brian Alan Smith, do you mean to tell me you’ve been going without meals again?”
The boy opened his mouth, but she didn’t wait to hear what he had to say.
“You looked me in the eye and promised me you’d eat!” Her voice, trembling with disappointment, had almost reached shouting volume.
He tried again to speak.
“You lied to me!” Her throat hurt with the force of her yell.
Both boys stared at her. Silent. Their eyes wide. And sad.
“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” she asked her youngest—by six and a half minutes—son.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you want to die, Brian?” She wasn’t yet capable of sounding calm.
He shook his head.
“Do you?” she yelled at him.
“No!” A healthy dose of life accompanied the declaration.
“Well, you’re going to,” she told him, hating the derision she heard in her voice. Hating even more the sense of panic that was driving her to treat her son so abominably. Hated the fact that there were times when the weight of raising these two all alone overwhelmed her.
“No, I’m not, Mom,” Brian said, his tone soothing.
His twin sat silent, face straight, eyes revealing a hint of fear.
“You heard the doctor, Brian,” Valerie said, forcing herself to speak at a normal level. “Three times in six months, you’ve heard the doctor. You’re borderline anorexic and if you don’t eat you’re going to kill yourself.”
“I’ll eat.”
“Then do it.”
“Okay.”
“Now.”
“Mom…”
“Now! Brian.” Her voice started to rise again. And then, as though she’d used up all her anger, her heart softened. She looked at the young boy who’d needlessly burdened himself with an adult’s concerns—with the responsibilities he believed his father had held.
“You’re going to stunt your growth, Bry,” she said gently. “You and Blake are just entering your biggest growth years. He already weighs ten pounds more than you do. And if this keeps up, he’ll spring right up—but you won’t.”
With pinched cheeks Blake turned to his brother. “Eat a couple of egg rolls, Bry, and then we can go shoot some hoops.”
Giving a troubled nod, Brian did as he was told.
CHAPTER TWO
KIRK HATED Friday nights. They meant a whole weekend ahead with nothing to do but lecture himself.
He particularly hated this Friday night.
Letting himself into his plush Ahwatukee home, in a secluded Phoenix neighborhood set into the base of South Mountain, he tossed his keys on the antique cherry-wood table by the door, caught the alarm before it went off and headed straight for the phone.
He ignored the blinking red dot that signified messages. Saw on the LED screen attached to the blinking machine that there were twelve calls waiting for him and still ignored it. It was the same every day.
He’d push the playback button sometime that evening. And half listen to the messages. It was a form of treatment—to listen and remain calm, unaffected.
Sometimes he needed a drink first.
Tonight, he needed the phone.
Corporate attorney Troy Winston always picked up Kirk’s calls immediately. Even now.
“What’s up, buddy?” Kirk’s right-hand man of ten years greeted him.
“Susan had a baby.” Kirk could barely get the words past the stiffness in his face. He’d run into an acquaintance of theirs at the Corvette dealership when he’d gone in for an oil job that afternoon.
“Okay.”
No surprise there. Kirk felt the stab of disappointment.
“You knew.”
“Yeah. I ran into Bob Morrison a few months back.”
A name from his past. His ex-brother-in-law. Kirk didn’t respond.
“And you didn’t bother to tell me.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
Susan’s gone on with her life, Troy’s tone of voice told him. He stood, feet apart, the muscles of his thighs straining against the legs of his jeans.
“The baby’s a month old.”
“Let it go, buddy,” his attorney, the only person still on Kirk’s payroll, advised him. “Give up this idiotic plan you’ve locked yourself into and get on with your life. Go out. Call someone. Date. You could have a new kid, too.”
“I have a kid.”
“Kirk, you’re really starting to worry me. I went along with this whole school guard thing because I thought you needed some time off. But I didn’t think it would last a week, let alone three months. All this isolation is starting to get to you.”
“I slept with Susan ten months ago.”
“You guys weren’t speaking to each other ten months ago. As a matter of fact, as I remember it, the woman freaked out anytime you were close enough to breathe the same air.”
He could always count on Troy to tell him the truth. That was why the man had quickly risen to the seat right next to Kirk Chandler, CEO of one of the nation’s most controversial, well-known and financially successful acquisitions firms.
Of course, all of that was over. Done. Kirk had closed the company almost a year ago. And Troy, while still handling Kirk’s personal affairs, was enjoying the good life.
Kirk took a deep breath. And another. He concentrated on the fingers holding the phone, refusing to allow them to clamp the thing so tightly it bruised his hand.
“I ran into her one night at the cemetery. She didn’t freak.”
“Not freaking at a cemetery bears no resemblance to having sex. None. At all. Let me swing by, take you out for a beer. I know a couple of women who’d—”
“It was late. I was there when she came walking up. We were both too tired to make sense of anything….”
“Not good enough, Kirk. You forget who you’re talking to. This was the woman who, after your divorce, not only had her own name changed, but changed your daughter’s as well. Hell, I was there when Susan turned into a raving lunatic at the funeral just because your car was close by.”
Sliding his free hand into the pocket of his jeans, Kirk flexed the muscles in his shoulders and down his back. The flannel shirt he was wearing still felt odd to skin more used to silk.
“I