Table of Contents

Table of Contents 2
Chapter 1 5
Chapter 2 11
Before 16
Chapter 3 21
Chapter 4 28
Chapter 5 33
Chapter 6 38
Chapter 7 45
Before 52
Chapter 8 56
Chapter 9 64
Chapter 10 67
Chapter 11 72
Chapter 12 75
Chapter 13 82
Before 86
Chapter 14 90
Chapter 15 96
Chapter 16 102
Chapter 17 107
Chapter 18 111
Chapter 19 118
Chapter 20 123
Chapter 21 130
Before 137
Chapter 22 140
Chapter 23 146
Chapter 24 153
Chapter 25 160
Chapter 26 166
Chapter 27 173
Chapter 28 179
Chapter 29 186
Chapter 30 192
Before 196
Chapter 31 199
Chapter 32 204
Chapter 33 210
Chapter 34 216
Before 219
Chapter 35 222
Chapter 36 225
Chapter 37 230
Author’s note 237
 Chapter 1
The sky is the perfect blue of fading summer the day they decide the brothers are wicked.
It doesn’t t right in Avery’s mouth, the sharp, pointed weight of this word that whispers
intention when he knows everything that happened was an accident. No one says wicked out
loud, but it’s in their hard eyes and it’s been cut in tall letters of bloody condemnation across
the Lou brothers’ skin. Avery wants to explain the truth again, but the chance to speak has
ended, the court case closed, and judgement passed.
Their social worker told Avery to keep his mouth shut anyway.
“At this conjuncture,” Evans had said, “you need to be as invisible as possible or you’ll end
up blurting out confessions of your own crimes, which I am trying very, very hard not to look
into. Don’t,” he snapped his briefcase shut, “speak.”
Because no one has proof of the terrible things Avery’s done. He’s never been caught.
They only caught his little brother.
So it’s just Sam, soft and vulnerable and crumbling, who is being locked up.
They le out of the courthouse together and wait on the endless marble steps. Evans checks
his watch and keeps one hand on Sam’s shoulder, as if Sam’s still a ight risk even though
he’s in handcuffs and the life has been drained from his eyes. He looks at the ground,
shoulders crooked out of habit to absorb blows, and his mouth stays in a tight line to keep
everything locked inside.
Avery has never mastered that skill. While Sam makes himself invisible, Avery is the one
people see. Always moving, twitching, speaking too loud and too much, staring, touching
something he shouldn’t. Even now his shirt is untucked, his tie barely hanging on because it
itched and he’d been tugging at it before they even entered the courtroom. Then he started
scratching his neck and he couldn’t stop until he’d made bloody furrows down his throat.
Evans had to snatch his wrist and hiss at him to quit it.
Once Avery kept a toy car in his pocket and he ddled with it instead of destroying himself.
But he’s seventeen goddamn years old now and he needs to grow up. He needs to stop
being this. He’s the oldest; he should have protected Sam. Instead he messed up like he
always does, and there’s no point telling anyone that while Sam spent summer with the De
Laineys, Avery was trying his goddamn hardest to keep Sam safe.
He failed. And now here he is, a second away from tears, from implosion, from baring his
teeth at anyone who tries to take his brother away.
Avery can’t survive this.
He can’t.
Inside his chest, ruin carves him up from the inside out. 1

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 Desperation must be all over Avery’s face, because Sam reaches for him. They are
unmistakably brothers: wai sh limbs, mournful blue eyes, Sam’s short hair a honeyed blonde
and Avery’s is wispy cornsilk and almost to his shoulders. The real difference is their scars.
Sam’s is on his stomach, new, with bandages still over the stitches, while Avery’s scar is old
and sits in the corner of his mouth. Another sign of brokenness he doesn’t get to hide.
“Alright, boys.” Evans’ voice is crisp. “The car will be here in ve minutes. Say your
goodbyes.” He releases Sam’s shoulder and heads down the courthouse stairs to wait on the
footpath and make a phone call. The distance would feel like a small gift of trust if Evans
hadn’t purposefully positioned himself between Sam and any chance to bolt. More likely,
Evans wanted space between him and Avery Lou’s imminent meltdown.
“Hey,” Sam whispers. “Avery, I—”
But his attention catches on the next two people leaving the courthouse. The lawyer, with
silver hair and unreadable eyes, and a step behind her — Mr. De Lainey.
He holds the door for the lawyer and says something polite and warm as she passes. His
gentle voice is at odds with how he looks: a mountain of a man with shoulders you could
build a house on, calloused hands, boots nicked with paint splatters. The kindness must be
fake. Or a lie. Hands like that would know how to pin someone down like a moth with broken
wings and beat him silent.
To Sam, they gave handcuffs, a sentencing, an expiration date.
To Avery, they gave warnings, disappointed glances, and a trial foster house.
Eventually he’ll have to stop saying foster house and start saying the De Lainey home, but
they’ll have to make him spit it out from between bloody lips rst. He never asked to be left
with the De Laineys, never asked for any of this. They’re Sam’s pretend family. They wanted
him, not Avery.
They’re also the reason Sam got caught.
Mr. De Lainey squeezes Sam’s shoulder before heading over to Evans. He might’ve smiled,
but Avery keeps his head low, eyes cut narrow, so he won’t see or have to respond.
He realizes he’s icking his ear, again and again, and he tries to tuck his arms in, but it turns
to apping. Stop, he has to make himself stop, because in ve minutes, he’ll be alone, and
he can’t break apart in front of the De Laineys.
People have a very speci c amount of autism they will congenially t into their schedules,
and Avery is too much. He knows this; he’s been told. He can talk, he doesn’t have a learning
disability, so everyone thinks he just stands a little to the left of normal, and if he could just
toughen up and walk in line with everyone else, he’d make their lives so much easier. They
think this is a choice, this chaos cutting out of his skin and spilling over his life. It has to be,
they think, because the way he is doesn’t make sense.
He knows what he’s in for at the De Laineys without Sam to stand as a buffer and explain
how Avery is. So Avery will have to hide it all, and he’s already exhausted.2

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Sam sinks down on the stairs and his shoulders de ate. His cuffed wrists dangle between his
knees, and he stares at them with a blankness that scares Avery.3
Sam’s shoelaces are undone, the bruises on his face faded, movements ginger and
unsteady because even though it’s been three weeks since he was stabbed, he hurts.
They’ve been living in a halfway house, windows and doors always angry and locked, waiting
for the court rulings to settle. For nal judgement to be delivered. It was a horrible limbo sort
of place, but at least they’d been together.
And now—
Avery is apping hard.
“Can you sit down?” Sam says. “I can’t…Avery. I can’t.”
Avery wants to beat his head against the stone stairs.
Instead, he drops to his knees and ties Sam’s shoes with rough, hard knots. Sam can do a
million things — pick locks and steal houses and ght people twice his size — but he’s
rubbish at knots. Maybe because somewhere long ago, a ve-year-old Sam was too busy
tying Avery’s shoelaces to worry about his own.
“You can’t what?” Avery knows his voice is far too sharp. “Can’t put up with me for ve more
minutes?”
Sam winces. “It’s not like that.”
“We could have run.” Avery says it low and terrible. “Sammy? We could have run. You and
me. We.”
Instead you chose them, sits unspoken between them.
Sam scrubs an arm across his face. “Maybe I’m tired of running.”
“But I would’ve been there,” Avery starts, but Sam’s shaking his head.
“Would you?” He stares at his hands. Scarred knuckles, made for violence. “Don’t pretend
you didn’t leave me alone because you were tired of stealing houses. And I don’t want us to
live like that anymore. Just us isn’t…enough.”
Avery waits for Sam to take it back, but he doesn’t. He says nothing, just grows smaller
sitting there under his brother’s wretched stare.
Avery isn’t enough. He knew it already, but he didn’t want to hear it.
“We spent most of the summer apart anyway,” Sam says quietly. “It’s not going to be that
different.”
“I still could nd you when I needed you.” Avery starts rocking on his heels, his breathing
shallow. “What am I meant to do while you’re in jail? I’m not even allowed to visit—”
“Avery, listen. Evans said he and that lawyer busted their guts to get my sentencing down to
one year because of how…how I was protecting you.” He looks sick, caught against
memories about the kid he beat senseless for hurting Avery. It always comes back to this,
doesn’t it? Because of Avery. For Avery. Avery’s fault. “It’s not forever.” Sam says it like he’s

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convincing himself. “They didn’t say you couldn’t visit, just it’s not encouraged, okay? It’s
juvie, it’s not like…real prison. And in a year, I’m back with all of you. And — stop hitting
yourself, Avery — you’ll have the De Laineys. They’ll help, I swear they’ll understand you.”
Avery lines up every swear word he knows, and lets them rip through his head. Not out loud.
Evans is already looking at them with brittle impatience over Mr. De Lainey’s shoulder.
No one understands Avery, except Sam. No one. But a sickening black hole forms in the pit
of his stomach, because maybe Sam doesn’t know him all that well either.
He doesn’t know what Avery was really doing this summer they stayed apart. He doesn’t
know Avery wrecked himself working for Vin, keeping her interest, keeping her eye, so she
wouldn’t prowl after Sam and blackmail him into working for her too. Once Vin has you, you
don’t get to say no to her.
There's no point in explaining now, not when Avery failed. Vin stabbed Sam. She won, like
she always does.
The world blurs, electricity biting at Avery’s skin. He starts to groan low in his throat, but Sam
pulls him down so they sit tight, side by side.
“You have to swear you won’t hurt yourself,” Sam says. “You’ll stay with the De Laineys.
You’ll eat properly, okay? Don’t steal anything. Don’t run away. If you need help, tell Moxie,
she promised me she’ll be there for you. And-and-and—” The words stick in his throat, his
eyes gone glossy “—and never go near Vin again. Swear it, okay? Swear.”
Avery’s mouth trembles. “Fine.”
Sam lets go. “You’ll love them, just give them a chance.”
Avery looks away. Words rust between them, a million things to say and no energy to say
them. If Avery had been enough, this wouldn’t be happening.
The world keeps proving it again and again, that no one wants this
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that is Avery Lou.
A dull grey van pulls up and Evans rolls open the side door to talk to the driver. Then he
snaps his ngers at the Lou brothers to come.
Horror grows in Avery’s chest, a rotted, wild thing.
Sam scoops himself up and trudges down to the van. Avery is right behind him, but it already
feels too late.
“Time to go, Samuel.” Evans takes hold of Sam’s shoulder to guide him into the van.
Avery rocks on his heels, lit to supernova. “His name is Sammy Lou. That’s his full name. You
know it.”
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Sam gives his head a small shake, like it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t he get it? They’re stripping
him down to nothing — taking his smile, his keys, his freedom, his softness, and now his
name.
“Goodbye, son.” Mr. De Lainey pulls Sam into a hug that seems to crush half the air out of
him, but Sam looks dizzily thankful. “I believe in you, alright? Avery and I will see you soon.”
Storms rage behind Avery’s eyes. He’s going to meltdown, rip apart. He needs to hold onto
something.
But they’re taking away the one thing that holds Avery together.
He’s a thousand miles out of his skin when Sam tries to hug him. He doesn’t respond,
doesn’t even lift his arms. Something gutters behind Sam’s eyes, but he only swallows and
slips something into Avery’s pocket.
Then Sam’s in the van and the door slams shut.
Evans shakes Mr. De Lainey’s hand. “I will check in weekly, but you have my private number.
Call me if anything goes wrong. If you can’t deal with this.”
This. Avery Lou.
Then Evans turns to Avery, snapping his ngers again which means he’s been saying Avery’s
name for a while and Avery can’t hear it. He’s underwater. Lost.
“Avery, look at me. You are on very thin ice. You are very near to ageing out of the system,
and I would like to see you set upon a good path. Which means I have pulled a thousand
strings for you and your brother, and I expect respect, hard work and gratitude for the
opportunities you’ve been given.” Evans opens the passenger door of the van. “Fix your
attitude, Avery. I’ll see you in a week.”
The door slams. The idling engine revs.
They’ve pulled out into traf c before Avery understands what’s happening. No lingering last
moments, no apologies from Sam, no redoing that messed up hug.
Sam is gone like he never existed.
Inside, Avery is screaming.
Mr. De Lainey pulls car keys from his pocket and talks about parking and crossing the road
and how everything is going to be okay before his voice turns to mud and Avery can’t hear
anymore. He can’t do anything. If he moves, he’ll spin apart in ways that are messy and
embarrassing and terrible in public. Around them the city pulses with strangers hurrying down
footpaths and cars pushing through traf c. It is a world of exhaust fumes and brisk
movements, volume turned up as loud as it can go.
Mr. De Lainey catches hold of his elbow.
Avery rips away with a muted cry. He hates the way Mr. De Lainey is looking at him, probably
tallying up the incoming problems he hadn’t anticipated when he agreed to take on Avery
Lou.
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Time cuts in, out, blanks. Avery is on his knees in the middle of the footpath, rocking so hard
he’s a wheat stalk in a thunderstorm. Hands over ears. Eyes locked on one single crack in
the cement. He doesn’t remember kneeling, falling.
Mr. De Lainey crouches in front of him and slowly holds out a hand as if Avery’s a wild animal
to be corralled.
“I want to help.” His voice is as calm as a mountain river. He should be embarrassed by now.
Why isn’t he embarrassed? “What can I do?”
All words have ed Avery’s mouth. He says nothing. He knows he’s crying, but at least it’s
silent.
He needs Sam. He needs to be held before he explodes into a million fractured pieces.
Hold me.
His hand slips to his pocket, feeling the outline of the thing, small and hard, that Sam gave
him. It’s — a key. Sam’s key to the De Laineys.
He gave them up, or maybe he gave them to Avery.
“I’m going to take your arm and help you stand,” Mr. De Lainey says. “We’ll go home. The
kids and I have set up a bedroom for you, for Sam too, when he comes back. It’s only one
year, Avery. We’ll wait it out together.”
But Avery can’t hold on for a year, he can’t hold on at all.
He has to make it all stop. This panic, this terror. How Sam can’t leave, how the De Laineys
don’t get to own his brother, how Vin could come for them again—
Vin.
He wants to hurt her as viciously as she hurt Sam.
Never go near Vin again. Swear it, okay? Swear—
Well, Sam isn’t here to stop him.
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 Chapter 2
His mouth is lled with blood the day he starts a war.
The plan feels thin because it’s no real plan at all. It’s just this: Avery Lou climbing from his
bedroom window in the De Lainey house and dropping onto cold dewy grass, a sick knot in
his stomach and a chant churning through his head.
this is for Sam this is for Sam
As soon as Avery walked into this butter-yellow house and was shown his room, he shut the
door and didn’t come out. Mr. De Lainey let him. Probably didn’t know what else to do with
him. As Avery had jogged upstairs, he’d felt Moxie watching him, her expression keen and
dissecting. No doubt calculating all the ways he acted nothing like Sam, nothing like a tame
boy, nothing like someone grateful to be here. The other De Lainey kids turned curious eyes
towards him, but he didn’t have the energy to pretend to be normal enough to meet them.
He’s going to have to be normal. People expect it.
At least if they’re happy to leave him alone tonight, they won’t know he’s gone.
He’s not even sure he’ll come back. The question pulses in his chest, unanswered.
Avery ts into the hollow places owned by midnight, not comfortably because he is never
comfortable, but with the ef cient ease of a boy who has done this often and has practice
outrunning the terrible things that live in the shadows. Except tonight he runs towards the
dark. Tonight he starts something, or nishes it, with nobody to stop him.
Alone, Avery is very good at getting hurt.
It takes over an hour to get downtown since only one bus runs this late. He walks the rest of
the way, a slight chill in the air making him wish he’d worn more than just a black tee shirt
and jeans. Sam’s key is still in his pocket, but he’s decided never to use it. He’ll throw it away.
He’s chewed the inside of his cheek raw and bloody by the time he reaches the crumbling,
rotted part of town where rich people don’t go. It’s all familiar, the cracked footpaths and
boarded windows and people drinking around their bashed up cars. He walks tight against
brick walls, down narrow streets. If someone cornered Sam here, he’d ght them. But touch
Avery and he’d just shatter.
He’s stupid to come back to this place with this foolhardy plan in his pockets, blood and salt
and ruin in his mouth. But he’s here to hurt Vin.
Nothing else matters.
He hears it before he sees it, music and light blasting from the last in a row of identical, ugly
apartments, an announcement that Vin is home. Broken beer bottles crunch under his shoes,
a sharp trail leading to more destruction. This is what she does after a successful job.
Rewarding her crew. Showing off. Reminding people who owns who. He knows because he
used to hide when the parties got wild. He knows because he used to live with her.
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 Cars block up the street corner, headlights bright as people exchange vodka and smoke,
their heads tipped back in manic laughter. The mood out here is sharp and mean, and they’re
clearly not drunk enough yet. Then Avery sees why.
On the ground, a teen scrabbles on his stomach between car tires and weeds growing
through cracked cement. If he’s whimpering, the music drowns it out. Tonight they mix
business with pleasure, a celebration for some and punishment for others. One of the guys
steps over the teen, then swivels around to kick him in the stomach until the boy cracks like a
brittle leaf. Maybe he deserves it, maybe he doesn’t. Avery doesn’t have space to worry
about this when he’s headed towards worse.
Vin.
She’s shameless and free, not even bothering to move house or go into hiding, though she
has to know Sam and Avery have been questioned by police. She’s safe behind the fact that
catching her would mean turning in Avery too. Sam would die before he did that and Avery
doesn’t have the guts snitch.
They told the police Sam was stabbed by Avery’s angry ex and then they gave an address to
an empty house Sam had stolen once. Not even the ex part is true, because Avery wasn’t
that to her.
Just something she kissed when she was bored.
Vin leans on the front bumper of her 1967 Chevy Corvette, the one he spent a thousand
hours xing. She wears white jeans and the suggestion of a shirt done in black lace, her hair
a bloody wine spill down her back. They used to lie on the car’s hood together on boring
afternoons and she’d kiss him to shut him up before telling him all her secrets. He used to
think himself important to hear her darkest and most clever plans. But it turned out he was
just good with cars and locks and obeying her every whim and being an absolute dead end.
Talk to Avery, your secrets are safe. Who’s he going to tell? Nobody. Who would believe him
if he did?
Right now her back is to Avery, her focus on the boy’s punishment. The Corvette’s driver door
is popped open and as Avery peels away from the shadows and drops into a crouch behind
the back bumper, he can see the keys dangle from the ignition.
Hurt Vin is the start and end of his plan. She loves this car. Well, Avery loves his brother and
Vin slid a knife in and out of Sam’s stomach like he was nothing but soft, spoiled fruit.
Sometimes Avery wakes and Sam’s blood is all over his hands again, soaking his cuffs,
streaked over his cheekbone where he swiped away frantic tears before running to get help.
Sometimes he wakes and he’s drowning in blood. It’s in his eyes, stuf ng up his throat,
reminding him that he didn’t save his little brother. He nearly let him die.
It’s been three weeks and he relives it every night. Up until yesterday, at least Sam had been
there to shake Avery awake from the suffocating nightmare and repeat again and again —
because Sam knows how much Avery needs repetition — how they’re not dead. They’re both
alive. They’re safe. Breathe, Avery.
Avery utters his ngers in front of his eyes and then forces them into sts. Don’t tic. He rests
his palms against the warm metal of the car and, keeping low, shuf es towards the open
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driver door. Loose gravel scuffs under his shoes. He freezes in case they heard and chews
the inside of his ravaged cheek, but the crew is too focused on their prey.
Someone starts kicking the teen until he curls whimpering into a fetal position.
“—how much you skimmed,” Vin is saying, voice bored as she crosses her ankles and leans
on the hood of her precious car. “Keep lying and we’ll start on your face. Do you want to pick
your teeth out of the gravel? Because if you think people can screw me over and walk away,
oh kid, you’ve got a lesson coming. No one walks away from me.”
Electricity scorches Avery’s chest. Tonight he is made of live wires and sparks and reckless,
terrible things. Maybe he will be the next one on the ground being kicked by Vin’s crew of
loyal dogs, but he doesn’t care anymore. He has nothing else to lose.
Once, Vin would toss an arm around his neck and say, “No one messes with Avery. He’s
mine.” And he’d be safe. Hers. Wanted.
If she wasn’t bored of him. Or annoyed. Or hadn’t hit him recently herself.
Avery takes a deep breath of air that smells of alcohol and sleek metal and drunken laughter
— then he slides into the driver’s seat.
Leaning against the hood of the car with her back to him, Vin hasn’t noticed Avery get in at
all. If she turns around, it’s over. But the music covers any sounds he makes, and Vin just
obliviously smooths her hair over her shoulder and tips back her head in a laugh. Elegant
white throat, cruel twisted mouth, one hand resting possessively on the Corvette’s hood.
Avery fumbles for the keys. He’s sweaty and sick and he’s about to spiral but he can’t spiral
right now because no one is here to stop him cracking and if he falls apart now Vin will drag
him out by his hair and kill him—
Did she love him, once upon a time? Did he ever love her?
Avery turns the key.
The engine roars to life, violent and loud and terrible against the dark sky.
Everyone leaps back in confusion. Someone yells. Vin slips as she whips around, spilling her
drink all over herself, the surprise on her face so un ltered that a thrill goes up Avery’s spine.
His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, hand on the stick, feet on the pedals. Ready.
Exhaust billows in the air. The car thrums, heady and ravenous and eager. Avery ts here.
His need to tic folds itself away and the chaos in his chest narrows to a steady focus point.
He revs the engine with a terri c roar.
For a second Vin’s eyes meet his through the windshield. Her lips part, shock fading to fury,
as she yells without sound:
AVERY.
“This is for stabbing my brother,” Avery whispers.
He slams the accelerator and the car screams backwards, gravel ying and headlights
blaring in Vin’s face as she stumbles away, blinded. He rips the handbrake and skids the car
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around the corner until he’s facing forward down an empty street. The air tastes of burning
rubber, heat, madness. It tastes as good as he thought it would.
He explodes forward and runs through gears, glancing in the rearview mirror long enough to
see the others have piled into another car to follow. But Avery is the one who used to drive
them out of trouble before. They won’t catch him, a boy half made of nothing who drives like
the devil.
The Corvette rips through the city, hell and storms buried in its engine. Adrenaline spikes
through his veins. He could detonate right now, he could shoot into the sky in the million
pieces of an exploding meteor because he was not made to hold this much emotion inside.
He has to let it out, be loud, exist out out out—
Do not meltdown. Sam is gone. He’s not going to scrape you off the oor.
Dawn yawns pink and gold on the horizon as Avery exits the sleepy streets and powers
towards the marina. A boat ramp sits ahead, the carpark populated by hobbyist sherman
and their shiny 4WDs, boats ready to be towed into the water. Avery didn’t think about
witnesses, but then he didn’t think through any of this.
He guns the engine straight for the boat ramp. Behind him, Vin and the others take the
corner in a scream of burning rubber. They’re too late. He winds down the window and
releases the steering wheel. For one terrible minute, he thinks he’s left his escape too late.
He pulls himself half out the open window as the car speeds unmanned towards the sea. Salt
water rushes forward. Avery tips backwards out the window.
Horns blast. Men yell from their boats.
Avery hits the boat ramp in a roll, his body snapping and jerking like a tossed toy. His skin
burns as he rips his arms up to the elbows on the rough cement.
For a disorientating second, he doesn’t know which way is up. His ears ring. Forearms
shredded. Pain burns behind his eyes and he tastes blood. He pushes his jellied body up on
his elbows as the Corvette — her pride, his work, her love — noses deeper into the frothing
ocean.
Avery scrabbles to his feet, his heart punching against his ribs so hard he feels bruised from
the inside out.
Run.
Everyone is shouting. Someone points to him. Vin and her crew pull up in the other car in a
scream of tires.
Avery runs.
He has to make it to the sprawl of industrial dockyard buildings and garages, where he can
lose himself amongst machinery and shipping crates and cargo. Everyone else is riveted to
the scene of the car sinking into the sea, so they don’t notice Avery climbing around forklifts
and upturned boats and throwing himself behind a warehouse. If Vin catches him right now,
he’s dead.
He skids around a corner and presses himself to a wall stained with rust and grease. No one
follows. He gasps, raw and jagged, but can’t get his heartbeat under control.
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He bunches his sts to his mouth and doubles over, his scream silent and wretched. Don’t
hurt yourself, Sam had begged. Don’t steal anything. Don’t run away. Stay with the De
Laineys.
No one asked Avery what he wanted, because they wouldn’t like his answers.
What he wants is revenge.
What he wants is to stop screaming inside.
What he wants is to go home, but home is Sam and Sam is gone.
He thinks he might hate the De Laineys. They destroyed the Lou brothers, the boys who
were the kings between nowhere and the end of the world, who were enough just with each
other.
He thinks he might hate Sam too, for choosing them.
Instead of him.
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 Before
Avery is eleven and he might be a supervillain.
He folds himself between library shelves, dirty shoes drumming against book spines as he
ips comic pages. It’s a sultry day. The library’s air conditioner blasts away memories of how
meltingly hot it is outside, which is why they’re here instead of being sweaty and wretched at
Aunt Karen’s. Her mood was foul before they even got up this morning and it took ve
minutes before she accused Sammy of stealing from her wallet and switched his legs with
the wooden spoon.
Avery keeps waiting for a teacher to notice how often the brothers collect bruises, but no one
cares. Kids have scabbed knees and bumps all the time. So maybe it’s normal and maybe
it’s what they deserve when they’re bad. But Sammy lost his words all day and now he’s
bunched up at one of the library computers, sitting on one leg so the other can swing and
keep pressure off his bruises.
He deserves to be happy.
Avery could make him happy.
Thumbing the scar at the corner of his mouth, he snatches the comics he's collected and
trots over to the computers. Sammy’s packed himself into the last cubicle with a huge stack
of books propped beside him. Not the fun ones. Textbooks from the adult section by doctor
this and professor that, and he totally can’t understand them. But he’s scrawling notes on the
back of his math homework and frowning at his bad spelling like this is for a test.
Avery squashes up beside him and says in a library-appropriate-whisper, “Hey, I found us.”
Sammy sucks the end of his pencil without look up. “You bug me every three seconds. You
found us because I haven’t moved.”
Avery frowns. “No, I mean I found us in here.” He slaps the comic down, but the corner
catches the keyboard and one of the internet pages Sammy’s looking at exits.
He swears words nine-year-olds aren’t supposed to know.
Avery shrinks back. “S-s-sorry.”
“It’s ne.” Sammy picks up the comics. “It was a dumb anyway. What is this…” He trails off as
he icks through a Spiderman comic and then sees the Batman one with the Joker’s scarred
grin on the cover.
Sammy looks confused, not delighted. He’s meant to understand Avery, so he should always
know what he’s thinking, right?
Avery starts apping even though he’s meant to have quiet hands out in public. “Can you
come read with me now? What are you even doing? It looks boring.”
“I’m researching.”
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“For what?”
“For you. This is autism stuff.” Sammy’s still frowning at the comics. “How are these us? I
don’t get it.”
Avery’s brain clicks in too many directions and it’s getting harder to push his thoughts into
sentences. Behind him a librarian pushes a squeaky book cart, while adults on other
computers click click at keys, and across the partition, high schoolers whisper and giggle
over homework. Above them, the buzz of electricity thrums through the huge uorescent
lights. What helps is lying on the carpet and rubbing his cheek on the textured furrows, but
he's not supposed to do that.
He wishes things were less. Or maybe he needs to be more.
“Why are you researching me?” It comes out six times too loud because he has to be heard
over the noise in his head.
The librarian shelving books casts them a poisonous look.
Sammy sighs and shifts so his bruises aren’t pressed against the chair. “Because no one
else cares. You know how they call you bad all the time? And say stop touching stuff and
moving your hands and look up when they’re talking to you? That’s just you being autistic. I
read about it.”
Avery snaps his hands to his sides like his teacher tells him to a hundred times a day.
“No, it’s okay,” Sammy says. “You need to move. It’s good for you. And see this.” He drags a
huge book over and thumbs it open to a dog-eared page. “It says you’re super bad being
okay at things changing and you need routines to stop you panicking. We should get some
routines.”
Avery’s stuck on the words super bad and a tight uttery feeling tangles in his chest. “What
routines should we get?”
“I dunno. Maybe you already have some. Like how you only eat cheese sandwiches, and we
have to watch TV at ve, and you always line up your cars at the window before bed.”
Avery doesn’t point out that Sammy does these things too, except instead of playing with
cars, he arranges all the things he’s collected in his pockets throughout the day into little
matchboxes and then goes to sleep with them. He nds things like small rocks and seed
pods and buttons and sometimes a spare key. He steals stuff all the time too, without even
thinking. Maybe he did steal money from Aunt Karen. He bought this internet time after all.
Avery doesn’t know if he’s allowed to point all this out, so he just stands on his tiptoes.
“Okay."
“The books say you should have therapy and stuff," Sammy says.
Hollowness carves Avery’s stomach. “To x me.”
Sammy rubs the corner of his eye like he’s tired. “You don’t need to be xed.” But he says it
in an automatic way, his attention back on the computer screen. Maybe he’s not sure
anymore. Maybe the books say Fix The Bad Kid Before Everyone Is Sick To Death Of Him.
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 Aunt Karen said that to him this morning while he was crying about his school shirt being
scratchy. You boys are killing me, I’m sick of it.
Avery decides he doesn’t like this conversation, so he shoves the comics closer.
“You’re Spiderman,” he says. “Because you climb so good. And I’m the Joker. See? I have
scars on my mouth too and he’s batshit crazy, just like me.” He thumbs his scar and grins in a
way he hopes is manic enough to match the Joker’s.
It’s great nding someone like him in a comic for once.
“You and me. We,” he says in triumph.
Sammy goes stiff. He turns, something brittle and animal in his expression, and it takes Avery
a long moment to realise Sammy’s mad.
No, he’s furious.
“Who,” he says, his voice low, “said you were ‘batshit crazy’?”
Avery anxiously gathers the comics to his chest. “Well, everyone at school. But it’s okay, I
want to be the Joker. You get to be Spider-Man. That’s fair, right? We can play it on the way
home. Or you can be Batman? You can put me in Arkham Asylum. It’ll be fun.”
Sammy rips the comics from Avery’s hands. He moves so fast that Avery stumbles
backwards, his mouth circled in a soft O as Sammy hurls the comics across the oor. Pages
bend, the covers rip. People look up. A librarian storms towards them.
Avery’s stomach turns inside out, a storm pressing in his chest. He doesn’t want to be in
trouble. He hates it when Sammy’s mad, and he doesn’t even understand what he did wrong.
Sammy snatches Avery’s apping wrists and pulls him close, his grip tight and tighter.
His words punch holes between them. “Don’t ever - ever - talk like that again. You aren’t
crazy. You aren’t the Joker. You aren’t a supervillain. If you say it again, I’ll…I’ll—” His words
buckle up, but the fury in his eyes tell the rest.
He’ll hit Avery.
That must be what he means.
That’s what you get when you do something wrong.
But the librarian is on them now, seizing Sammy’s shoulder and demanding to know where
their parents are. Sammy doesn’t like adults and he never talks to them. He shoves away
hard, grabs his backpack, and drags Avery outside.
Avery’s crying before they bust out into the sweltering afternoon.
Sti ing summer air smothers them as they speed down the pathway. Avery stumbles, but the
storm cuts out of his chest and he can’t…he can’t do it, he c-c-an’t—
He goes boneless. The sudden jerk of his deadweight wrenches him free of Sammy, but
when he hits the hot concrete footpath, he burns. He pulls himself into a ball and rocks, his
hands apping in front of his face in frantic chaos.
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Sammy slings his backpack at a fence with all his might. Then he starts kicking it. Again and
again. The backpack’s zipper busts, books and homework packets leaking out like spilled
guts.
In a distant way, because thoughts are too slippery right now, Avery thinks they are both
doing the same thing.
Meltdown.
But Sammy’s the one who hits things when the world is too much. Avery cries.
“I do everything for you.” Sammy spins on him, yelling now there’s no library rules. His
sweaty blonde hair sticks to his cheeks, his face red, eyes bright. “I make sure no one calls
you names. I hit anyone who says you’re broken. I read stuff to help you. I get hit for you. For
you. FOR YOU, AVERY.” He kicks his backpack one more time. Then he punches the fence.
It must hurt, but he does it again,
again
till his knuckles are bloody.
“You don’t even care! You think it’s a game being called crazy? It’s not. It’s not.” He stomps to
where Avery is balled up on the ground.
Avery wants this to stop. He doesn’t want this version of his brother.
Sammy’s still yelling as he grabs Avery’s shoulders and shakes him. “You’re not crazy. You’re
not going to be sent away. You’re mine. You’re mine forever.”
And then he stops.
He seems to suddenly see Avery’s ruined face, the tears and snot smeared down his cheeks.
Sick terror glazes Sammy’s eyes. “Oh no no. Avery, shh…hey. I didn’t…I’m sorry. I’m so, so
sorry.” He tips onto his knees and tries to pull Avery into a hug. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Don’t h-h-h-hit me.” Avery’s voice cracks.
“I won’t. Avery, I won’t ever hit you.” Sammy’s tucking Avery’s head to his chest now, rubbing
circles on his back. “I’m just…I hate Aunt Karen so much. She said she’s sending you away if
you keep screaming, and I thought if I make stuff stop hurting you, she’ll leave us alone. We
h-have to stay together.” He wipes Avery’s tears with his grimy hands. “You’re my best friend.
I’ll never hurt you. I’m sorry.”
Avery keeps crying. His world has folded in on itself.
Sammy lets out a shuddering breath. “Let’s play your game, but-but you be Batman. That’ll
be fun, right?” He forces his voice lighter.
Avery touches the small scar in the corner of his mouth, a parting gift from the father who
dumped them with Aunt Karen and then left.
“Don’t be scared of me.” Sammy’s eyes are dying.
Avery wipes at his face, nodding fast because he doesn't want his little brother to look like
that, so scared and shaken by his own outburst. What Avery needs to do is be less of himself
and more -- normal. He can do that, can't he? If he tries. Then Sammy wouldn't have to worry
about him all the time, then maybe they'd make friends and Aunt Karen would like them and
everything would be better.
He just has to try.
 Chapter 3
Jeremy could sleep through the end of the world.
There is a certain luxurious bliss in oversleeping, everything unpleasant from yesterday
smudging away like paint washing down the sink in ugly swirls. With that mess gone, a new
day can be unwrapped, glorious and bright and full of colors he can bite into. It’s a system
reload, a brain reboot. He loves phrases like good morning and possibilities and would you
like a croissant for breakfast.
No one ever says the last one to him though, which is a constant disappointment. If good
food is to be had in this house, it’s Jeremy De Lainey who bakes it. Still, he lives in hope
about anything. Everything.
He’s been sleepily blinking awake for two seconds before he realizes today is not going to be
the surprise here’s a croissant sort of day.
Someone is screaming.
Jeremy groans and thumps a hand around for his phone. Another disappointment in his life is
that he shares this bedroom with two other people and seven hundred pieces of junk, and
that junk lives everywhere and anywhere, none of it in helpful places. The battered dresser
by his bed has everything piled on it: a soccer ball, socks, homework, stacks of mugs,
charging cords, dismantled model cars, and also someone’s underwear. He nds his phone
charger, no phone. Then he realizes his pillow is chiming. Ah, he buried his alarm when it
went off.
Time to be late for school.
Jeremy scrambles out of bed in a urry of twisted sheets and toast crumbs. One check of the
top bunk says his twin is already up. Grady’s single bed across the room is empty since he
left for university last week. They've turned his bed into a second wardrobe…or third
wardrobe? There is also the oor, after all.
Things have been too hectic in the De Lainey house for Jeremy to decide if he misses his
oldest brother yet. Maybe? Probably not. Would there be less screaming downstairs if Grady
was here? Maybe? Probably not. He’s a bit useless. Not that Jeremy pretends to be that
useful himself, but Grady is altogether a sour bookworm sort, while Jeremy is a collection of
bright explosions and brilliantly horrible ideas. He knows a thousand ways to make someone
laugh. That, at least, makes up for all his failings.
Like how he has no clean school uniform because he didn’t do laundry.
He didn’t do his homework either, come to think of it.
Jeremy wrangles into his St. John’s uniform: button-up white shirt (dubiously clean), green
plaid tie, dress trousers (likely Jack’s), and socks with mini donuts on them (not school
regulation, but within arm’s reach, so kind of the same thing). He’s still hopping into one sock
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as he tumbles into the hallway, his mind only half on whether he’ll get a uniform demerit,
because the rest of his attention is on the closed of ce door.
It used to be empty, these last twelve months since their mother died. It had been her sacred
space, no kids allowed while she did nances and checked emails and drank a whole cup of
tea before it went cold. They’d left it an accidental dusty memorial, so cleaning it out had hurt.
But in a good way, Jeremy thought. Their mother would have approved of her of ce’s
renovations — newly built IKEA bunk bed, fresh curtains, buffed up dresser, jar of owers on
the windowsill. Ready for two foster brothers.
Well, one to start with. They’ll have Avery alone while Sam’s in juvie for a year. Jeremy has
put a fuzzy block around the why of Sammy Lou’s absence. It’s easier to say he’s coming
later, then to lay out truths in stark, brittle lines.
Sam’s being locked up for a year because he beat a kid unconscious.
It just doesn’t…make sense. Every time Jeremy tries to reconcile the idea of that underfed
kid with oppy limbs and mournful eyes, and the worshipful, dogged way he followed Moxie
around, with this sharp reality of Sam’s violent past, he can’t. It makes his stomach knot. He
doesn’t like anxious stomach knots, and he has decided to avoid them and anything that
invokes them at all costs.
He can’t imagine how Moxie feels.
She’s been duller these last three weeks since social services stuffed Sam and Avery in
some restricted teen care facility while they nalised the sentencing. She didn’t get to see
Sam again, wasn’t even allowed at the nal court session.
Moxie always has more lemon and caustic acid balled up in her chest than anything else, so
seeing her blunt-edged and withdrawn these days is another blow.
Jeremy considers knocking on the of ce door to see if Avery’s up. But maybe Avery doesn’t
want to go downstairs to that racket. Who could blame him? Plus Dad and Avery came in late
yesterday and Avery went straight to bed, and Jeremy is still too much a stranger to feel he
can waltz in there and say hello. Later. There’s time.
For now he gets to experience An Apocalyptic De Lainey Morning on his own.
Jeremy bounds downstairs and swings from the banister with a bright, “Goooooood morning!”
No one responds. Or maybe they didn’t hear.
They’ve hit a new high, he thinks, or should it be…a new low? Downstairs has been built as
an open-plan living area — kitchen and dining room spilling into lounge, with the kids
playroom exploding from its designated corner and devouring the oor. The mess is usual,
although even the box of wooden trains spread from the front door to the kitchen looks
stressed. Unfolded washing buries their L-shaped lounge. School projects and dishes and
toys cover everything else.
Toby is well into one of his three-year-old Armageddon meltdowns. The lungs on that kid.
Incredible, really. He’s been strapped into his booster seat at the table and has been given
breakfast The Wrong Way. Between shoving his bowl away and screaming, he’s rage-waving
around his stuffed rabbit with the missing eyes (Jeremy’s still a little nervous about the
possibility Toby swallowed them at some point, but he’s still alive). The rabbit has the foul
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 look of something that’s been chewed up and vomited out several times. They need to pry
that off him soon for the wash.
The baby rivals Toby’s scream levels with its own hiccuping howls. The tray of its highchair is
a sea of milk with oating cheerios. It turns dejected eyes to Jeremy for rescue.
Dash sits at the far end of the table, one hand over her ear to block out the ruckus, while she
shovels in cereal with the other. Her Elven War Kingdom Something Or Whatever book lies
cracked open before her, the source of all her ten-year-old fangirl obsession, and she’s
dripped milk on it, but seems unconcerned.
Jack appears to be doing something terrible in the kitchen with the lunchboxes. That needs
to stop, like now.
There is no sign of Moxie or their father, which explains why the screaming is unchecked. But
also…that’s unusual. It’s Tuesday, thirty minutes until they all have to leave for school, and
rst day with a new kid in the house. Dad gave a little speech last night about being
welcoming to Avery and being considerate of his needs — and this is not that.
Jeremy slides into the kitchen in his donut socks and peers into the lunchboxes. “Who hurt
you that you must hurt others?”
Jack smacks the back of Jeremy’s head as he stomps to the fridge and rummages around for
a miracle. No one’s been shopping because no one ever goes shopping.
“Shut up. It’s cottage cheese and grated carrot.”
“But—” Jeremy peels one soppy sandwich out of a lunchbox and sniffs it, “—is it off? It is off.
Jack, you’re poisoning the kids.”
Jack slams the fridge and the half empty condiment jars rattle. “Yeah, well,” his voice rises
over Toby’s next howl, “I’m goddamn tempted to right now.”
“Where’s! Dad!” Jeremy shouts.
Dash waves her arms from the kitchen table. “Jeremy! Jeremy, make them stop!
Pleasepleaseplease.”
“Dad is dealing with the shit show of Avery Lou.” Jack upturns an entire lunchbox into the bin
and punches the lid closed. It’s not a warning of his mood since that’s how he moves on a
regular day — staccato sts, slamming doors, his hair in a spiked ponytail to warn of his
cactus personality. “He’s out on the verandah on the phone. You would know all this if you
didn’t laze in bed so long.”
“You could’ve woken me,” Jeremy says reasonably.
“I smacked you in the head and you went back to sleep.”
Jeremy thinks he remembers that happening. “Stop abusing the lunchboxes, let’s tell Dad we
need lunch money.”
Jack bares his teeth. “That would require Dad to have money to give us. Plus did you not
hear what I said before?” Jack snaps his ngers in front of Jeremy’s face. “Shit show. Avery.
Lou. He’s not here.”
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Jeremy burrows around for a clean bowl. “I don’t want to be here either. Maybe he’s smart
enough to come downstairs later.”
“No, he’s not here. In this house. He ran away.”
Jeremy stops midway through pouring cheerio dust into his bowl. It doesn’t make sense.
Avery hasn’t even been here for a full day. He can’t have decided he dislikes them already
and wants to run away. He’d surely give them like, twenty-four hours at least, right?
“Dad’s on the phone, but it’s too early and their social worker isn’t picking up, so he’s going to
end up calling the cops.” Jack picks up a carrot and aggressively bites it. “Day one of foster
parenthood and Dad lost the kid. He’s freaking out.”
“Dad doesn’t freak out,” Jeremy says. “He just looks dead inside and drinks more coffee.
Speaking of which.” He nds a half- lled coffee cup on the bench and takes a sip. Cold, but
tolerable. “Has anyone looked for Avery in the backyard? Or down the street?”
“What do you think Moxie is doing?” Jack smacks another carrot on a chopping board, picks
up a huge knife, and decapitates it with a cracking smack.
Jeremy isn’t sure why the carrots need chopping, but it seems to improve Jack’s mood.
“This is stupid,” Jack mutters. “As if we need more people in this house. As if Dad has time
for the kids he’s got. And now he’s adding in some problem-kid he picked off the street?”
“Hey, we like Sam,” Jeremy says.
“Yeah. Sam.”
It isn’t fair, but Jeremy has nothing to argue with. All he knows about Avery is that Sam would
die for him, which seems a pretty fervent character endorsement.
He’s about to point this out when Moxie crashes through the laundry back door, school
uniform askew and bare feet covered in wet grass. Fury crackles off her, bullets red and
blistering with heat. She slams the screen and storms into the kitchen. One look at the crying
babies and then at Jeremy and Jack doing nothing about it, and she explodes.
“Why are you both so freaking useless! GOD.” Moxie ings her hands in the air and turns to
unbuckle the baby from its highchair. “Is Dad still on the phone?”
“I dunno,” says Jack to prove her point about uselessness.
Jeremy checks the spare coin jar on the fridge and nds it spare of coins. Wasn’t it meant to
be a good day? He woke up sure of that. Now crabs are nesting in his gut and he hates
anxiety chewing up his good mood. He is the one who keeps everyone a oat with a joke or a
smile or clownish distraction. It’s his job. He was this way before their mother died, but he
doubled down harder afterwards, because he’ll do anything to stop his family splintering.
Toby’s meltdown peaks into Act III as he whips his rabbit over his cereal bowl and sends the
whole thing ying. Milk and cereal go everywhere. Rabbit, soaked. Toby’s screams cut off as
he pokes the stuffed stomach of his rabbit and milk squeegees out. Then he sucks in a deep
breath, face purpling, small body trembling towards a new level of piercing detonation.
Moxie frantically leans over the table. “Toby! Toby, do you want…want some—chocolate
milk?”
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That’s forbidden at breakfast, but they are all close to cracking.
“Chocolate milk, Toby!” Moxie’s voice rises in fake cheer. “You love chocolate milk!”
Toby screams, his loudest yet. It could shatter glass.
“I wish for death,” Jeremy says.
Jack races for the highest kitchen cupboards and rummages around. “Toby!” He has to
shout. “Toby, do you want chocolate milk, IN A SPECIAL TEACUP.”
The screaming lessens. Hiccups.
“With a pretty fork!” Moxie adds.
Toby stops. He sits there, red-eyed and gulping.
“You both,” Jeremy says, “have created a new hell. Who’s going to take these off him later?”
“Just get his rabbit and wash it,” Moxie hisses. “Dad can do round two.”
The things toddlers love never make sense, but Toby adores their mother’s rose china tea set
and the little cake forks with owers embossed in the silver handles. Giving a child a fork to
drink with is like giving someone a bucket with a hole and telling them to empty the ocean.
But Toby loves it and life doesn’t make sense.
While Jack whips up the chocolate milk in a teacup, Jeremy steals the soggy rabbit and
bundles it under other dirty tea towels and pajamas he nds lying around so he can covertly
slip into the laundry.
“Why is he this bad anyway?” Jeremy stuffs everything into the washing machine. “This is
like, Level Extreme Hysterical Tiredness, and it’s only Tuesday? Does the daycare make
them run laps?”
“He doesn’t sleep.” Moxie stomps into the laundry and sets the baby in the sink to strip off its
grubby onesie. “Neither of them do. They just chatter and play all night in their cribs because
Grady isn’t here.”
Jeremy reaches over her for the washing powder. “Wait, what does Grady have to do with it?”
Moxie gives him an incredulous look. “Um, Grady is the one who spends half the night in
their room settling them so they sleep. Jeremy, how are you so oblivious about everything in
this house?”
Jeremy discovers the washing machine still full of yesterday’s wet load which he never hung
out, and now it smells. She may have a point.
“Let’s kidnap Grady back then.”
Moxie snorts. “He left for a reason.” Her entire mouth pulls down in a forlorn frog-shaped
frown. “No wonder Avery did too.”
Jeremy isn’t sure what to do. Hug her maybe? Even the baby senses her mood pitching dark,
because it pats her arm with a chubby hand before trying to eat soap. Jeremy removes the
soap. Moxie sighs and rinses the baby.
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 She looks tired too, purple under her eyes and her normal tidy French braids disheveled. Her
skin has lost its Greek tan glow and looks sallow. Even lifting the baby seems a bigger effort
than it should.
“Hey,” Jeremy says, gentle, “we’ll nd him. Dad won’t get in trouble. It’ll be—” He breaks off
as something catches his eye outside. He wants it to be Avery so badly that he doesn’t
hesitate, just throws open the back screen door and pelts into the yard.
Dewy grass soaks his donut socks and the crisp morning air hints of a dying summer. Sheets
ap on the line (also forgotten, his bad) and Jeremy thinks it was only a shadow catching his
eye. But then a shape drops over the neighbors fence and slinks towards the house.
A boy; too thin, too narrow, black shirt a chewed up ruin, hair blonde and wispy and loose
around his ears. Where Sam t with the De Lainey’s warm, tumbled chaos and messy smiles
and everyday shenanigans, Avery looks cut from dark glass.
Words stick in Jeremy’s throat while Avery heads for the drainpipe nearest his bedroom
window on the second oor. He takes hold of it and Jeremy realizes he’s going to climb.
Jeremy raises a hand in what feels like the dumbest wave ever, and blurts, “Hey, the back
door is unlocked if you…if…um, you like doors.”
Avery freezes and whips around. Clearly his plan had been stealth, but if he didn’t want to
get busted, he should’ve gotten home earlier. They stare across the yard at each other:
Jeremy dangling out the back door in wet socks, Avery hovering with expression tight like an
animal in a trap.
Don’t run, Jeremy silently begs.
Avery doesn’t run.
He walks over, soundless and light, and when Jeremy holds the backdoor open for him, he
slips inside without a word. He folds his arms tight around his middle and stares at the oor.
“Where did you go?” Jeremy says before he thinks. “Sorry, I’m not trying to interrogate you.
It’s just everyone’s worried.”
“Had to see someone.” Each word seems like drawing a splinter out of him.
They have to remember Avery has a life no one knows about. Not even Sam. Avery kept to
himself this summer while Sam found the De Laineys and clung to them as his world fell
apart. Avery hasn’t said what he was doing all this time, and — Jeremy hates to admit — it’s
hard to know if Avery even cares about his little brother. He doesn't want to be judgemental,
but what is he meant to think?
Jeremy can’t imagine being away from Jack for longer than a few days, but they’re identical
twins and, though would Jack scoff at the idea, Jeremy is sure they share a soul.
But not all brothers are that close. Maybe Sam and Avery aren’t.
Moxie has stuffed the baby into a clean onesie, and when she sees Avery, her jaw drops.
“What are you— oh God, your arms.”
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Avery tries to tuck his arms behind his back, but it’s too late. Jeremy can’t stop staring. This
boy has been left in pieces — clothes ripped, jeans torn to reveal bloody knees, his arms
scraped raw from elbow to wrist, bruises and scratches lining his neck, and his lip swollen.
But his eyes…his eyes are graveyards of despair.
“I’ll get Dad.” Moxie takes off with the baby.
Jeremy reaches out on instinct to touch Avery’s shoulder. “Do you need the rst aid kit? I can
help—”
Avery shrinks. Not from words, it’s the touch. Jeremy draws back fast, but Avery is already
cowering like he’s being threatened. What even happened to this kid? It hits Jeremy how little
they know about Avery Lou, what he’s done and what he might do.
“Just tell me what you need,” Jeremy says.
“I need my brother.” Avery’s mouth crumples as if he didn’t mean to say it. His hands utter
before he pins them to his sides.
Jeremy gentles his voice. “I know this all sucks, but…look, you can’t just leave without telling
anyone? We thought you were asleep.”
Avery looks away, narrow shoulders tightening to brace himself for war. “I can’t sleep. If I try,
he gets s-stabbed again. Every time. I just—” He clams up like he’s already given too much
away.
This is when Jeremy starts to understand there are no fresh mornings of possibilities in Avery
Lou’s world. There is just this: the nightmare of his life on repeat.
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 Chapter 4
There is, and never will be, anything interesting about school, and three weeks into the term
means Jeremy is already over it. It’s not that he struggles. It’s just that people are more
fascinating than books and he’d rather read the emotion behind every angle of a smile than
do biology homework. Focus is a ighty concept, always vanished before rst period ends.
He’s thinking of Avery, Avery, Avery.
For all Avery looks like Sam, he holds himself in a completely different way. Sam is a
packable object, pocket-sized and moulded into shapes of easy convenience. Avery looks
like a wet cat that’s been dragged out of a dumpster and is absolutely going to scratch
everyone and then directly break something. When they rst met him, he seemed on edge,
but quiet. Now the only word that ts him — angry.
But Jeremy’s not sure who Avery’s angry at. Life? The law for taking Sam away? Or is it the
De Laineys? They’ve done nothing except give him a home, so shouldn’t he be, well, happy
about that after living on the streets?
Jeremy considers this all through English as he chews on a pen. When his phone buzzes, he
makes a covert barricade with the crook of his arm and checks his messages.
SUPER DADDO: Where is toby’s rabbit. Don’t text back if you’re in class.
JEREMY: due to a series of catastrophic events it’s now in the washing machine
SUPER DADDO: I need a heads up before you wash that. He won’t calm down.
JEREMY: toby literally baptised it in milk
SUPER DADDO: Where is his Batman suit.
JEREMY: you’ll never guess
SUPER DADDO: When was the last time you turned the washing machine on Jeremy.
A certain amount of weary accusation could be read into that, but Jeremy doesn’t have a
chance to respond because Mrs. Aun stands beside his desk, one eyebrow raised, hand out
for his phone.
Jeremy gives a sheepish smile. “It’s my dad. Little brother is having problems. Sorry.”
He doesn’t lose his phone. He doesn’t even get a reprimand, because leeway is always
given to sad, motherless children, and St John’s witnessed a lot of their mess after their
mother died. Counselling sessions. Weeks of absence. It’s why they let Jeremy coast through
classes, though what he wants most is to drop out and work with his dad — which would
coincidentally now mean working with Avery.
But this is the last year of high school. He’s gotten this far, and if he holds onto Jack’s ankles,
he could be dragged through the rest. With a proportionate amount of whining.
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 The real thing to focus on this year will be keeping all the frayed edges of the De Lainey
family tacked down and taped together. They can’t lose anymore pieces of themselves.
They can’t show anyone their fractures.
When lunch rolls around, Jeremy collects Jack from one of his extension classes and they
utilise the senior privilege of sprinting off campus to buy food. They have it down to a ne art:
bolting through the line of the nearest Subway, jumbling coins and cash as they divvy up who
pays, pausing for a confused argument over whether it’s Moxie or Dash who doesn’t like
pickles, and then speeding back to St John’s so they can hang over the fence of the primary
school’s yard and holler for Dash.
She peels out of the playground, cheeks ushed red from the heat and relief in her eyes. “I
thought I’d starve. I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“Forget you, Dashie? Never?” Jeremy lays a hand over his heart. “No pickles.”
Dash accepts the wrapped sub. “I like pickles?”
“I told you it was Moxie,” Jack says. “She’s the one who’s unnecessarily annoying.”
“Huh,” Jeremy says. “I thought that was how we described you.”
Jack rolls his eyes and takes a huge bite of his sandwich. He eats as they trudge back to the
high school grounds, muttering something about how much lunch money Dad owes them,
which is fair, but considering Dad is neck-deep in debt and construction work, and now foster
kids with issues, Jeremy won't ask.
It’s days like this when Jeremy has to work very hard not to think of the mother-shaped
gouge in their lives, how it’s still raw and tender to the touch, how a year has healed nothing.
All they did was learn to walk around the hole.
They nd Moxie at one of the picnic tables outside the school library with a fortress of
homework around her. The lunch break has whittled to nearly nothing, but it’s still odd to see
her alone. Did she just choose homework over people? Jeremy prefers to be with ve to ten
of his friends at any given time, and yet here is Moxie with only her menacing glower for
company.
Jack tosses a subway on her notebook and then sits on top of the table to scoff the rest of his
sandwich. He is almost de nitely not chewing. Ever since their summer working construction
with Dad, they’ve been twice as hungry and quite fond of what manual labour did to their
shoulders. Jack keeps his sleeves rolled so he can inconspicuously ex, and he’s doing this
thing called working out to maintain his physique while Jeremy is doing this thing called
baking brownies at 11 p.m. before laying dramatically on the sofa. Similar concepts.
“Does this have pickles?” Moxie plucks at the wrapper.
“You should like them,” Jack says. “They’re sour like you.”
“Ha, ha, hysterical.” Moxie’s look could wither grass. “Thanks for the reprieve from starvation.
You can both go.”
“Let’s nd the guys.” Jack jumps up, crushing his sandwich wrapper.
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 But Jeremy narrows his eyes at Moxie and then promptly sits across from her. Sunlight lters
through the trees and dapples the side of her face, and she looks older in that moment. A
sadness lingers behind her eyes and she picks at the sandwich with the slow disinterest of
someone who nds eating too much effort.
“Right, what’s up?” Jeremy laces his ngers together and leans in. “Why are you alone? You
have a sad little puppy face and I am beholden to respond.”
Moxie sighs loudly. “I do not need company.”
“You heard the woman.” Jack icks the back of Jeremy’s neck. “Let’s go.”
Jeremy swats him off, focused on Moxie. “You have friends. Where are your friends?”
“I have one friend,” Moxie says. “And Kirby had to go back to her dad in Darwin. So. That
happened.”
“No. How long? You never said anything.”
Moxie shrugs, but there’s something unsteady in her voice. “Forever, I guess. And why would
I say anything? We’ve all got our own problems. So what if my best friend left and my
boyfriend is in jail and his brother sort of maybe de nitely hates me.”
Jeremy glances at Jack who groans and drops back onto the picnic table. Siblings in crisis
don’t get abandoned — it’s an unspoken rule.
“Look, Avery is an asshole, so ignore him,” Jack says.
“I didn’t say that.” Moxie bristles. “He must be super stressed and traumatised so like,
obviously he’ll be withdrawn. But every time I talk to him, he looks straight through me and
just…turns away. I don’t know what I did wrong.”
“Maybe he needs time?” Jeremy rests his chin on his st. “But yeah, he seems mad.”
Jack has one eye on Moxie’s barely eaten sandwich. “Dad didn’t even ask what shit he’d
been up to last night. He just handed him bandages. If that was us, we’d be grilled and then
grounded till in nity.”
Moxie’s jaw tightened. “Avery literally held Sam while he was bleeding out in an alley. Don’t
you get how that would mess you up? Imagine if that was Jeremy. Imagine holding him,
thinking he was dying.”
Jeremy raises a hand. “Petition to not?”
“What I’m saying is, he has rights to be upset,” Moxie says. “It’s just…I feel awful and I don’t
know how to help and Sam’s gone and I hate everything.”
Jack looks unmoved as he takes out his phone and starts scrolling. “You’re just like Jeremy.
Total saps whenever you see a pathetic, melancholy blonde boy.”
Jeremy looks offended. “What, me? I like Captain America types who can ex so hard their
shirt rips.”
“Then why are you still hung up on Yeats?” Jack says.
“He’s t.”
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“Pfft, not that much.”
“He’s on the swim team and he plays football.”
“And he’s full of shit,” Jack goes on. “Same as Avery. Like I said, your type.”
Moxie looks both done and disgusted with both of them, which is sort of fair, but the wound of
Yeats dumping Jeremy before Christmas still bleeds when poked at. Vague plans are
underway to win Yeats back, but a few problems have arisen.
The biggest problem shows itself right now as a group of year twelves stroll passed with
armfuls of books, their smiles bright and hair awless and uniforms in immaculate array. They
look like they’re posing for a stock photo titled: Perfect Students With Perfect Teeth Are
Enjoying Campus. Yeats twirls a football in the air and catches it before tipping his head back
in a photogenic laugh, while a girl with acres of strawberry blonde curls rests her ngertips on
his arm.
The group glides passed without a single glance at the De Laineys.
Jack gives them the nger and then cuffs the back of Jeremy’s head. “Stop it.”
Jeremy stares after them, wistful and pathetic and aware of it. “It’s just, they’re very
beautiful.”
“They’re an insufferable elitist clique, and he dumped your ass.”
“And got a girlfriend to celebrate?” Moxie eyes Jeremy. “This is like the sixth time he’s
dumped you, Jeremy. Your love life is worse than mine.”
Jeremy drags his gaze from the fast vanishing reminder that he will not be making out with
anyone behind the pool any time soon. It shouldn’t still sting.
“It’s not worse than Jack’s,” he says.
“Hey.” Jack switches from pissed off to murderous. “Don’t you dare tell her—”
A small spark of interest ashes behind Moxie’s eyes, and Jeremy decides the sacri ce of
Jack’s dignity will be worth giving her a distraction.
“You know how Jack has a huge crush on Lucy Fusillo?” Jeremy says. “Well, he asked her
out.”
“You’re dead,” Jack says.
Moxie sniffs. “So she rejected him and saved herself?”
“She said, ‘I thought you were gay’.” Jeremy tries to hold back his laugh while Jack’s ears
turn an unfortunate crimson. “Then — it gets better — he said, ‘No, that’s my twin.’ And she
said—”
Moxie now looks delighted.
“—‘Wait, you have a twin?’” Jeremy busts out laughing and only cuts off because Jack stuffs
his sandwich wrapper down the back of Jeremy’s shirt.
“I hate your face,” Jack growls.
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Jeremy has to extricate himself from the table, untuck his shirt and do a stylish jiggle to
dislodge the wrapper.
“It’s your face too, dumbass,” Jeremy says kindly. “You know she tutored me last term? She
probably thinks she tutored you. I will never stop laughing over this. But hey, now we can all
bond over the fact we are romantically doomed.”
“Except Sam and I didn’t break up.” Moxie closes her homework with a snap. “I said I’d wait
for him to sort himself out, and I will.”
Jack hunkers back down with his phone, only casting foul glances at Jeremy now and then.
“Great, and while we wait, we get to deal with his brother turning up covered in blood while
Dad does nothing about it. Avery probably murdered someone.”
Moxie slams her sandwich on the table. “What do you want Dad to do? Throw Avery out
because you’ve known him for one day and you don’t like him? You’re a pain and we keep
you.”
Jack voice turns suddenly cool. “At least my friends don’t have violent rage problems or are
hiding from cops.”
Jeremy makes a time-out gesture. The bell is about to ring and at this rate both Moxie and
Jack will storm into their respective classes looking like they want to hit something.
Smoothing things out is Jeremy’s job, being the peacemaker, the clown, the comforter. But
Moxie’s already gathering up her books, leaving her sandwich half eaten, her face splotchy
with fury or incoming tears.
Jack and Moxie are forever dealing each other low blows, but this one cut too deep.
Because as much as Moxie still likes Sam — he did betray her. His lies and secrets grew like
black mould between them. And the thing no one talks about is how he scared her, there at
the end.
Maybe Avery scares her.
Is it even fair to distrust Avery so much, to think the worst of him? They don’t even know him,
but it’s just—
Jeremy calls out for Moxie, but she storms off, her head high and spine stiff.
Jack plucks up her abandoned sandwich, shrugs, and bites into it.
“Seriously?” Jeremy says. “Animal. Give her a break, okay? And leave off Avery too. I think
he was…hurting himself last night. He’s messed up.”
Mouth still full, Jack jams his phone in Jeremy’s face. “Or he was doing this.”
A local Twitter news feed covers his phone screen, and the highlighted article features a
pixelated photo of a car being towed out of the marina. The article reads: Suspect of the
vehicle’s theft and destruction is a white teenage male with blonde hair, last seen wearing
black clothing. If you have more information, please call—
Jeremy feels a little ill. “That could be anyone.”
Jack snorts and pockets his phone. “Sure, tell yourself that. That kid is going to ruin our
lives.”
 Chapter 5
Sweat crawls down the back of Avery’s neck as he packs himself down as small as possible
in the backseat of the De Lainey van. He’s not sure which he hates more: the insufferable
heat that comes with the dregs of a dying summer, or this rust bucket of a car that’s an
offence to the road it drives on. All he can think of right now is the Corvette, the way power
coiled around the husky purr of its engine, how driving it felt like stars exploding in his chest.
Cars like that are made for being alive.
No wonder he sits back here feeling dead. He’s unspooling, so empty he’s almost nothing,
and he hasn’t even been punished yet for running off last night. That has to be coming.
Drawing out the suspense of this is how I’m going to deal with you is a game Avery knows
well. Vin liked to play it with him too. Make him think she wouldn’t react to how he messed up
a job, and then — snap — he’d pay for it hard.
So far all Mr. De Lainey has done is hand Avery a rst aid kit and then tell him to sit in the
van while he organised his piles of children for school. The older teens took an equally
dumpy and uninspiring jeep to high school, while Mr. De Lainey ferried the toddlers to
daycare in the family van with Avery making himself small in the backseat.
That’s the only part Avery likes about this shitty metal monstrosity — three rows of seats
means he can sit as far away from everyone as possible.
With the toddlers dropped off, it’s just him and Mr. De Lainey. Avery stays tense and forces
himself still. Trapped things don’t draw attention to themselves.
They don’t speak as the van wheezes across town. When they pull up at a construction site
in a fancy looking neighbourhood, Avery doesn’t get out and Mr. De Lainey doesn’t ask. He
trudges up to the un nished house alone and chats to another builder in paint-splattered
coveralls on the half- nished porch. They talk for a long time with plenty of gesturing and
nodding and a pause for a phone call, where Avery catches words like “reschedule” and
“concrete” and “thanks, mate”. It’s more a mansion than a house, beautiful and imposing and
nearly nished. Sam would be obsessed, but Avery stares at the graveyard of discarded
construction junk littered around the block with anxious distrust.
He’s not a builder. He doesn’t want to build.
He uses the time alone to check his bandaged arms, and then rests his cheek against the hot
window and remembers how to breathe. His head pounds. His mouth feels thick with cotton
uff, and he could drink a lake of ice water if given the chance. Exhaustion folds over him
with enough weight to drag his eyelids down against his will. No, no. He has to stay on guard.
He bites the inside of his cheek until the esh is ragged and tender, and reminds himself that
destroying Vin’s car is worth any cost. He’ll pay it.
At least it’s over now, between him and Vin. They’re even. He can take a beating for
sneaking out. They can’t break a thing that’s already broken, so it will just be a matter of
getting through it and then he can sleep.
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When the driver door opens again, Avery lurches upright, eyes burning as he blinks fast, but
Mr. De Lainey only reverses the van back onto the street without comment. So they won’t
make him work today? He hates that no one even asked him if he wanted this job. Sam set
this up in the most Sam-way possible — when he loves something so deep and hard and
true, it’s unfathomable to him that Avery wouldn’t feel the same way.
But Avery is a mechanic. He works between oil stains and carburetors and faulty pistons, not
with wood and paint and plumbing. Why do they think he can do this? He can’t.
A thick dizziness fusses around his skull and the trip back to the butter-yellow house cuts in
and out in a hazy smear. He’s only just conscious of the van parking in front of the house
while Mr. De Lainey remains quietly behind the steering wheel. Heat settles over the van, a
silence thick as molasses along with it. This is it. They’re alone for it, too. The kids are at
school, the house empty, the street quiet under the midday sun. Sweat sticks Avery’s tee shirt
to his chest. Breath slow, in and out, s l o w.
“I think we should have a talk,” Mr. De Lainey says.
Avery barely holds back the choked laugh. Talk. He’s not stupid, he knows the translation.
hit—
“I know Evans went over some guidelines with you, but I want to talk about house rules. I
expect my kids to follow these as well.” Mr. De Lainey glances in the rearview mirror, but
Avery looks away fast.
He rubs his palms up and down his jeans so fast his skin heats with the friction.
“I need to know before you want to leave the house,” Mr. De Lainey says. “Especially at
night. I need to know who you’ll be with, and if you need a ride. Everyone’s home by eleven
at the very latest. Earlier if it’s a work or school night. Speaking of which, do you want to go
to school?”
Avery freezes, eyes icking up to Mr. De Lainey like a cornered rabbit. Every second in
school had been a lesson in being stripped down and ayed to the bone: the merciless
mocking, the ghts, having his things trashed, being caught in a headlock so they could spit
in his ears, and worse, when they pretended to be nice so they could rip him apart later. The
last day he was in school, he’d been pinned while they slammed his arm in a door.
that’ll stop you twitching—
Sam had lost his mind. Avery had never seen his little brother like that, all sts and
animalistic fury as he beat down one bully, then the next, straddling another and hitting again
again againagainagain until the whole world was blood and screaming and broken teeth. The
way Sam’s eyes had been blank when they’d pulled him off, almost confused.
Avery is never going back to school.
He lets the silence stretch until Mr. De Lainey clears his throat. “Right, well, after you settle in
you can start your apprenticeship with me. But let me know if you change your mind. St.
John’s is a fantastic school and my kids would watch out for you.”
He undoes his seatbelt and Avery’s stomach ips inside out.
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“Next thing is, I need to know what you like to eat and what you need. Toiletries, clothes,
shoes…just make a list. I put a box of a few things in your room too. What we want,” Mr. De
Lainey’s voice is disarmingly gentle, “is to get to know you. And for you to know us. This is
going to be a tough year for you without Sam, I understand that, but we can make the best of
it, alright? Now, can you tell me what happened last night?”
Avery’s so confused, he feels unbalanced. If he’s not going to get hit, there will be other
punishments, right? No food, being locked in his room, his things broken.
“Are you okay?” Mr. De Lainey twists in the driver’s seat to look behind at Avery, and his
expression is the perfect display of care and concern. Fake? It has to be.
Avery nods, short and quick, but he doesn’t ll the silence with an explanation. He’s too tired
to think of a good lie.
Mr. De Lainey watches him for a moment and then rubs his forehead. “Let’s talk about it later.
How about you go inside and take a shower and nap for a bit? Help yourself to anything in
the kitchen. It’s your home now, so treat it like that. I’ve got some taxes to work on, but shout
out if you need something.” He gives Avery a small smile and then gets out of the van.
Avery stays rigid in the back seat long after Mr. De Lainey’s gone indoors. His muscles are so
stiff it hurts to move, a sharp reminder that hurling himself out of a moving car was a very bad
life decision. But all he can focus on is how confused he is.
Either the punishment is being delayed as part of a wicked mind game or — he’s getting
away with it?
He is, perhaps, too tired to gure it out.
He slips into the house and hovers near the front door while Mr. De Lainey sets up an old
clunky computer on the kitchen table and unstacks les from a cabinet. When he turns away,
Avery skitters upstairs.
You can breathe now, it’s ne, you’re safe. The bathroom lock looks broken, so he can’t risk
the vulnerability of a shower, but he splashes water on his face and drinks from the tap until
his stomach aches. Then in his room, he drags the dresser in front of his door as a makeshift
barricade and then peels his shredded, bloody clothes off to take inventory of the damage.
Conclusion: everything hurts. Whatever isn’t scraped or skinned just aches. His jaw has been
tight so long he can’t loosen it, and every bone feels ground to dust against pummeled
muscles. God, but he’s tired.
Since he didn’t pay much attention to the bedroom before he escaped last night, he takes a
moment to poke around. It’s an angular room, the wardrobe still half full of old boxes and
board games, but the dresser lies empty and ready for his grand total of one life possession.
Which isn’t even his.
Avery puts Sam’s key in the top drawer and slams it. He still might throw it away. To spite
Sam.
He stares at the bunk bed and hates it, hates the De Laineys, hates that he had to come
back because he had no choice. To run away would mean no contact with Sam; no visits to
juvie or phone calls. They’ve leashed Avery so hard he’s strangling on the end of the rope.
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Heat pricks behind his eyes, but he drums on his thigh in a soothing rhythm until the urge to
cry fades. The thing is, everything is his fault.
Sam wouldn’t hit people if not for Avery.
Sam wouldn’t go out of his mind in blind rages if not for that day their father beat Avery
unconscious.
Sam had been seven, Avery nine. Sam, trapped in the back seat of their car on a night bitten
through with frost and bitterness, helpless as he watched their father hit Avery’s mouth so
hard, skin tore. Avery doesn’t remember much after that.
It always feels strange how the night that de nes Sam is a smeared blur for Avery. The
memory is a pulled tooth, the abyss tender and raw beneath, but empty all the same. He
could poke at it, but he never does. He doesn’t remember the rst weeks at Aunt Karen’s or if
they ever took him to a doctor. He doesn’t remember if it was him or Sam who used to wet
the bed so much that Aunt Karen made them sleep on the sopping sheets until morning
because she wasn’t “dealing with this at 3 a.m.”. He doesn’t even remember his father’s face,
not really.
What he remembers best from being nine is leaping off the arm of the sofa, arms spread
wide as if he could y — and then crashing on top of a tiny-sized Sam so they could roll on
the carpet together, a tangle of limbs and laughter. He’d poke two ngers into Sam’s soft,
dimpled cheeks and go cross-eyed while Sam tried his hardest to copy.
Avery wants to snapshot that memory and drown it in sunshine and colour before crashing
into the court house and forcing the judge to look at it.
See my brother? See how soft he is? Give him back—
They won’t. It’s too late.
But there is another option, one that’s been growing insidious, blackened tendrils in the back
of Avery’s mind.
Sam can’t come back to Avery — but Avery could go to Sam.
Avery crawls into bed wearing only his boxers and sighs into the cool sheets. His body sinks
into the mattress, the softness overwhelmingly good against his abused bones. As his eyes
drift shut, he lets the idea throb dark and riotous against his breastbone.
It shouldn’t be hard to pull off, not when Avery deserves to be locked up even more than
Sam. The things he’s done for Vin leave bruises of horror behind his eyelids, but he had to do
it so she wouldn’t need Sam. Avery never said no, he did everything. He can’t risk confessing
past sins and riling Vin up to the point of making him a past tense corpse dumped in the sea,
but he can force everyone to look at him, really look. Decide he’s dangerous, out of control, a
criminal.
A small corner of his soul snags for a second, rips deep enough that some of his stuf ng falls
out. He’s never been a creature made of cruelty and cunning, this isn’t him. He’s still stuck on
the fact Mr. De Lainey didn’t hit him when he should have, that he spoke kindly instead of
yelling.
Avery could like this house if he let himself…maybe he could like these people.
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But if he wants to get locked up with Sam, then he has to bring ruin and destruction. He has
to mess up the De Laineys’ lives with such unhinged viciousness that they call the cops on
him. They seem the type of people to expect the best of others, so they’ll be surprised at this
boy standing with stfuls of fury, who refuses their help, their smiles, their home built of warm
and comfortable things. The surprise will turn to anger pretty fast.
If he tears their world of good and kind things apart, he’ll be slammed in handcuffs, then
court, then juvie — then they’ll put him with Sam. Simple.
Avery just has to make the De Laineys hate him.
It shouldn’t be too hard.
He has always been a thing easily thrown away.
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 Chapter 6
Jeremy is starting to think Avery is more ghost than boy. Two days he’s been with the De
Laineys, two whole days, and Jeremy’s barely seen more than an elbow, a sharp shadow,
and the outline of Avery’s back as he melts out of sight. He’s living with them, but barely. Any
minute now Avery’s going to gure out how to turn into a wisp of smoke and vanish out a
cracked open window.
Also what’s he even eating? He’s too thin. Jeremy is concerned about this. He’s adding it to
his list of Worrying Things Happening In The De Lainey Household Right Now, a list that is
alarmingly long and growing longer. Also on the list is how he’s being manoeuvred into
position of more responsibility and he is so not a fan. Grady is the oldest and Jeremy’s meant
to be the happy-go-lucky second child. Why did Grady have to go and move out? It’s left their
dad saying things like, “Jeremy, you’re seventeen and almost an adult” and “you can ll
Grady’s shoes” and “I expect you to be mature.” This all translates to Jeremy having to help
out the with babies and do school runs and quit complaining and nish chores without being
asked twelve hundred times.
Jeremy would’ve preferred to be consulted, actually, about growing up. Because it’s a hard
pass.
He’s not even good at being responsible, proven by the fact he’s walking out of McDonald’s
with a sticky baby in his arms. Ice cream stains the baby’s fat little cheeks and it clutches a
mauled chip that it refuses to eat or relinquish. It’s going to be Jeremy, the baby, and this chip
forever. A trio of fugitives. Ahead of them is only a life of hiding behind dumpsters. Because
he can’t take home evidence that he and Jack decided if they had to pick up the babies from
daycare, they’d stuff McDonald’s in them and therefore avoid any overtired meltdowns on the
way home.
“We’re geniuses though.” Jack unlocks the van with one hand while he grips Toby’s overall
strap with the other, because this kid has a gleeful tendency to run in front of cars. “They’re
not hungry anymore. They’re not even tired.”
“I think that’s the sugar?” Jeremy peers at the baby who beams up at him and waggles the
chip.
“And,” Jack ignores that, “they love us. We give them a Happy Meal and boom, best older
brothers of the year.”
“Can’t argue there.” Jeremy gives the baby a small toss in the air and it squeals. “Who’s your
favorite bro? Who! Is it me?”
The baby’s reply is just drool, but Toby does a little happy dance. “Moxie is!”
Jeremy peers down at the three-year-old. “I said favorite brother.”
“Moxie is my fave-it bruvver!” Toby st pumps the air.
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 Jack picks up Toby by his overall straps and holds him at arm’s length. “They don’t make
them smart to go with the cute anymore, do they?” He tosses Toby in his carseat and starts
grumbling about the complicated buckles.
If they’re busted for this clandestine McDonald’s run, Jeremy plans to remind everyone that
pickups shouldn’t be in his jurisdiction. He’s meant to be doing homework right now, so this is
a sacri ce of learning time. Or something.
It’s just that when they arrived home at four p.m. the van was already in the driveway —
unusual, since Dad knocks off after ve and picks up the babies on the way home — and the
twins had barely unloaded a tired Dash and snarky Moxie from the jeep before Dad jogged
out of the house and took the keys from Jack.
“You didn’t work today?” Jack said. “But you took yesterday off.”
“Just smoothing out some bumps,” Dad said, but he looked distracted. “I’ve got a contractor
at the building site, so I’m just popping over there. Can you boys take the van and pick up the
babies?” He clapped Jack on the shoulder. “I appreciate this.”
“Um, what kind of bumps?” Jeremy said as Dad slid into the jeep and started the engine.
“Did you run over Avery?” Jack muttered.
Dad didn’t hear that as he shifted into gear. “Just a miscommunication. I drove us to the site,
but Avery…wouldn’t get out of the van. I couldn’t have him cook in there for a whole work
day, so we came home. He’s in his room now. I’ll try to be back for dinner. Call me if there’s a
problem.”
He drove off while Jeremy stood there and blinked. “Avery wouldn’t…get out of the car?”
“What is he, ve? Drag him out,” Jack said.
“Pretty sure you can’t force someone to work construction.”
“But he has to? He can’t just do nothing?” Jack looked equal parts bewildered and angry, and
Jeremy understood. He was confused too.
He thought Avery wanted to build houses. But then, he thought Avery wanted to live with
them.
Jeremy is beginning to realise this fast-food run is more for soothing Jack’s nerves than
placating the babies. It’s not that Jack is trying to be a dick about Avery’s existence — it’s that
Jack is a protective grizzly bear over his family. Despite working overtime to curate an image
of smouldering badassery and bad boy contempt for authority, Jack is both stupidly loyal and
stupidly soft. Jeremy knows it. It’s kind of adorable. No one would never look at Jack with his
ripped jeans and skull shirts and disdainful scowl and guess he was the one who used to run
around making their mother cups of tea, doing chores without being asked, and policing the
littlies so they didn’t hurt themselves. He was a mama’s boy.
Losing her tore something out of him.
Now tolerance for anyone who messes with their family is at zero. And Avery, even if
unintentionally, is messing with their family.
Jeremy hopes it’s unintentional, but sometimes he’s not so sure.
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 Jack nishes buckling Toby and hops out of the van. “Do you realize Dad’s had to waste two
whole work days because of Avery? He has to nish that house and sell it soon or we are
going to die—”
Jeremy puts a hand over the baby’s eyes. “Not the D-word in front of the children.”
“Fine. We will go bankrupt and end up on the street. Hungry, destitute, and then unalive. And
covering his eyes doesn’t stop him hearing, dumbass.”
“We’re not going bankrupt, drama queen. Oh.” Jeremy peers around the van. “Isn’t that Lucy
Fusillo? And Nadia Rush! Should we say hi?”
Jack suddenly scoops the baby from Jeremy’s arms. “Shut up and stay hidden. I need to
recover some ground without a stunt double ruining my moves.” He strides across the
carpark, shoving up his shirtsleeves so he can hold the baby in one arm and also ex. It is a
good move. Muscles and a baby. Jeremy would be impressed if he hadn’t just been called a
stunt double.
The identical twin thing has been cha ng Jack lately, but it must be because they’re back at
school and in matching uniforms…not that he’s sick of Jeremy. Like, ha. No chance. Plus
Jeremy’s not trying to match him. He keeps his hair super short while Jack has a spiky
ponytail. They have done their best to look different! They should not be confused!
Jeremy lurks behind the van and watches Jack turn into an effortless charmer as he talks to
the girls. The baby leans into its role as a paid actor and garbles adorably before going shy
and tucking its face into the crook of Jack’s neck. The baby is not shy. Jack does not “look
after him all the time” as he’s currently claiming while Lucy Fusillo gushes. But this is
entertaining.
Toby starts whining from his carseat. “I wanna go home.”
“Me too, bud,” Jeremy says. “When our womanising bros get back, we’re off.” His phone
chimes and he slips it out, one eye still on Jack who is saying the baby’s name is “Bee”
because he totally forgot what it is.
1 New Message from Pins & Needles: there’s a lot of crashing coming from Avery’s room?? I
knocked but he didn’t answer. Where are you guys?!?
That does not sound good.
JEREMY: be back in 10mins!!
PINS & NEEDLES: you should have been back an hour ago. did you lose a baby.
JEREMY: no Miss Judgmental we have retained exactly 2 babies. Jack is just using one of
them to pick up a girl. Be back soon!!
PINS & NEEDLES: unbelievable
Jeremy gets in the driver’s seat and leans on the horn until Jack appears looking pissed. But
considering that is his normal face, Jeremy isn’t worried.
“He won’t let go of this chip, can you take him?” Jack holds out the baby.
“You use him, you keep him,” Jeremy says cheerfully as he hops out of the driver’s seat.
“Now drive us, chauffeur. We are off to spend quality time with our favourite foster brother.”
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Jeremy feigns more con dence about handling The Avery Situation than he feels. But he
always does this; the disarming smile, the absurd jokes. It works ninety-nine percent of the
time for smoothing rough and awkward patches — except as they walk into their house,
shedding shoes and school ties and backpacks, he realises this is the one percent when he’s
at a loss. He has no idea how to approach a thing like Avery.
Avery looks like a boy made of glass edges and eggshell bones, a broken thing that will cut
you when touched, but if you try to x it, you’ll damage it even more.
Moxie stands at the foot of the stairs looking tense. She accepts the baby from Jack and
scowls at the lifeless chip its waving around like a helicopter propellor.
“Don’t just stand there? Go up and check on Avery,” Moxie says.
“Maybe he’s rearranging the furniture,” Jeremy says.
A thud rattles the oorboards above them, followed by a meaty thwack. They all peer
upwards.
“Aggressively rearranging,” Jeremy amends.
“That’s it,” Jack says. “I’m telling Dad about that article. Avery drove a car into the sea and
now this.”
Moxie starts. “He did what?”
“You don’t know that.” Jeremy jumps onto the rst step. “Dad is stressed enough, so let’s not
make stuff up—”
“I have cold, hard evidence.”
“You have a pixelated Twitter photo.”
Moxie’s voice comes tight and harsh. “Dad cannot kick Avery out. I’m trying to get Sam back
and he’s won’t stay with us without his brother.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “As if you should be living with your boyfriend.”
“It’s not like that!” Moxie snaps.
Jeremy decides to leave them to it and jogs upstairs.
He steps over scattered Duplo and a plastic Noah’s Ark before rapping on Avery’s door. The
thuds stop.
“Um, hey, Avery?” Jeremy says. “It’s nearly dinner so…do you want a sandwich?”
Silence.
Jack’s come up behind Jeremy and hovers with a black scowl. “Just open it.”
“We could watch a movie…” Jeremy winces at how awkward he sounds. “Or we could—”
The next crash comes with the scream of metal on metal, and Jeremy’s eyes go wide before
Jack shoves him aside and ings open the door.
Jack’s jaw drops. “What the hell?”
Jeremy scoots in behind him and…wow.
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 Avery’s destroyed the room.
Jeremy feels punched as he takes it all in — books and board games torn and scattered
across the oor, the dresser dismantled, mattress slashed on the lower bunk so deep the
springs show, while the upper bunk is in pieces. There are dints in the walls like someone’s
slammed a shoulder repeatedly into the plaster, and the ceiling fan lies smashed in the
middle of the carpet, wires loose and blades bent. That’s the source of the last crash for sure.
And in the midst of it all — Avery.
He wears the same ratty jeans he arrived in, knees torn and cuffs lthy, and no shirt, so it’s
impossible not to stare at the old scars and fresh plum bruises painted over his ribs. If the
history of Avery Lou could be read on his skin, it would be a sobering story. The divots in his
esh, the puckered lines, the scabs knocked off by fresh bloody scratches. Free of
bandages, his scrapped arms look infectiously red.
As if he drove a car into the sea and jumped out—
Don’t go there, just don’t.
Avery stares at them, mouth in a mulish line and eyes narrowed. His knuckles go tight
around a screwdriver he must have stolen from Dad’s toolbox.
This was their mother’s of ce, her space, where she used to relax in her favourite armchair
and drink peppermint tea until a kid or two or four wriggled in to perch on her lap or play with
her hair or wheedle for a hug. She’d never been stingy about hugs.
And Avery has trashed her sanctuary.
Jack swears and bulldozes across the room. He shoves Avery hard, snatching the
screwdriver off him, and then giving him another forceful push so his shoulders hit the wall.
“What is your goddamn problem?” Jack’s voice rises. “We give you stuff and you smash it?
You are such a piece of—”
Jeremy grabs Jack’s arm. “Hey, whoa. Just— Jack, wait.”
Because Avery is folding in on himself as he slides down the wall, ngers scratching up his
face before cupping over his ears. He balls up on the oor and starts rocking.
Jack breathes hard, anger rolling off him and sts clenched like he fully meant for this to turn
to war, but Jeremy feels untethered. His initial sucker-punch of shock has puddled into pity.
Nothing in the way Avery has crumpled himself as small as he can go says he planned to
ght back. His eyes are dying pools of terror.
“Why would you even do this?” Jack shouts. “You deserve to be kicked out on the street—”
He takes a menacing step forward, but this time Jeremy grabs Jack around the waist and
drags him away.
Then their father is in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame, as he stares at his sons and
then Avery unravelling on the oor. Jeremy didn’t even hear the jeep return.
“What is…” Dad grabs Jack’s elbow and pulls him out of the room. “Go downstairs, you two.
I’ll deal with this.”
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 “This is Mum’s room.” Jack spins on his father. “You can’t let him get away with—”
“Jack, go downstairs.” Dad’s voice has an edge to it that they never hear. “Now. You too,
Jeremy.”
There are three things Dad never does and they are: get angry, yell, or hit things. He’s raised
his voice once, maybe twice, in living memory, and Jeremy didn’t think anything would ever
change that.
But he sounds strung out far enough to snap right now.
Jack makes a furious noise of disgust and storms downstairs. Jeremy hesitates and then
ees after him.
Behind them, there’s the crunch and crack of Dad stepping over broken furniture as he picks
his way over to Avery.
Dad’s voice has gone low. “…did you cut yourself? Let me see. No, you can’t call Sam. He’s
allowed one phone call on Friday night…”
“—I need him. I n-n-n-need my brother.”
There’s a high keening sound and then what sounds like a head hitting the wall.
Jeremy winces and runs the rest of the way downstairs. Coward? Sure. But what is he
supposed to do? This boy is so, so messed up.
Jack goes into the laundry to slam things around unhelpfully, so Jeremy decides to look busy
in the kitchen. He’s not hungry thanks to the earlier burger and anxiety turning his stomach to
a butter churn, but Dash looks mournful and Moxie cannot be trusted to make a decent
sandwich.
“What’s wrong with Avery?” Dash says at his elbow as he cracks open the peanut butter jar.
“He’s just…adjusting,” Jeremy says. “Did you start your homework?”
“Elven warriors don’t do homework.” Dash points to the thick fantasy paperback she’s
holding, part of the Kingdoms of Elven Something War Stuff series she’s obsessed with.
“Can’t argue with that,” Jeremy says.
“Did something hurt him?” Dash whispers.
“I think,” Jeremy can’t stop seeing those haunted eyes and scars feathered over delicate
skin, “everything hurts Avery.”
*
While Dad cleans up the obliterated room and convinces Avery to shower (the argument
sounds more stressful than it needs to be), Jeremy tidies the kitchen and writes a list of
groceries. He puts ice cream on three times to make a point. It’s late, but the babies are still
watching TV and Dash watches cosplay tutorials online and the house looks like a bomb hit it
and no one has clean school clothes for tomorrow and Dad hasn’t looked this wrung out
since Mum died and—
Everything is rapidly descending into hell.
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Jeremy decides to ignore the angry bees swarming in his head by rummaging around the
pantry until he nds a packet of cooking chocolate. That will do. He does a graceful sock-
slide over to where Moxie and Jack sit at the bottom of the staircase. They’re not ghting.
Will wonders never cease.
But then Jack scrubs at his eyes with erce fury.
He’s not…he’s not crying. Is he? Jeremy’s heart twists.
“…and I get it,” Moxie is saying. “Giving up the of ce was like letting go of a bit more of Mum.
But Avery doesn’t know that. He must have major PTSD, so grabbing him probably triggered
him.”
“You didn’t see his face.” Jack’s jaw is tight as he stares at the oor. “He looked at me like I
was this monster when he’s the one destroying our house. He wrecked everything we’d
stored in that cupboard.” A note of panic touches his voice. “Shit. Where are Mum’s photo
albums? Did we leave them in there?”
“No, they’re in Dad’s room.” Moxie notices Jeremy lurking with the chocolate and shoots him
a dark look. “Don’t you dare comment.”
“What? That you two are being nice to each other for the rst time ever?” Jeremy squeezes
in between them and they both grunt and shift apart. “I would never be so crass. Chocolate?”
He offers the packet. “Let’s establish the facts. We all miss Mum. Avery is like, acting out or
something. Dad is stressed. So what are we going to do about it?”
“Mum would sort this out in a snap, you know?” Jack says. “Dad barely has time for us and
now he has to deal with Avery. It’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair on Avery either.” Moxie folds her arms. “You know he’s autistic, right?”
Jack snorts. “Is unscrewing ceiling fans a side-effect of autism?”
Moxie reaches over Jeremy to smack Jack’s head. “Maybe if we knew literally anything about
it we could help him more.”
“Good thing Google is our bud.” Jeremy eats another piece of cooking chocolate and can’t
decide if it’s gross or moreish. “Want me to look stuff up?”
“I will,” Moxie says. “You get Mum’s photo albums. Let’s…look at them.”
Jeremy waits for Jack to protest to something as domestic as pouring over photos, but he
says nothing. His mouth is sullen, but his eyes look sad.
Sometimes the weight of missing their mother feels like stones sewn in their bellies.
Sometimes it’s all they can think about.
“Everything’s such a wreck,” Moxie says, quiet. “We have to do something.”
Before it’s too late sits unsaid and heavy in the air between them.
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 Chapter 7
Avery lies pretzeled in the back seat of the van, snapping his ngers in calming repetition
because no one is around to see him stim. It’s just him and the van, heat pulling at his edges
as the day slowly grows hotter and hotter. Stubbornness is only half the story here, not that
anyone would understand. It’s hard for Avery, sometimes, to move from one thing to the next.
Sam understands.
He’s the only one who does.
The van door opens with a teeth-grating, metallic shriek and Mr. De Lainey raps on the roof
as he leans in to look at Avery. They’ve been at the building site for an hour and Avery hasn’t
budged.
“Avery.” Mr. De Lainey sounds tired. “It’s work or school. You have the choice.”
While refusing to cooperate effectively pisses everyone off, it’s too passive. If Avery’s going
to punch through the last of the De Laineys’ tolerance and burn the words criminal across his
case les, he has to do worse.
Plus, the heat has left him dizzy, shirt stuck to sweaty skin, salt stinging his chapped lips.
He gets out of the van.
At least it’s Friday.
Friday, and Sam will call, Sam will listen, Sam will be there, okay, alive.
This is the thing that crawls heavy over Avery’s chest late at night when he can’t sleep, can’t
breathe properly, can’t stop shivering even though it’s not cold. It’s a weight that slowly sinks
down through skin and cracks rib bones and starts building a nest of rot against his
heartbeat. How Sam isn’t safe in juvie. How he could be hurt, beaten, screaming, and no one
will save him.
How when he gets out, he won’t be the same.
Change. It’s a gutting fear that rips Avery open from throat to navel, and he can’t survive the
threat of it.
Hold on until Sam calls.
hold
on
Avery trails after Mr. De Lainey onto the building site. This close to being nished, the house
demands a certain amount of awe. High ceilings and vast windows and elegantly curved
staircases and clever room layouts and a kitchen done with immaculate woodwork.
Everything looks expensive. Mansion, Avery mouths to himself, as he watches Mr. De Lainey
lay the ooring. Everything here makes the butter-yellow house look shabby.
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Although, Avery has to admit, even if crossly, there’s a warm and comfortable sort of soul in
the De Lainey home that this mansion with its clean-cut corners and vast corridors will never
have.
Avery was introduced to the other builder yesterday — who is, unfortunately, another De
Lainey. Like how many are there in this goddamn town? Where does it end.
Rob is Mr. De Lainey’s younger brother, though less effusive and easy-going, which is a relief
because it hasn’t taken much to turn him into an enemy. Avery holds his body with sullen
contempt, ignores greetings, never completes jobs, and picks every possible way to be
unhelpful. Rob dislikes him already. So Mr. De Lainey won't be able stand this for much
longer either.
It’s not that hard—
to unscrew plumbing beneath the sink
slop water on the unsealed oorboards so they swell
lean on wet plaster so it caves in all the wrong places
unplug power tools and tip putty in toolboxes and shift ladders
But from what Avery’s gathered listening in to phone calls, Mr. De Lainey has gone deep into
debt for this house. Selling it is meant to solve all their problems, x their lives, save their
future.
And Avery’s trying to ruin it.
He feels sick.
They set him to cleaning because nothing makes a house lthier than being built, and he has
proven over the last two days he can’t be trusted with the tools. Everything smells of sawdust
and concrete and his eyes smart, his throat feels raw. And they’re loud. They’re all so loud.
Tools turn on with incessant, mind-shattering roars, and it won’t matter where he is in the
house, the pounding will split through his bones until he wants to scream.
Avery abandons his bucket of sudsy water and sits behind the front door with his hands over
his ears. Tonight, he calls Sam. Think only of that.
The door rattles, and Rob’s voice sounds faint from the other side. “Can you open this? My
hands are full.”
Avery doesn’t move.
He watches through half-lidded eyes as Rob has to wrangle the door alone. He carries in
several huge tins of paint, grunting with the effort, and sets them down with a clang in the
foyer. Then he stares at Avery.
“Thanks.” Acid coats his voice. “You’re a real piece of work.”
Mr. De Lainey comes out of the kitchen, wiping grime from his forehead. “Paint delivered?
Fantastic, I needed—”
“We’ve got a problem,” Rob says. “This is charcoal. Didn’t you reorder the teal?”
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That’s one thing Avery’s learnt about building houses — a good half of their day goes to
waste on phone calls and wrong deliveries and arguing with contractors. Mr. De Lainey’s
strongest response to even the worst inconvenience is: “That’s unfortunate.”
Avery wishes he’d swear. Yell.
It would be easier to hurt him if he deserved it.
“I’ll call the company. Avery, can you stack these paint tins in the garage?” Mr. De Lainey
says. “There’s more outside. Thanks.”
Avery takes his sweet time about it, and as he’s lining up tins in the garage, he has a terrible,
terrible idea.
They don’t send boys to juvie for simply being pests.
Do worse.
His skin feels bit through with re ants as he picks up the paint tins.

By the time four o’clock rolls around, Avery’s taken the hinges off all the doors. Mr. De Lainey
closes his eyes, takes a measured breath, and says, “Go sit outside.”
Avery obliges by lying under the De Lainey van and glowering at its decrepit underbelly while
thinking about how he’d restore it. He shouldn’t want to. He hates this van, hates everything,
but oh how he craves the chance to x something.
He has never spilled over with so much destruction.
Unfortunately, his legs sticking out are a dead give away for where he is.
Someone nudges the side of his boot.
“Avery.” Mr. De Lainey’s voice is irritatingly patient. “I need you to talk to me.”
Not happening. He barely says three sentences a day now, though he hates this too. He
loves to talk. He misses it.
Mr. De Lainey hooks his boot around Avery’s and pulls him out from under the van.
Avery lies there with his arms folded. “Fuck off.”
Mr. De Lainey rubs wearily at his temples. “Don’t speak to me like that.”
hit me
hate me
send me to jail with my brother—
“If you can’t talk to me,” Mr. De Lainey says, “then I’m taking you to a therapist. This isn’t a
punishment. You need…you need…” But then he sighs, because he can’t seem to articulate
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what Avery needs. “I’ve got carpets coming in early tomorrow, so let’s go home. Did you
stack those paint tins in the garage?”
Avery scrambles to his feet and gives a curt nod.
They stay silent on the drive home. Picking up the babies from daycare takes forever, and it’s
dusk when they pull into the driveway of the butter yellow house and park behind the jeep.
Everything inside Avery twitches, but if it’s excitement or anxiety, he has no idea.
Sam will call after six o’clock.
He scrambles out of the van, intent on ploughing into the house and sitting next to the phone
for the rest of his goddamn life, but his attention snags on the jeep. One of the twins has the
hood popped and knocks about underneath it in the obvious way of someone who has no
idea what they’re doing.
Avery has made zero attempts to remember any of the De Lainey kids’ names or tell the
twins apart, but he thinks this is Jack. Jeremy’s face is softer and built for smiles.
Jack glares as Avery edges towards him. “Hey, Dad?” He looks straight past Avery like he’s
not even there. “The engine’s making this weird knocking sound.”
Mr. De Lainey wrestles the babies from their car seats. “Did you call Grady?”
Jack makes a face. “Grady doesn’t know anything. And what’s he going to do? He’s four
hours away.”
“Well, book it into the mechanic—”
“How long since you changed the oil?” It pulls out of Avery without warning. An engine on
display draws him like moth to ame, and he can’t stop the thrilling ache in his hands. He
wants to see, touch.
“What?” Jack says.
Avery glares. “The oil in your shitty car.”
Mr. De Lainey appears with backpacks in one massive arm and squirming toddlers in the
other. “Avery, I’ve warned you about your language. There is no swearing in my family.”
“I’m not in your family,” Avery says, low.
“In my house—”
“I’m outside.”
Mr. De Lainey gives him an unimpressed look. “This is not up for debate.” He turns to Jack.
“Leave the jeep, son, I’ll gure it out tomorrow.”
But Avery can’t help himself. “I can change the oil.”
“Ha,” Jack says. “You’ll sabotage it. I saw what you did to your room.”
“I’m a mechanic. I know what I’m doing.” Avery’s agitation has turned to apping and he
forces his hands still. Don’t let them see that.
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 Mr. De Lainey watches the exchange with an unreadable expression, but then he hefts a
slipping baby and turns to go inside. “You’re welcome to try, Avery. Supplies are in the
garage.”
Jack shoves away from the jeep. “This is asking for trouble. Knock yourself out, asshole.”
Avery ips Jack off as he heads indoors.
Then it’s just Avery and the engine. The simplicity of grease and tools with twilight a soft
cushion at his back. This feels right, this is what he’s made for. For the rst time in weeks he
can breathe again as he works with quiet ef ciency, pausing to stim when he wants because
no one’s watching.
For the rst time in weeks he is Avery.
Not angry or cruel or hateful.
Just Avery.
He’s careful not to take too long, so he can be inside to wait on the phone, and he’s just
nishing when the curling purr of a car pulling up alongside the house makes him turn. A
midnight blue Dodge Viper idles low to the ground, sleek and madly beautiful. It’s the kind of
car that has places to be that involve bright lights and pounding music and kilometres of
untended highway to eat up with ravenous heat. It doesn’t belong in the quiet suburbs on a
Friday night.
Avery uses his lthy tee shirt to wipe at his grease smeared face, wondering what kind of
friends the De Laineys have, when the Viper's door whisks open.
A woman with wine red hair slides elegantly into the night.
Avery’s heartbeat punches through his chest.
No.
He drops down behind the jeep, knees tucked to his chin and ngers uttering in desperate
panic in front of his eyes. In his head, nothing exists but a bloodied roar. She can’t be here.
She can’t, she—
It’s over. He nished things between them.
They’re even.
Why would she—
He hates that she even knows where this place is. It’s his fault for telling her, back when Sam
was staying with the De Laineys and Avery had to practise not missing him. But sometimes
he’d start talking about Sam and never stop. The De Lainey address had tumbled out
between his chatter about the house he’d get Sam, the Chevys he wanted to modify, how
one day he wouldn’t need to steal anymore and life would be good and comfortable and—
Vin would kiss him to shut him up. Unless it was the kind of day where she’d hit him for
talking too much. There’d been times when they lay on the hood together and she’d kiss him
until his mouth bruised, and he’d doggedly say he loved her while she gave a breathy laugh
into his ear.
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 I’ve never met someone as adorably earnest as you. You’re so cute, I could eat you right up.
She can’t be here.
“Avery.”
His name is the crack of a palm against esh, lipstick smudged on a collarbone, the opening
of a lock.
“Come here.”
Avery fumbles for a spanner, his ngers cold and trembling. He grips it hard against his
chest, every breath shallow and frostbitten.
When he pushes to his feet, he feels half out of his skin.
But he goes to her.
Vin leans against the Viper’s open door, expression bored as she rakes Avery up and down.
He stops just out of her reach and tips up on his toes, knowing he could run. Knowing he
won’t.
“Still a grease monkey, I see.” Vin snorts, but her eyes are cold and at. “Thought you’d be all
rosy-cheeked and cleaned up for your new family. Are you having fun? Playing the good little
orphan role.”
He says nothing, he stays so perfectly still.
“And Sam’s in prison, huh? I mean, the little shit deserved it. I can imagine what they’ll do to
him in there.” She leans forward with a smirk. “There won’t be much left.”
“He’s f- ne.” He’s barely aware of his mouth moving. He feels so far away.
“Sure, tell yourself that,” she says. “Anyway, as much as I’m loving this little catch up, I have
places to be. So get in. We’re leaving.”
“I’m n-not-not going with you.” His ngers are white around the spanner.
One of her eyebrows rises. She’s not dressed for a con; jeans tight, leather jacket covering a
thin lacy shirt, boots made for walking over the graves of boys she put down for double-
crossing her.
“Really? We’re doing this? I know you’re slow in the head—” Vin’s tone is pure
condescension “—but you get that I’m not asking, right? You know too much, Avery.”
“I wouldn’t talk.” He swallows hard. “I’d n-n-never. I’d never talk.”
“You’d squeal like a stuck pig the second someone put pressure on you. And let’s not forget
you owe me a car.”
“No.” He takes a step forward, jaw tight, heat raking agony behind his eyes. “No. We’re even.
You stabbed my-my brother—”
She laughs then and it spears right through his chest.
“You destroyed my fucking car,” Vin says. “That’s worth ten times more than your brother’s
pathetic little ass. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re coming with me now. Then you’re
paying me back for the car and picking up all your old jobs. Oh, and before we get started,
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I’m obviously going to beat the shit out of you.” She says it casually, head tilted and smile
coy.
Like this is a game she has won so many times, it’s amusing.
For a hot, terrible second, Avery wishes one of the De Laineys would come outside looking
for him. Mr. De Lainey with his huge shoulders. The twins with their fast mouths and faster
feet. Moxie, sharp and unforgiving and always ready to bite.
But no one comes. Because he’s driving them away and they hate him.
They’d be relieved, wouldn’t they? If he vanished right now.
“You’re mine.” Vin leans towards him, breath hot and eyes glowing. “You don’t get to walk
away.”
Avery is apping; he doesn’t know when he started. Holding the spanner is useless. He’d
never use it — he couldn’t hurt anyone like that. “I’m not…I’m not yours anymore.”
Vin’s eyes ick up to the butter yellow house, glowing with warmth and the faint clatter of
dinner sounds and voices. Laughter. Life. Home.
She makes a disgusted sound and gets back into the Viper. “I’m not doing this right now.
Next time I come, you’re going to end up a bloody smear on the road. And you’ll be lucky if
there isn’t collateral damage.” She jerks her chin at the house. “They’re going to wish they’d
never met you.”
Her door slams and the engine revs.
He still has time to call out. It will hurt less if he goes with her now—
Never go near Vin again. Swear it, okay?
“You can’t imagine the hell I’m about to bring,” Vin says with a savage grin, as the Viper pulls
away.
Avery sinks down beside the jeep, spanner falling from his numb ngers. He crushes his
hands against his head and starts shaking. Across the road a dog begins to bark, a sprinkler
clicks on, the air smells thick with frying onions and garlic. Dishes crash together. Voices
tumble, and someone laughs.
The world ticks on, so normal, so calm, so safe.
He hits himself in the head, once, twice.
She’s wrong about one thing. He touches the scar in the corner of his mouth. Tastes grease.
He can imagine hell.
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 Before
Avery is barely sixteen and every time he breathes, a little more of the world falls out from
underneath him.
He’s a troublesome thing to keep around, he knows it, but he thought he’d done everything
right this time. His mistakes are never with the cars, the engines, the carefully done jobs. The
mistakes are always with the people.
He’s been a runaway with Sammy for months now, and he’s begged for work at three
mechanics. The boss here agreed to give him grunt work, this smudgy looking kid with a
knack for cars and an overeager willingness to be paid a pittance under the table. This
workshop shifts stolen cars too. Avery gured that out on day one.
But it doesn’t matter so long as he’s putting aside money for their house.
Sammy’s house.
It’s an impossible dream, but Avery won’t tell his brother that. He prefers Sammy’s hopeful
smile as he counts coins and decides how much to save, and how much to spend on sticky
cream buns.
And it's Avery who has to work, because Sammy’s the one they must keep hidden. If the
police take him away, Avery can’t survive it, he just can’t.
The head mechanic stands in front of the white ’67 Corvette that Avery just nished working
on, her tattooed arms crossed and face hard. “I’m letting you go.”
“Letting me go where?” Avery’s got his coveralls tied around his waist even though he’s been
yelled at to wear it properly. He can’t stand it though, can’t stand the seams, the feel of rough
material on his skin. He’s left grease-stained and sweaty, grime up his neck and oil stains on
his cheek.
The boss breathes heavily out her nose. “Leave, Lou. You’re gone.”
He squints at her as if the sun is too bright, when truly he just hates looking at faces. “I don’t
knock off for two more hours.”
“Are you being a smartass at me? Pack your shit and leave, kid. You’re red.”
His stomach bottoms out and he can’t stop his ngers from icking at his sides. Most of the
time he’s hidden how he is, but it spills out when the shop gets too loud, too fast, when
people are confusing and brittle and sick of him.
They’re always sick of him.
“You’ve got talent,” the boss says. “But this isn’t a babysitting service for kids who are mental.
You spent most of yesterday under a car because ‘everyone was too loud’ and you barely
understand instructions. And what is that thing with your hands? You got tics or something?”
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 All the air squeezes from his lungs and he’s blinking hard. Music belts from the workshop
behind them, mixed with voices and the crash of tools, so it’s hard to focus on her words. He
pins his hands to his sides.
Quiet hands. Just like when he was little.
“You got folks? Go home.” The boss turns away. “You’re a liability.”
Avery’s left trying to swallow her words, all of them triangles and points that stick in his throat
and cut the corners of his eyes. But when he turns around, the owner of the Corvette has just
stalked into the workshop.
She wears a lacy white sundress and white boots to match, everything about her precision
perfect and glossy. He’s not good at guessing ages, but she has to be in her twenties. A
wicked re dances in her eyes, and she runs her hands over the Corvette’s hood as if she
missed it.
Her car is always in the shop, a true wreck under the hood with parts old and rusted out. The
mechanics choose to patch it rather than properly x it since it gets them more money.
Avery feels a soft sense of camaraderie for the Corvette. It’s a hopeless mess. Like him.
The lady’s mouth quirks as she gives Avery a once over. “You’re a grubby little thing. Is my
car all xed?”
The boss notices her arrival and waves a hand to show she’ll be there in a minute. Avery
wonders why someone who looks rich has to use a shady mechanics, if maybe the Corvette
is stolen.
“She’ll tell you to get a new engine,” Avery says. “But it could be rebuilt with second-hand
parts. Wouldn’t be too expensive.” He snaps his ngers softly behind his back, grounding
himself. Usually he keeps silent when they rip off customers, but he’s already red, so why
not?
He’d rather be himself, tell the truth, show them what he can do.
Then the boss is back, fury mottling her face as she stabs a nger at Avery. “Get out of my
garage. You’ve got ten seconds before you regret it.”
Avery leaves.
He changes into jeans and collects his backpack and the sleeping bag he’d stuffed behind
stacks of tires in the storeroom. He sleeps here when Sammy’s between stealing houses, but
in truth, Avery already hates their routine. Changing houses every day, never knowing what’s
next, where they’ll be, if they’re safe.
Now he shoulders his backpack and steals a packet of shortbread biscuits from the break
room. Good to go. He feels tipped over, an ocean of uncertainty churning in his stomach, but
he’s not sad. He’s more worried Sammy will be upset they are further from their goal of a
house.
Avery walks down the road, eating shortbread and not thinking, no thinking allowed, so he
won't panic. He could nd another mechanic maybe. But who wants to hire a twitchy boy who
doesn’t look sixteen and has no home address?
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He’s so busy not thinking that he doesn’t notice the Corvette is keeping pace with him as he
follows the winding back alley away from the mechanic’s. The lady leans an elbow out the
window, aviator sunglasses tipped down her nose.
“Hey.” She smiles at him. “Your backpack’s unzipped.”
It’s long broken, but he stops to adjust it anyway. She pulls up alongside Avery, the engine
clunking idly, which kills him because it would be so easy to x if given the time.
“Is that a sleeping bag? Were you living there?”
Avery wipes shortbread crumbs on his jeans. “Yeah.”
“You know your stuff though, right? You could rebuild my engine.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “If you bought parts.”
“I don’t buy things, kid.” She smirks. “But I could get whatever we needed. Get in, I’ll give you
a ride.”
She’s beautiful in a devastating way, more expensive and glittering than a showroom full of
sports cars. Girls like this don’t talk to boys like him.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Avery knows which house Sammy’s stealing, but he doesn’t want
to go back yet.
A small part of him remembers Sammy saying, Don’t trust anyone. They’ll call the cops on
us. We have to stay hidden.
He thinks, maybe, he should stop talking to her.
“Do you have parents?” she says.
Avery can’t help himself. “No.”
“Want a job then?” She drums her ngers on the side of her car, still smiling. Her aviator
sunglasses re ect a whole blue sky of possibilities. “Fix this car for me. Hell, x my friends’
cars too. A few of us live in a share house and it’s crowded, but the sofa is free. You wouldn’t
have to hide.” She tips her glasses down her nose and winks at him. “What’s your name?”
“Avery Lou.”
“I like that. So what do you say, Avery Lou? Want to help me out?”
Well, it’s a job, isn’t it? Sammy wants him to have a job.
Avery gets in the Corvette before he remembers one of Sammy’s old rules about never,
never getting into a car with strangers. His ngers start uttering anxiously, but he knows this
car, and this girl has been kind, and he’s not a kid. He can make his own decisions.
She notices, but doesn’t make fun of him. “Hey, relax. We’re good. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“You got something going on?” She puts the Corvette into gear and they slowly pick up
speed. “With the hands.”
Avery folds his hands to his sides. “I’m autistic.”
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“Huh, that’s cool.” She slides a look at him that he can’t read, but she’s still smiling. Her lips
match the deep red of her hair. “Bet those clever hands can do many things.” She licks her
teeth before she laughs, but he doesn’t understand the joke.
“I can pick locks. My little brother is better at it, but I’m still fast.” He shouldn’t say so much,
but she’s listening to him and she’s nice and he feels good in this car. He likes the way she
looks at him. As if he is somebody, not something.
“Perfect. My friends and I are into that sort of thing too.”
They’re like him and Sam, then? His heartbeat picks up, an anxious sort of hope welling
inside him. He might t here, he might be okay.
She shifts gears and then reaches over to lay a hand on his thigh. “I’m Vin, by the way.”
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 Chapter 8
There are many incredible things about belonging to a large family. Jeremy can’t think of any
right now, but he’s sure there are some.
After losing the sofa under yet another layer of laundry, Jeremy has taken up the weary task
of excavating it. Everyone being forced to dig through the mounds for school uniforms and
socks seemed a fair solution to him, but he does miss sprawling on the sofa to watch a
movie, and they can’t exactly invite people over when the house looks this bad. It’s Friday
afternoon. School is done. He’s craving an easy evening with a pile of friends; no thoughts,
just empty heads and laughs and freedom.
Once he nishes dealing with this sockalypse, he’s out. With Jack, because no plans are
ever made that don’t include the phrase with Jack.
He wonders, dimly, if Avery would want to come, what Jeremy’s friends would think of this
boy of serrated edges and brittle corners, who is both dangerous and addictive to look at.
Jack pretends to be a bad boy; Avery actually is.
The fascination that hooks under Jeremy’s ribs is surprising, and he hasn’t forced himself to
ignore it. He will though, soon.
Jeremy’s distracted by Moxie climbing atop one of the benches at the table and hollering,
“DINNER.”
He startles. “Why? What have you done?”
“That’s not the correct response.” Moxie drops to the oor with a thud and stalks into the
kitchen. She makes wearing oven mitts look like an act of aggression. “You should be saying
thank you since I’m cooking when no one else did.”
Cooked is always a generous word for what Moxie does in the kitchen.
Incite malicious warfare with a stovetop and a whisk is more accurate.
Jeremy holds up two socks with the same pattern but in different sizes, and sighs. “We only
got home ten minutes ago. Plus the jeep nearly exploded on us and we could’ve had our hair
traumatically singed off.”
“I don’t care about your near-bald-turkey experiences.” Moxie slams a tray on the table. “I
SAID, DINNER TIME, EVERYONE.”
He doesn’t point out that her yelling this is likely why no one showed up.
“I think Dad just got home,” Moxie says. “Also where did you two go after you dropped Dash
and me home? You could help around the house instead of being idiots with your friends—”
“It’s called having fun, dear sister.” Jeremy pulls a fork out of the washing pile and tries to
decide if a laundry cycle means it’s clean. “Try it sometime. And we were actually shopping
—” He raises his voice before she starts in on that too, “—for Avery. Since he refuses to go
himself and I’m pretty sure he’s decomposing in that shirt he won’t take off.”
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Moxie looks molli ed. “Oh. I guess that’s helpful.”
Jeremy’s pleased with himself for taking initiative for this shopping excursion, even if it meant
standing awkwardly in the underwear aisle with no idea how to proceed for a boy they don’t
even know, until Jack grabbed a few options blindly and said, “Let’s go.”
Buying clothes for someone feels an oddly intimate thing, the way it’s not just about colour
and style, but also the t of fabric against soft skin, and what the curve of a shoulder would
look like against these seams, and if those jeans would sit just right against the sharp edge of
a hipbone. It was made harder by the fact they don’t know Avery’s style and Jeremy had to
guess size based on memory.
“If these jeans t him perfectly,” Jack said, “I’m going to drown you in the sea.”
Jeremy looked cheerful. “You didn’t have to come, you know. Do you think he likes black tee
shirts or he’s just glued to that one because he had nothing else?”
“I did have to come.” Jack looks disgruntled. “You need supervision. And Avery’s shirt is
covered in ve days’ worth of concrete dust, sweat, and blood. It smells disgusting. You know
Dad gave him some second-hand stuff from us, and he outright won’t wear it? Entitled.”
“Maybe it didn’t t,” Jeremy said, though he was really thinking, maybe it wasn’t comfortable
for him.
He’d been reading about autism, blogs and forum threads, scrolling in school when he
should’ve had eyes on the whiteboard. Sensory aversions came up again and again.
Resistant to change. Seeks comfort in routine. Engages in self-stimulatory behaviour to
regulate emotions.
Avery does odd little twitches and tics with his hands and rocks on his heels, but he always
seems furious about it. Stilling himself. Crushing his hands under his thighs.
Jeremy wishes he could tell him it’s okay.
In the end, they bought a few pairs of jeans, ribbed tank tops soft to the touch, graphic tee
shirts, sneakers and steel-cap boots for work, the latter on Dad’s request. Jeremy left
everything with price tags still on in Avery’s room so they could take back what he didn’t like.
A solid afternoon’s work.
And the jeans will t perfectly.
By the time Dad comes inside with the babies, Jeremy’s tamed the laundry into piles and
Moxie has set the table with their nicest plates to offset the horror of whatever she’s serving.
Dad takes a quick shower while Jack trawls through the backyard for their missing middle
sister, and then it’s dinner with the whole family. They haven’t done this for ages.
Dad looks at everyone around the table with a tired but grateful smile. “This is nice. I know
it’s been a tough week of adjustments, but you’re all champs. I’ll get organised this weekend
with freezer meals, I promise.”
“Since we’re champs,” Jeremy says, “and the jeep is broke, can we borrow the van and go to
Dillon’s house?”
Jack is texting furiously under the table. “We’ll be back at one.”
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“One?” Dad starts serving food, frowning a little, but whether at his sons or the plates is up
for speculation. “Try eleven, boys.”
“But it’s Friday,” Jeremy starts, but Jack has taken the lid off a casserole dish and choked.
“Can we get some sauce?” he says.
Moxie points a fork at him. “Shut up. They’re just well-cooked.”
Once, a very very long time ago, these were frozen sh ngers and, Jeremy guesses, potato
wedges.
“Did you do the potatoes in herb butter?” Jeremy says.
Moxie frowns. “In what?”
Jeremy hides his wince with a smile. “Well, that’s a no. What did you do to them?”
“I cut them up and put them on a tray.”
“With salt at least, right? Okay…I see, no.” He pushes up from the table. “I’ll get the sauce.”
He neatly avoids Dash, who skids under his arm to settle in beside Toby. Knotted vines
crisscross her school uniform, and she has a stick jammed through a belt loop. Leaves and
twigs stick out of her dishevelled curls and her cheeks are ushed and grubby.
Dad gives her a dubious glance. “Dashie, can you change out of your school uniform before
you go outside to play? It’s getting ruined.”
“Sorry, Dad.” Dash yanks her stick — sword, Jeremy is now realising — free and lays it on
the table. “We were playing Thirteen Elven Kingdoms of War and in book three, chapter forty-
two, Queen Thyl’thanius wears prison clothes as she escapes the Mire Tombs.”
Dad sounds at. “Prison clothes?”
Dash gestures to her school uniform. “So it works!”
Jeremy comes back with every type of sauce they have and Jack accepts them with grim
determination. When he bites into a “well-done” sh nger, his jaw cracks.
Jeremy taps the edge of a potato wedge so the charcoal breaks off. “Did you put the oven on
low?”
“I know how to work the oven, Jeremy.” Moxie looks thunderous.
“Of course you do,” Jack says. “Everyone loves a good burnt offering. Takes me back to the
year 37 B.C. when they served this to the gods.”
Moxie slams both hands on the table. “You are the absolute—”
“Boys.” Dad rubs his forehead. “Your sister did her best, can you dial back the comments?”
Jack douses his plate in barbecue sauce. “How do you even kill something so thoroughly
when it was already dead?”
“Jack.” There’s an edge to Dad’s voice that makes everyone look up.
Dad never loses patience this fast. Friday fatigue is here, of course, but it’s more than that —
Dad looks unravelled, preoccupied as he wipes the baby’s mouth and moves Toby’s cup
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 before it spills. He keeps glancing towards the window, which makes Jeremy wonder what
Avery is up to out there.
“Did anyone tell Avery it’s dinner?” Jeremy starts to stand again.
Jack sighs and tugs him back down. “He’s busy destroying the jeep.”
“He’s changing the oil.” Dad offers the baby a chip.
The baby looks at him with distrust and turns its little head away. “No chippie. Bad chippie.”
“I nk,” Toby says, “we should have McDonald chippies again.”
“What do you mean ‘again’?” Dad says.
Jeremy coughs. “I can go check on Avery, if you want?”
“Stop trying to escape dinner,” Jack hisses. “You’re not abandoning me here.”
“You should leave Avery.” Moxie saws a sh nger in half with vehement dedication. “From
stuff Sam’s said, I think cars are Avery’s special interest.”
Jeremy remembers reading something about that. “So this might make him happier. Or
calmer. It’s an autism thing,” he adds for Dad’s bene t. “Like an intense, niche obsession.”
Dad waves for the sauce and Jack pushes it towards him and looks smug. “I appreciate you
kids are trying to understand him better. When Evans visits next week, I want to follow up on
his suggestions about taking Avery to a therapist. The trick is convincing Avery to go. He’s…
resistant to…most things. But if you three befriend him, he might listen to you. Though it goes
without saying—” Dad clears his throat awkwardly, “—romantic relationships between foster
siblings are off limits. Everyone understand?”
Jack chokes.
Jeremy thumps his back.
“Jesus, Dad,” Jack says. “That is not going to happen.”
Dad frowns. “Language, Jack.”
“Um, I like his brother,” Moxie says.
“I’m straight,” Jack says.
Jeremy raises both hands. “Accusing me of liking every cute boy I see is totally stereotyping.
I feel stereotyped.”
Moxie raises an eyebrow. “Why’d you call him cute then?”
“I never—” Jeremy frowns. “Wait.”
Dad tries to spear a chip, but it’s so hard the fork bounces off. “Alright, you lot. I just wanted it
out there.”
“Can I have a sandwich?” Dash says.
“Traitor,” Moxie mutters.
Dad looks tired. “Yes, Dash. Moxie, honey, what I appreciate is the effort you went to—”
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A phone starts ringing.
Moxie leaps from the bench so fast she seems about to y. But halfway to their old house
phone by the fridge she skids to a disappointed stop. It’s not ringing.
Dad pulls his iPhone from his pocket and gives her an apologetic wince. He stands as he
answers, heading for the laundry. “Hey, Rob, just nishing dinner with the kids—”
“Sam’s meant to call.” Moxie slumps back down at the table. “Thought he’d have rung by
now. I wanted to get the rst ve minutes, because I feel like Avery’s not going to let me have
a second more.”
Jeremy stares at his sad, sad plate and then claps his hands together. “Right, who wants
sandwiches!”
Jack, Dash, and Toby raise their hands. The baby ings both arms in the air with a delighted
squeal.
Moxie glowers. “I hate you all.”
Jeremy is about to say something soothing — maybe, I will literally pay you not to try cooking
again — when there’s a startled noise from the laundry.
Only the corner of Dad is visible, but he grips the doorframe for support. This can’t be good.
“Say that part again. What…” Dad’s voice trails off helplessly. “It’s vandals then. No, Avery
wouldn’t do that—”
Jeremy and Jack exchange glances.
“What’s Avery done now?” Jack says. “Murdered someone?”
The front door slams and they both jump, turning as one to see Avery leaning against the
wall with hands locked tight to his sides. He’s lthy, grease staining one cheek, hair limp with
sweat, arms scabbed up but dusted with grot from the building site. A fresh hollowness lives
in his eyes, his face so blank and posture so beaten down that he looks near enough to
collapse.
But the way his mouth presses hard together says he’s been listening.
“Um, hi,” says Jeremy, feeling like a worm.
Avery shoves away from the door and walks straight to the landline. He picks up the receiver,
listens, and then hangs it back up.
When he turns on them, his eyes are slivers of broken stars, just bright enough to be
dangerous. “Did Sam call?”
“Not yet,” Moxie says. “But it’s already seven, so he might not…”
Avery folds his arms, puts his back to the wall, and sinks down to a crouch. As if he’s not
moving from there, ever.
“…I'm sure he’ll still call?” Moxie sounds helpless. “Do you want dinner?”
Avery looks away, brow furrowed in contempt. Everything about him is made up of sharp
elbows and angles, bones pushed hard against skin, and shoulders curved away from an
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invisible threat of violence. He is not a thing you could safely approach, and one you could
never hope to touch.
But there is something uneven galloping in Jeremy’s chest that says he wishes he could try.
He wants to say something that will help, that will smooth down Avery’s hackles, but the
chance disintegrates as Dad strides from the laundry. He stops in front of Avery and his voice
comes rock hard.
“I told you to stack the paint tins in the garage. Did you?”
Avery shoves himself tighter against the wall, his gaze locked on his shoes.
“Avery, look at me.”
There’s a beat, but Avery only rests his chin on his knees, eyes icking everywhere but at
Dad.
“Avery, I said look at me.”
Moxie edges forward, hands twisted together. “Hey, Dad? I don’t think he does eye contact
—”
But Dad raises a hand at her for silence. He’s still looking at Avery.
Moxie takes a few steps backwards. Dad is never, never this curt with any of them.
So slow, Jeremy almost misses it, Avery starts curling his arms around his ribs. Protecting
himself from the chance of being kicked.
“Someone has poured several gallons of black paint,” Dad’s voice shakes here, “over the
entire upstairs of the house I’m building. Floors. Walls. Bathrooms. I’m having carpets laid
tomorrow, Avery. They cannot lay carpets on oors that are wet with paint.”
The entire room is frozen. Not even Jack is breathing. Moxie has scooped up the baby who
clings to her with wide eyes as they all stare at their father.
Jeremy’s head feels like an electric mess of cut cords. He desperately wants Avery to look
confused, to deny — but he sits there, bunched up like he expects sts to start in on him.
Numbers start buzzing behind Jeremy’s eyes, how expensive it will be to cancel the carpets,
how much cleaning and repainting and—
“Why.” Confusion replaces the hardness in Dad’s voice. “Tell me why.”
Avery starts icking his ngers next to his ear. “Call the cops on me then.”
It’s such a bizarre response that Dad just stares at him, and Jeremy’s face scrunches up and
Moxie looks white.
“Get up.” Dad turns away, reaching for his car keys from the fruit bowl. “We’re going to the
house now to clean it.”
“I’ll help.” Jeremy trips over himself in his haste to get his shoes.
“I’ll put the kids to bed for you, Dad.” Jack looks too surprised to level any acid into his voice.
“Thanks, boys.” Dad is at the door, reaching for his boots.
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But Avery hasn’t moved.
Jeremy wonders, for a sick moment, if Dad might grab him and haul him to his feet.
He really, really hopes Dad doesn’t.
“Sam’s calling.” Avery’s whole body is trembling. “Sam calls on Fridays.” The look in his eyes
is pure cornered animal.
Dad looks at Avery for one long, stony minute. Then he turns and leaves the house.
Jeremy runs after him.
Outside, summer’s heat has been licked up by a cool evening breeze. Darkness settles in all
the cracks as Jeremy slides into the passenger seat of the van. They say nothing as they
drive across town. Jeremy’s sure his heartbeat is as loud as a bass drum, and for once his
brain is empty of jokes to lighten the mood.
Be the peacemaker, lighten the situation.
Fix this.
“Dad?” Jeremy’s voice sounds small.
Dad forcibly relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. “Sorry. I’m…I’m sorry, son. Let’s see how
bad it is. Maybe Rob exaggerated. It’s just that it’s black paint. Black on my light walls—” He
cuts off and breathes out hard. “I have to call Evans. This is beyond me. I don’t know what
Avery needs and I don’t know how to help him.”
No, no, this can’t happen. Fathers aren’t meant to admit defeat or show their ripped seams
with uncertainty tipping out. Jeremy realizes he’s not breathing properly. His lungs burn,
spots in front of his eyes.
Shit, but he’s failing here.
He’s not allowed to panic.
He doesn’t do that anymore.
“They’ll stick him in a group home.” Jeremy’s mouth feels bone dry. “That won’t help him
either?”
“Look, I haven’t been telling you kids this, but it’s bad. The few days I’ve had him on site, he’s
done everything to damage my work. I don’t understand. He’s angry, but the way he’s lashing
out at me speci cally…” Dad slows the van for a stoplight. “I need this house nished and
sold. I’ve sunk everything into it.”
“Just give him another chance.” Jeremy doesn’t even know why he’s begging. He thought it
was for Sam’s sake, but now he’s not so sure.
There’s Avery, arms hugged to ribs.
There’s Avery, haunted and hollowed out eyes.
There’s Avery, saying call the cops as if his life has been built around expecting the worst.
“Give him another chance,” Jeremy repeats. “You know how they say, ‘kill them with
kindness’? We’ll absolutely strangle Avery with kindness. We’ll gure him out, Dad. Please?”
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He has this feeling that if they give up on Avery, he’ll be lost to everyone forever.
 Chapter 9
Avery will stay forever here, frozen next to the phone. Even as darkness thickens outside the
windows, the kitchen lights ick off, and a tired silence settles over the butter yellow house —
he won’t move. Not until Sam calls.
That was the promise, that was the rule. Sam calls on Fridays.
You just have to hold on until Friday.
He’s trying, Sam, he’s trying, but he can’t do this anymore. He can’t hold himself together
alone; he’s never had to before.
The worst part is imagining why Sam didn’t call. Avery thinks of broken bones and a face
smashed in, Sam coughing up blood on a cold oor, someone coming at him with smuggled
razor blades to peel back skin and see how soft he is inside. The fact he’s in juvie and not an
adult prison does nothing to ease the vicious, sickening spiral in Avery’s head, especially
after Vin’s mocking comments. After all, Sam doesn’t protect himself.
He only protects Avery.
And, though Avery doesn’t want to think it, one other person—
Moxie.
He dozes or maybe spaces out so hard that he doesn’t realise time has slipped. His spine
curves against the unyielding side of the fridge, his head rests on the hard wall. Packed down
this small and tight, his muscles have stiffened into a scream, but he can’t uncoil, can’t
abandon his post, even though it has to be past midnight. He only realises he’s shaking when
the soft edge of a shadow comes up beside him.
He inches, but he’s backed so hard against the fridge there’s nowhere to retreat.
Moxie sits down very carefully beside him. She’s changed into pyjamas, lavender and white,
and her curls are wet against her cheeks as if she’s straight from a shower. Only one light
remains on in the kitchen, and it makes downstairs feel smaller, empty. Everyone else has
gone to bed.
And Mr. De Lainey and Jeremy aren’t back.
Avery should have been hit for what he did with that paint, he deserves it. He is a monster, a
wicked thing, and his fate should be as cruel as the damage he’s wreaked on the De
Laineys.
If they just sent him to jail for it—
They could be free of him. They wouldn’t risk being collateral damage in Vin’s vengeful
games. This can all stop.
He wants it to stop.
He’s so ashamed.
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 “Hey.” Moxie’s voice sounds feather soft.
Avery backhands his wet cheeks and refuses to look at her.
“It’s nearly two a.m.” Moxie pulls her knees up to her chin and wraps her arms about her
legs. “You should go to bed.”
“Sam calls on Fridays.” His mouth feels musty and horrible, the words scraping up his throat
like gravel. The phrase is automatic now, a repetition he can’t stop. “Sam calls on Fridays.”
“Well, he didn’t,” Moxie says. “Something obviously happened, and we’re not going to get
answers until morning. So you might as well go sleep.”
Avery doesn’t move, but neither does she.
In the dark, their pain is almost companionable.
“I miss him.” Moxie sighs and rests her chin on her bunched up knees. “Everyone always
needs me to be someone, to step up and ll Mum’s space. But then Sam appeared and he
wanted nothing from me. He adored me for being me, even if I’m bitter and thorny and
unlovely.”
She isn’t unlovely, Avery knows. She is someone who doesn’t need to be scraped off the
oor and coaxed back into working order. Like Avery.
He wonders if her affection for Sam was erce and endless and obvious, if Sam ate it up
because he was tired of the unconventional scraps Avery gave him.
Like how Avery used to rub his cheek along Sam’s knobby spine when they were younger, a
cat showing his fervent adoration. Then he’d overheard an argument, Aunt Karen chewing
Sam out for something Avery had done, until Sam snapped, “He doesn’t say thank you to me
either!”
Except Avery did. He always did, in his way. He thought Sam could tell.
“I just mean to say,” Moxie’s voice comes equal parts sad and sleepy, “that if I miss him this
much, it must be excruciating for you. But you could talk to me. You don’t have to…break
things so that they hurt as much as you’re hurting.”
Avery feels drunk on pain and exhaustion, his bones too heavy to move. He wants to say
leave me alone and you’ll never understand and he chose your family instead of me. But all
he does is pick at his eyelashes until Moxie rests careful ngertips on his wrist.
No one touches him anymore. He craves the weight of someone crushing him in a hug so
tight he’s left breathless.
But he shies away from her, as he should.
“Sam calls on Fridays,” he repeats, his mouth full of tears and salt and agony.
“Guess I’ll sit with you here then.”
He is twelve again, running down streets in a frightened panic because he thought he could
prove he wasn’t helpless and walk home from school without Sam. He couldn’t do it. He
ended up downtown, tangled in crowds, apping and crying, incoherent to anyone who tried
to approach him until the police picked him up.
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He said Sammy so many times they thought that was his name. But it was the name of the
only person who could nd him.
“I’m lost.” Avery doesn’t mean to say it out loud.
Moxie resettles herself there beside him, as if she plans to stay all night. “I know where you
are, Avery Lou.”fi
 Chapter 10
A screwdriver and hammer sit in the middle of the new house’s staircase, drowned in a pool
of black paint. In no way hidden, because apparently Avery wanted them to be found.
This is the part Jeremy is stuck on. For a boy so skittish and terri ed of being touched, let
alone hit, why is he so intent on picking ghts? This feels like a ght. But it’s Avery swinging
against his own shadow for reasons that are frying Jeremy’s brain.
Uncle Rob is already at the building site when they arrive, and he starts ranting before Dad
even gets through the front door.
“You have to get rid of him.” Rob jabs furiously at the stairs. “I forgot my phone and came
back to get it, and-and— I’m losing it, Reece. We don’t have time for this, let alone the cost to
x—”
Dad rubs a hand wearily over his face. “I’m doing my best.”
“You aren’t a respite home for delinquents,” Rob snaps. “You can’t save everyone!”
“I’m not trying to save everyone,” Dad says, quiet. “Just two boys.”
“And what about your children, hm? What about your daughters, Reece? You’ve let this
dangerous, psychotic kid into your home when you have little kids and girls who he could
attack—”
Jeremy can’t take it. He heads upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, and lets Rob’s voice
fade behind him. A horrible, wordless dread presses on his chest. He thought he could ignore
it in the van, but oh wow, is it here with a vengeance now. He can’t breathe. Delightful.
“Don’t be ridiculous about this,” he whispers to himself, voice light. But as he trails from room
to room, the feeling only grows until he can’t breathe.
panic attack
His secret.
The attacks started after Mum died, when he stood in the church hall during the wake while a
sombre crowd milled about either with plates from the potluck or sodden tissues pressed to
eyes. Everyone was crying, petting his shoulder, offering sterile condolences like, You’re
such a brave young man and You’ll get through this and I’m sorry for your loss.
He’d nodded and thanked people until he eventually turned to Jack and said in the most
casual tone, “All my insides are squeezing up my throat and I’m about to pass out.”
Jack took him outside and made him put his head between his knees.
Panicking was understandable right then. That was a traumatic day. Over a year later and
things should have smoothed out to normal bouts of grief when he missed his mother.
Instead, Jeremy has these panic attacks and he has them all the time and he smiles and
talks and continues whatever he’s doing while they happen and he has not told a soul. He’ll
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be in class, taking history notes, and then have to put his pencil down and smile pleasantly at
the board, while everything inside him unravels into a swirling vortex of nameless,
indescribable horror. Can’t breathe. Can’t swallow. Can’t think. He just wants to rip himself
open and scoop everything out so it stops killing him.
It feels like dying with his eyes open.
But what can he do? Tell Dad and worry him? Tell Jack so he freaks out? Strong no. So
Jeremy pretends the panic attacks aren’t happening and waits for them to pass.
Except it’s not passing as he looks at the damage Avery has done.
Whole tins of paint have been poured across the nished bedroom oors, leaving trails of
black and thick puddles that haven’t yet sunk into the boards. Paint has been splashed
against the cream walls, splattered on the doorframes, crusted over the windows. Jeremy
spent all summer working on this house with Dad and Jack and Grady and Uncle Rob, but he
hadn’t been back until now. Upstairs was nished. It only needed carpets.
In the master suite, Jeremy runs his ngers through the wet paint smeared on the vanity
sinks and drying on the shower glass. He can hear Uncle Rob yelling downstairs.
Jeremy’s stomach roils, thinking about dollar signs.
When he comes out of the master suite, Dad stands in the hall and looks pensively into one
of the worst bedrooms. The paint smears like an oil spill, a black mouth yawning into a
nameless void.
“The carpets are coming at six,” Dad says. “I can’t call them until their of ce opens, and even
then, they won’t refund the labour hours.”
“We could clean it.” Jeremy sounds as helpless as he feels. “Like…mop it up?”
“We’ll try. I need to get it off the oor before it dries in lumps. And off the windows too. The
walls can wait.”
“Dad, please…” But Jeremy doesn’t know what to ask when he’s already pleaded Avery’s
case. It’s worse now, seeing this and feeling like Avery tied his own noose on purpose. Like
he’s daring them to hate him.
Dad looks at Jeremy with bone-deep exhaustion clouding his eyes and Jeremy winces. “I’m
thinking about how to deal with him, alright? Let’s just get started.”
They work.
Tension thickens across the new house with such intensity that Jeremy feels about to choke.
But they work in sync, him and his uncle and his father, relentless even as night fades to the
early hours of dawn. Jeremy’s eyes start burning and his legs go numb from the trips up and
down the stairs.
He ruins his jeans with black paint, and his hands are hopelessly stained, but his panic attack
has packed itself up due to sheer fatigue. They get most of the wet paint off the oors and
bathroom porcelain and windows, so then it’s a matter of setting up Dad’s industrial fans to
see if they can dry things enough to go ahead with the carpets.
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 At ve a.m., Uncle Rob takes off. At six a.m., the carpet guys arrive and Dad talks long and
hard with them outside while Jeremy lies in piles of wood shavings in the foyer with his eyes
closed. He’s not asleep, just resting his eyes.
Finally Dad crouches down and rumples Jeremy’s tufty curls. “Let’s go home. They’ll take
care of downstairs and I’ll do upstairs myself.”
Because he’s Super Dad after all; he can do anything.
Jeremy gets his second wind on the drive home and his nerves tingle with a wretched sort of
incandescent buzzing. He could go for a run! He could climb a mountain!
“I actually feel pretty great.” He puts hands behind his head and leans comfortably into the
van, which is choking because they requested it go up a hill. “Who even needs sleep? Not
me. Sleep is a scam. I just need coffee and toast, and then it’s world domination for me.”
“You’re going to crash.” Dad sounds amused. “But thanks, son. You are the eighth wonder of
the world and I love you so much.”
“I am of cially your favourite.” Jeremy pats his chest. “Am telling the others. Also, I was
thinking. When you upgraded your phone, you kept the old one, right?”
“Yes,” Dad says slowly. “It’s very out of date, though.”
“What if,” Jeremy starts taking fast, “we give it to Avery? Because he doesn’t have things,
you know? And obviously he can’t call Sam on it, but he’s got to be bored all the time, so he
could go online and stuff. I could text him. He doesn’t talk much so maybe he’d text? And he
could listen to music— oh wait he doesn’t have headphones. Speaking of, I kind of wonder if
stuff is too loud for him? The building site. He might need earmuffs. I was reading stuff about
autism and I think he’s on sensory overload, Dad, and I feel like—”
“Jeremy, are you breathing?”
“Mostly no, but what do you think? You haven’t told me what you think.”
“Give me a chance to think.” Dad gives him a tired smile and the knot in Jeremy’s stomach
relaxes.
When they drag themselves into the butter yellow house, it’s near to seven, and the sun’s
bright warmth has crept through all the windows. Small feet pattering upstairs signal the
babies are awake and playing in their room, but no one’s come down yet.
Dad goes to check on them while Jeremy gallops for the kitchen because he is starving. It’s
only by some miracle of a dextrous twist that he avoids tripping over the two bodies propped
up against the fridge.
They’re asleep, both of them. Moxie, with her neck slumped at an uncomfortable angle and
mouth open for a quiet snore. Avery, wedged tight into the corner with his face so soft and
slack he looks like a different person. Asleep, he is unguarded, a bare thread of a boy, eyes
moving frantically under closed lids to chase a bad dream.
Jeremy tries to step over Moxie’s outstretched legs, but she cracks one eye open in a
disgruntled glower.
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“You’re going to have the worst neck-ache.” Jeremy crouches and lifts one limp curl off her
face. “Let me guess…”
“Sam didn’t call.” Moxie bats Jeremy off and then scrubs at her eyes. “Today is going to be
great.”
“But he let you sit next to him?”
“Only because I’m stubborn.” Moxie huffs. “Make me coffee.”
“You should make me coffee. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. I can taste colours.”
Moxie’s expression tightens and she sounds anxious as she whispers, “How bad was it?
What’s Dad going to do?”
The stairs creak; Dad coming down with the baby in one arm and tangle of cords in his free
hand. His footfalls aren’t exactly light, and when he enters the kitchen Avery jerks awake with
all the instinctive fear of someone used to sleeping light in case of threats. He looks confused
for a second, breathing hard, his hands braced against the wall and the fridge.
Then he bolts to his feet and yanks the phone from its cradle. He puts it to his ear, as if Sam
might possibly be on the other end.
“I’ll call Evans,” Dad says. “See if he can nd out what happened.”
Avery slams the phone down and rests his forehead against the wall.
“I think the three of you should go to bed.” Dad raises his eyebrow at Jeremy. “Especially
you, son, your eyes are falling out. Avery, could you—”
“He lied. He promised. He-he-he lied.” Avery grabs his head, ngers curling into his hair, and
then suddenly he punches himself. Hard.
Moxie’s eyes go wide, and Jeremy doesn’t think, he reacts. Because when someone is
hurting, you hold them, don’t you?
He takes Avery’s hand and their ngers lace together effortlessly.
For a second, Avery just stares at their interlocked hands.
Then he slips free and steps back, eyes darting away from Jeremy.
Lines of concern carve Dad’s brow, but he only holds out the bundle of cords — a phone
charger, Jeremy realises, tangled around an old phone.
“This is at,” Dad says, voice calm, “and I haven’t got a new sim for it yet, but Jeremy will
give you the wi password. It’s yours.”
Slowly, as if he’s been offered hot coals, Avery reaches out. Dad gives him the phone.
“I’m making breakfast and then taking a quick nap,” Dad says. “Any questions?” Then,
looking straight at Avery, “Do you need anything?”
Avery looks as confused as if he’d been struck. He stares at the phone, ready for it to mutate
into punishment. When nothing happens, he shivers to himself and ducks upstairs.
Jeremy follows, a magnet lured. Tiredness has set in now, his vision doubling, and the oor
loops under his feet as if they’ve been cast to sea. Maybe it’s because he’s half delirious and
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overtired, but he chugs straight passed Jack, who’s coming out of their bedroom in pyjama
shorts, looking half asleep and pissed. Jeremy catches Avery’s door before he slams it.
“Do you like apples?” Jeremy knows he’s babbling. “I’ll make apple pie later, and I totally
drown the apples in cinnamon sugar, so what I should ask is if you like cinnamon.”
Only a sliver of Avery’s face shows through the door and he’s chewing his bottom lip,
frowning at Jeremy’s mouth because he doesn’t quite look at anyone’s eyes. “Why are you
doing this?” His voice is low, almost soft in his confusion.
“Because I’m keeping you,” Jeremy says. “I mean, we’re keeping you. You’re being kept.”
 Chapter 11
Avery folds his arms and slouches in his seat across the kitchen table from Evans. A mug of
coffee sits between them with the words Happy Monday! printed in curly font next to an
obnoxious smiley face. It pleases Avery, just a little, that Evans looks equally dismayed at the
mug’s cheer. Happiness insults them both: the social worker in his spidery black suit and the
delinquent with his sour attitude.
Avery hates Mondays, but then, he hates everything.
He’s of cially been at the butter yellow house for one week.
One week without Sam.
Fifty-one weeks to go.
“How have you been doing?” Evans directs this at Mr. De Lainey, who’s just sat down with his
own huge mug.
He chose to sit on the same side of the table as Avery, with a good distance between them,
but Avery still feels crowded. The rest of the De Lainey kids are at school, babies at daycare,
and everyone tidied and mopped downstairs in preparation for Evans’ visit. Why they want to
impress him, Avery has no idea. Best case scenario is Evans takes Avery away — and he
will, once he hears about all the terrible things Avery has done.
“We’re adjusting.” Mr. De Lainey takes a long pull of coffee. “We’ve had our ups and downs,
but I’m con dent this week will be easier. Right, Avery?”
Avery picks at his eyelashes and refuses to look at either of them.
All weekend he waited to be punished for the paint, but nothing happened. He holed up in his
room, tense every time footsteps thumped down the hallway, his stomach ipping inside out
the few times someone knocked. It was only ever Jeremy with plates of food or a shy smile
as he asked Avery to come watch a movie. Avery refused — staying out of Mr. De Lainey’s
sight seemed crucial to survival — but part of him wished…
No, he’s not wishing for anything except nding a way to get to Sam.
And for Vin to leave him alone.
He’s not thinking about Vin.
Evans snaps open his briefcase and pulls out a folder. He hands forms to Mr. De Lainey,
something about Avery’s building apprenticeship, so Avery tunes them out until he realises
Mr. De Lainey has switched to asking about therapists.
“—or a support group, maybe?” Mr. De Lainey says.
Evans eyes Avery, but he still addresses Mr. De Lainey. “I very much agree, and I’ll email you
through some information, Reece. I do have another appointment in thirty minutes, so I
unfortunately need to keep our time brief. Any concerns we should discuss?”
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Avery waits for it, his sts pushed against his stomach.
“I think everything is under control,” Mr. De Lainey says calmly.
“What about Sam?” It busts out of Avery, ragged and strained, a reminder he hasn’t spoken
all weekend. “He didn’t c-call. He was meant to c-call.”
“Ah, yes.” Evans steeples his ngers. “I followed up on that and it seems Samuel had an
altercation which resulted in the loss of his phone privileges for the next month.”
Avery feels lightheaded, everything inside him slick and slipping.
“The detention facility he’s in is partially privatised,” Evans goes on. “I’m nding it hard to get
clear communication with them, but I will visit Samuel—”
Avery pushes half out of his chair. “I need to visit him.”
Evans casts Avery an unreadable look. “As Samuel’s social worker, I’m cleared to visit him at
any point, but he can’t receive guests until his visitation requests have gone through the
judge. This facility does things…differently. I’m unfamiliar with their proceedings, so I can’t
say how long this will take.” He almost sounds sincere when he says, “I’m sorry, Avery.”
Avery slumps back down and puts his head on the table. His skull pounds, his ears crowded
with swarms of shattered cries. He crushes his eyes closed and thinks of Sam hurt, Sam in
handcuffs, Sam with blackened eyes, Sam calling out for him—
“I need to speak to Avery privately,” Evans says. “Protocol.”
Mr. De Lainey scoops up his coffee and stands. “I’ll throw some washing on the line.”
Once the back door thumps closed, Evans gives Avery a critical once over. “Anything you
need to tell me? Nothing is off-limits. If you think something unfair has happened or you’ve
been mistreated—”
Avery picks his head off the table, but he feels stitched up with stones. Lying that he’s being
abused won’t get him sentenced with Sam, so he only mumbles, “I need my brother.”
Evans looks unimpressed. “This is the best home and most generous family you will ever
have.”
“It’s not a home.” Avery’s teeth clench. “This is a house and these are just people.”
Evans snaps a lid on his pen and then uses it to gesture at Avery’s manky shirt. “I do need to
ask about this, though. Are you being denied food, clean clothing, showers? Is that the same
shirt you wore at the courthouse?”
It is, though he did soak it in the bathroom sink last night. It still dried stiff with prickles of
sawdust and blood and crusty paint splatters. Wearing this tee shirt, these jeans, feels
horrible and rakes his skin like a thousand re ants, but it’s better than accepting their gifts.
He doesn’t deserve kindness anyway, after all he’s done to them.
Avery draws his shoulders in tight. “I can wear what I want.”
Evans sighs and snaps his briefcase shut. “Try, Avery, just try to be agreeable for once. I’ll tell
Samuel you said hello.”
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 After Evans has inspected Avery’s room (“I’m replacing the fan,” Mr. De Lainey explains
about the hole in the ceiling, but not why he had to), he talks to Mr. De Lainey outside. Then
Evans drives off in his neat little Honda Accord. Avery sits on the verandah steps, chin on his
st, and hates Evans and his boring car and his goddamn condescending tone with all the
heat he can muster.
Mr. De Lainey waves Evans off at the footpath and then strolls back towards the verandah,
his hands in his pocket and expression serene.
“Run upstairs and fetch your new boots,” Mr. De Lainey says. “You need proper footwear to
work on a building site.”
“You lied to him.” Avery directs this at the ground, knowing he should stay silent, but the truth
eats an acid hole through his stomach.
“I said everything is under control, and it is.” Mr. De Lainey gives a thin smile. “Now you’re
going to learn how to scrape paint.”
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 Chapter 12
Being eviscerated by homework on a Friday night has never been Jeremy’s idea of a good
time. He does the only logical thing, which is to stack his books on top of the derelict old
laptop he shares with Jack, and pray the work will do itself. Or Jack might. Jeremy is
prepared to whine and look pathetic as needed to get a job done.
He starts texting his friends as he jogs downstairs to nd Jack, who's sitting on the oor in
front the sofa with his own homework. The TV still blasts whatever cartoons the babies were
watching before Dad took them upstairs for a bath, and Jack is, embarrassingly, mouthing
the words. He’s up to his eyeballs in algebra. He’s not even watching.
Jeremy grins and executes a surprisingly athletic nosedive over the sofa and straight onto
Jack.
They both go over with a wall-rattling crash. Jack with a throttled grunt. Jeremy with
something like a hee-ya. Their heads thwack together and then it’s a brief struggle for
dominance or perhaps oxygen, before Jeremy ends up smooshing Jack’s face into the
carpet.
“The guys are going to the beach tonight,” Jeremy says. “Let’s tell Dad it’s Dillon’s house.
Also, can you do my homework?”
Jack starts to kick and Jeremy barrel-rolls out of the way. “You can do your own fucking
homework—”
Dad’s voice suddenly lls the room. “Jack.”
“Sweet strudels,” Jeremy whispers. “He can hear anything.”
Dad must have just come downstairs, and he stands in the kitchen with the baby on one hip
as he puts the kettle on. His face is set at Incredibly Unimpressed.
“Phone,” he says. “Con scated. I shouldn’t have to pull you up every day.”
“Daaaaad.” Jack groans from the oor. “C’mon. We’re about to go out. I need it.”
“Then clean up your language, son.” The warning in Dad’s voice suggests he’s already at his
limit.
Which is likely Avery’s fault since these days it’s always Avery’s fault.
Today marks one week since the Black Paint Incident, and almost two weeks since Avery
Lou became a resentful xture of their family. While things still don’t seem great, at least they
aren’t worse. Fixing the paint-stained walls seems to have left Avery too exhausted to
escalate his agenda of being a horrible little gremlin, and Dad also has him under tight
surveillance. Work on the building site has slowed to a crawl.
But maybe this will be the week Avery decides he likes living here.
Maybe this will be the week he starts to trust them.
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Jack slouches into the kitchen and slams his phone in the fruit bowl, the resting place for
both spotted brown bananas and con scated objects. Jeremy ambles over to jingle around
the jeep keys and give Dad his most innocent smile.
“We’re off to Dillon’s,” he says.
“Funny.” Dad hands the baby a gingernut biscuit and takes another for himself. “I’m sure I
heard you boys say beach.”
“Okay, your hearing is ridiculous,” Jeremy says. “And I protest.”
Dad raises an eyebrow, but his mood is softening. “Look, I don’t mind if you boys are at the
beach at night, so long as you and your friends are making good decisions. That means no
smoking. No going off alone. No doing anything illegal or stupid.”
Jack folds his arms, face a thundercloud. “What’s left.”
“You could stay home and clean?” Dad says, serene.
Jack throws up his hands and heads for the door. “We’ll be model citizens.”
“Absolute angels,” Jeremy adds.
“Wonderful,” Dad says. “And you can take Avery with you.”
Jeremy casts a quick glance at Jack, whose face goes from surprised to stony. Jeremy has
to admit this is a bad idea. Their friends are loud and brash, no lters, no tact. There is no
way Avery will have a good time.
“We’re not babysitting—” Jack starts.
Dad clears his throat and nods at the fridge.
Avery has crammed himself into the kitchen corner and sits directly below the phone. It’s déjà
vu from last Friday; Avery in the same grotty clothes, same tense shoulders, same glare
burning holes in the oorboards.
Waiting for a phone call that will never come.
“How about it, Avery?” Dad’s voice has a calm levity to it. “This will be a nice distraction.”
Avery hunkers down even lower. “Sam calls on Fridays. He m-might— he might still call.”
Dad dunks his biscuit into his tea. “Not until next month. You remember what Evans said.”
But Avery grits his teeth. “He might. It’s Friday.”
It’s as if he’s caught in a loop; cutting his ngers on the shards of a broken promise every
time he reaches for it but unable to stop.
Maybe they should take him out.
Jack fakes noosing himself while Dad’s not looking, but Jeremy kicks him.
“Or,” Dad goes on, “you can join Dash and me for a movie marathon, Avery. We’re watching
the Twelve…um, Thirteen Elf…Soldiers tonight. I don’t want you to sit there all evening, so
you need to choose something.”
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“Looks like he’s watching movies with you.” Jack tips a salute and heads for the front door.
“See ya. Back at one.”
Jeremy hesitates, knowing they have a sliver of a minute to escape, just the two of them, and
yet torn as he thinks of Avery spending another evening aching and alone with nothing but
haunted memories.
“You’ll be back at eleven, thank you,” Dad says. “And no drinking.”
Something ickers behind Avery’s eyes. He cuts a narrow look at Dad.
Then, without a word, he unfolds from his rucked up position and starts after Jack.
Dad looks startled at the abrupt change. “Alright then.”
“Wait, wait.” Jeremy slips in front of Avery, his arms outstretched. He feels slightly untethered
too, not sure if he’s excited or anxious this is happening. “Change your shirt rst, okay? I
picked out those clothes we left on your bed, by the way. Zero chance they are terrible.”
He expects Avery to refuse, to shut down, to leave.
Instead, Avery glances down at his vile tee shirt, and says, “Wait for me?”
“Sure, totally, absolutely.” Jeremy’s smiling so hard his face hurts.
As Avery runs upstairs, Dad gives Jeremy a cautious look. “Text me updates, alright? And
just…make sure you know where he is.”
“Dad, I am the epitome of responsibility.” Jeremy gives a dramatic bow. “I won’t lose him.”
*
Avery sits in the backseat of the jeep in shadowed silence. Jeremy resists the urge to keep
glancing over his shoulder to see if he’s still there (where else would he be! Chill out,
perhaps!).
Jeremy does allow himself to feel solidly satis ed for a full minute over how much better
Avery looks in clean clothes. He wears one of the soft graphic tees with a spidery outline of a
vintage car, and he seems comfortable, less irritated. They need to wash that black shirt
about seven times or, better yet, burn it.
“Can you focus?” Jack snaps. “I asked for the seven billionth time what beach we’re going
to? Text Dillon. Or I could text and you could quit being lazy and learn to drive.”
Jeremy checks his phone. “He said they’re at the old lighthouse. And I prefer you to be the
charioteer.” He keeps his voice glib, because telling the truth would make Jack feel bad.
Last year, the equation was simple: two teens turning sixteen and eager for driving lessons,
one freshly widowed Dad, several small children to look after, houses to build, minimal free
time — the result was not enough time to teach both. It was easier to let Jack take the driving
lessons. Easier for Jeremy to pretend he had no interest.
Jeremy twists in his seat again, thinking to pull Avery into the conversation. “You can drive,
right? I mean, since you like cars— work with cars.” Get it together, Jeremy.
A streetlight ashes across the backseat as Avery gives a small shrug.
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“Did your folks teach you?” Jeremy says.
“Ex.” Avery looks out the window.
“Um, the ex-girlfriend who stabbed Sam?” Jack says.
Jeremy considers whacking him, but in the spirit of road safety, he resists.
“Yup.”
They fall into awkward silence until the road bends and Jeremy starts chanting, “Turn turn
turn!” and Jack snaps that he knows the way.
The old lighthouse is a checklist of everything Dad said not to do. Dangerous. Slightly illegal.
Absolutely the place for shenanigans.
Up here on the bluff there’s nothing but thistly beach grass and open night sky, with the
lighthouse a condemned tower sitting on the edge of a crumbling cliff. The council shut down
the carpark years ago with big NO ENTRY signs, but people still climb over the chains and
hang out.
Driving here takes a while because they have to follow the streets, but the beach at the base
of these cliffs is actually close to their house. They swam there the rst day they met Sam,
back when summer began. A tiny goat track winds up and down the cliff, traversable with
good shoes and good sunlight. They all keep daring each other to climb down and go night-
swimming, but it’s not a path to take in the dark
Jack parks next to the jumble of other cars, and rolls his eyes at the way Dillon’s ploughed
his 4WD passed the graf tied KEEP OUT, DANGER sign right up to the bluff edge. At least
everyone stays clear of the lighthouse itself. That’s not worth poking. One of these days it will
fall straight into the sea.
“Dad can never, never know we were here,” Jeremy says lightly.
The wind has a playful chill to it as they walk towards the others. Light pours from the 4WD’s
headlights and there’s a tiny re doing battle to stay alight. That would be Shep’s idea. He
has a thing with matches. A few guys are jumping over the ames, not exactly a daredevil
act, but the uproarious laughter says it’s been made wilder by a few drinks. The usual
suspects are here: school friends, some of their neighbours, a friend’s cousin or a cousin’s
friend. Everyone’s been to the De Lainey house for Sunday lunch at least once because
Jeremy can’t help but like everyone.
It only back res when he likes someone too much.
He looks for Yeats and pretends he’s not looking for Yeats.
Jack waves a hand in front of Avery’s face. “Crash course in De Lainey rules. Dad meant
what he said. No swearing, drinking, smoking, dicking around—”
Avery’s voice comes low. “What does he do if you break the rules?”
“Gets super disappointed with us,” Jeremy says. “He gets so sad.”
“That’s it?” Avery looks unimpressed.
“Just don’t try anything, bud.” Jack claps Avery on the shoulder and heads off.
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 Avery follows at a careful distance. Jeremy tries to keep him close, but promptly gets swept
up in greetings and backslaps and tussling with Wilk and Tanaka. Moonlight combs ngers
through their hair and lls their lungs with starlight. It’s good to be out here. Life seems
simpler at night, the twisted knots of the day unravelling while possibilities reawaken.
Jack hauls himself into the back of Dillon’s 4WD, shrugging off the offer of a beer, while
Jeremy ends up sitting near the re, ripping up grass and laughing with the others until the
jokes turn to talk of graduation. Moving out. University. Gap years. All topics Jeremy is
severely allergic to.
He glances at Avery, a shadow ickering around the edges of the group. Where Sam was
awkward limbs and tentative smiles and dogged determination to nd his footing, Avery is
cagey and silent, all burned out corners and taut muscles. He is a snapshot of a bird, mid-
ight. He is a moonbeam, shattered before it falls.
He’s always alone.
Jeremy scrambles up, tripping over as Tanaka tries to tackle his legs, but then he’s free and
headed for Avery.
Too late.
Yeats found him.
Habit has Jeremy running ngers through his hair and wondering why he didn’t brush his
teeth, and then wondering why he cares. They broke up months ago. Not that it was truly a
breakup, since Jeremy kept his tone utterly casual as he asked if Yeats cheated, and Yeats
had said something about them never being a thing so it wasn’t cheating.
It’s now that Jeremy realises he hasn’t thought about his Get Yeats Back Plan in weeks.
“Hey, Yeats.” He hates that he sounds breathless. “This is Avery, my uh— our foster brother.”
“Was just saying hi.” Yeats has on a white muscle tee, tight enough to show off his Captain
America gym dedication. He ashes one of his thousand-dollar smiles and tosses a beer at
Avery.
Avery catches it, his mouth an unreadable line. The tab rips with a faint hiss, and he takes a
drink without glancing once at Jeremy.
Well, great.
There’s a chance Avery only came tonight to cause trouble. Jeremy, foolish and hopeful and
naive, thought Avery might have wanted to spend time with him.
Yeats stretches, beer sloshing in his can. “Doesn’t your dad have enough kids? At least it’s
not another baby.” He laughs.
Jeremy has no idea how to interpret that. Is that a jab at his mother? An odd feeling settles in
his chest. He gets to make fun of his big family — but no one else is allowed to.
Yeats gives Avery a slow once over. “What school are you at?”
Avery has no in ection in his voice. “I’m working for Mr. De Lainey.”
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 “Oh, cool. Mr. De Lainey is the best.” Yeats grins at Jeremy. “Remember all the stuff we got
up to as kids at your house? We played pranks on all the neighbours and ate so much ice
cream straight from the tub. Never got into trouble. I was telling Olivia about it. Best times.”
“Best times,” Jeremy repeats, but he’s watching Avery neatly work through the beer like this
is not his rst time. The name drop of Yeats’ new girlfriend is also a bit much to miss. “Hey,
Yeats, can we talk a minute?”
Yeats raises one eyebrow. “Let’s not do that right now, okay?”
Jeremy can feel his throat tightening. “You don’t even know—”
“That you’re not going to get sad about us ‘breaking up’ again?” He puts them in literal nger
quotes and then leans in, his voice softening — which would be nice if it didn’t sound
condescending. “Just let it go, Jeremy. We should be with people we like, not just fooling
around because we’re bored.”
“People we like?” Jeremy hates how high his voice goes. Hates that they’re doing this in front
of Avery.
“You never take anything seriously,” Yeats says. “I want a meaningful relationship. Not just a
joke.” He gives a chagrined smile to soften the blow. “You get that, right?”
Jeremy feels very old and very tired and very much like he’s had his organs handed to him.
“Totally. Yup. Makes sense. No worries!” He’s somehow smiling.
Inside, he’s dying.
“Anyway, tell me about yourself, Avery.” Yeats turns back to Avery, raising his beer in salute.
“What did—” But he breaks off in surprise as Jack storms over like Jeremy’s own personal
hellhound come to heel.
Maybe twin bonds do exist and Jack felt the uneven trip of Jeremy’s heart.
Jack shoves Yeats. “Back off, you cheating piece of regurgitated shit. Want me to beat him
up for you, Jeremy?”
“Not really?” Jeremy says, too high.
“Hey, hey.” Yeats raises both hands. “What the hell? Jeremy and I are cool. We just talked
about it.”
“What did the asshole say?” Jack turns his fury on Jeremy, who tries to mumble we’re good
even though he suspects he wants to cry.
But it’s Avery who looks slightly more alive as he sips his beer and says, “He called Jeremy a
joke.”
“Whoa, that’s not what I meant.” Yeats forces a laugh.
“It’s ne,” Jeremy says lightly. “No big deal.”
But Jack is getting in Yeats’ face. “The thing is, break one De Lainey heart and you get the
rest of us lining up to end you.”
“Do we need the dramatic threats?” Yeats rolls his eyes, but he has the sense to look
uncomfortable. “We don’t need a repeat of that psycho kid at the beach party.”
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“Don’t joke about that in front of Avery,” Jack snaps. “That was his brother.”
Jeremy’s chest squeezes. He would like everything to stop, or better yet, to rewind so he
never even spoke to Yeats. But he is surprised, and maybe a little proud, that Avery stood up
for him. And that Jack stood up for Avery.
“Seriously?” Yeats says. “And you want kids like that in your house? Damn.”
“You’re such a dick, talking shit to someone’s face.” Jack is a lit match, but Jeremy’s spine
has melted out from under him.
“He’s not here anyway,” Yeats says.
“But he’s right—” Jeremy turns.
The darkness has licked up Avery like he never existed. No indents lie in the straggly grass
to even say where he stood.
I won’t lose him, Jeremy had said.
Well. There went that.
 Chapter 13
Jeremy’s heart beats in a ragged way, the growing nub of a panic attack taking root in his
chest. He needs to calm down right the hell now. Just breathe. It’s ne. How far could Avery
have gone?
“Shit.” Jack spins around to search.
Yeats starts to say, “What? He can’t walk around by himself—”
“You brought up his brother and an extremely traumatising night. And he’s not okay about
any of that.” Jeremy’s eyes meet Jack’s and understanding passes between them, tight and
urgent.
“You go up towards the lighthouse,” Jack says. “I’ll check the carpark.”
Yeats still doesn’t look like he cares, but he says, “I can go—”
“Jump off a cliff?” Jack says. “Please do.”
Jeremy doesn’t wait to see if Yeats gets pithy and Jack volcanic, and instead he takes off
across the wide open grasses of the bluff. No ash of white-blonde hair, no edge of a blue
tee shirt. Avery’s face had been too blank, the beer gone too fast. They’d meant to distract
him from thinking about Sam.
Instead they cut open a raw nerve.
The ground rolls upwards and Jeremy stumbles in the dark. He calls Avery’s name, but the
low roar of the ocean muddies his voice. A stful of bees writhes in his gut, but he has to
ignore them. The panic attack can take a ticket and get in line behind everything else going
wrong tonight.
Maybe Avery went to the car. Maybe he tried to walk home. Maybe he got lost and the cliff
edge is right there and—
Don’t think like that.
But there’s nowhere else to look. The bluff isn’t that big, and a dilapidated chainlink fence
cuts off the last corner in a nal warning to stay away from the lighthouse. The KEEP OUT
sign dangles from one screw, red and rusted, a clear deterrent.
Unless you are not one who often obeys the law.
Jeremy links ngers in the fence and scans the lighthouse. It stands like a broken centurion
on the rocky ground, a staircase winding around the outside. It’s not that tall, but the ancient
steps must be rotted through. No one could climb it.
Jeremy’s eyes trace up the stairs, and of course there is Avery, halfway up.
Shit, shit shit. Everything in Jeremy’s head pitches into white static.
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“AVERY.” Jeremy waves both arms, but either the wind steals his words or Avery doesn’t
care because he keeps climbing.
“Avery, you can’t—”
A stair snaps under Avery’s foot.
His feet go out from under him, his arms shooting out to catch himself by his elbows. Then
he’s dangling, legs swinging against the night, the sea a frothing mouth of darkness and
foam below.
Jeremy makes a sound like the entire world has ended. He snatches the chain link fence and
hauls himself up, rust grinding into his skin, jagged edges catching on his jeans. He’s so bad
at this. Jumping fences and ripping clothes and reckless decisions are Jack’s thing. Jeremy
is more of a useless bystander who makes far too many nervous jokes to defuse the tension.
Which is what he did the whole time with Yeats, now that he thinks about it. Maybe it’s true,
and Jeremy is the reason things don’t get deep or serious or meaningful.
He tumbles over the fence and lands hard, but then he’s up and running to the base of the
stairs. The rst ve are missing, so he has to haul himself up and beg the universe that this
next step will hold his weight. Avery’s nothing more than feathers and cornsilk hair, light as
nothing. Jeremy, not so much.
He scrambles up on all fours, clutching the shuddering handrail whenever wood groans
underfoot. All he can think of is the lighthouse choosing right now to waltz into the sea.
He’d hold onto Avery before it fell. He would do that much at least.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Jeremy whispers, and then he’s at the step that broke.
Avery’s gone. What’s left of the step is jagged splinters.
Below, only darkness.
Jeremy’s stomach swoops out from beneath him. He’s frozen, staring through the broken
wood to the sea below with his brain having a screaming meltdown, so he doesn’t notice two
sneakers appear on the steps above him.
Avery crouches down and peers through the broken hole as well. “Are you looking for
something?”
Jeremy closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath. “Just you.”
“I wouldn’t fall.” Avery sounds offended. “I wanted to see what was at the top. Lots of rubbish.
The light mechanism is gone.”
This is the most he’s ever spoken and he doesn’t sound guarded or angry — but do they
have to have this groundbreaking moment perched in a decaying lighthouse while Jeremy is
in the midst of a near death experience?
“What if,” Jeremy says, his voice far too shrill and cheerful, “we get down and, perhaps, stay
alive?”
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 Avery shrugs, steps around Jeremy, and jogs down the stairs. He seems to remember which
ones are dubious and hops over them with lithe nonchalance. Jeremy inches back down,
tasting bile and rust and salt.
Avery leaps the last missing steps and for a moment his hair oats weightless, his arms
stretched out like wings. He almost looks happy.
Then he lands in a crouch and his mouth returns to an impassive line.
Jeremy lowers himself gingerly to the sweet, sweet earth and considers kissing it. What he
wants is to take up a fetus position and nish his panic attack in peace, but he manages to
lead the way over the chainlink fence and back toward his friends.
He’s seventeen goddamn years old; shouldn’t he have thought that illicit adventure a little
fun? Instead, every muscle has liqui ed. His hands shake.
“Wait.”
Jeremy pauses while Avery catches up, and makes sure to x his smile. He’s ne, everything
is ne.
“Do you want to sit down?” Avery’s frown is small.
“I’m good. Let’s just get back—”
“But you’re having a panic attack.” Avery slips closer to him and, with ngers light as
butter ies, he touches Jeremy’s wrist.
Jeremy’s pulse is a train wreck, out of control.
What he wants is to shrug off Avery and pretend nothing is wrong — but that means going
back to socialise with everyone else. He can’t. He needs a minute.
He sinks down on the grass, his legs jellied, and puts his head on his knees. Think about
something else, anything else. Think about how Avery noticed his inner meltdown when no
one else ever does.
Avery sits down beside him and tilts his chin toward the moon. His ngers dance a rhythm on
his thigh, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Are you scared of heights?” he says.
“I’m scared of—” Words stuff up Jeremy’s throat, but then it tumbles out before he can stop
himself. “I’m scared of the people I care about dying. I think about it all the time. It’s like…I
can’t stop.”
A small frown creases Avery’s brow. “But it was just me.”
Jeremy looks at him and says nothing.
Avery is the rst to glance away, but he’s still frowning as if this is a puzzle to unpack.
They’re quiet for a while, but their silence feels safe. No agitated expectations, no judgement.
Together, in the dark, they look like two boys who’ve fallen from the moon.
“Does being distracted help?” Avery says.
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 Jeremy blinks a few times, the world smudging at the corners. He’s still not used to Avery
talking this much, and he has no idea if it’s the night air or the beer or being out of the house
that has loosened Avery like this.
“Um, I guess,” Jeremy says.
“Okay.” Avery still studies the moon. “Are you in love with Yeats?”
Jeremy chokes on something like a laugh. “Okay, straight for the throat. But…no.” He’s
surprised how easily he says it. “It’s just we grew up together and we were best friends as kid
and he was my rst for a lot of things. Like my rst kiss when we were in eighth grade.”
“The rst boy I kissed was an asshole too,” Avery says. “Maybe that’s how it goes.”
Jeremy slides a careful sideways glance at Avery while doing a very remarkable job of
keeping his face blank. This is…this is de nitely a distraction.
So. Avery kisses boys sometimes.
“I guess we’ll nd better people to kiss someday.” Jeremy goes for casual and is pretty sure
he misses.
Avery’s ngers keep dancing against his knees, conducting their own invisible orchestra. It
seems to relax him. “Do you feel better now? I want to leave.”
The panic attack has bottled itself up for another time, and Jeremy feels oddly light,
champagne bubbles bursting in a glass.
“Sure,” he says. “I feel better now.”
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 Before
Avery is sixteen and he knows how to bleed in silence.
In the dark, the Corvette is little more than a shadow on the streets, going fast because it’s
the only way Avery learned how to drive. Adrenaline works its slow way from his
bloodstream. Now comes the jellied legs, the shivering, the aching muscles from being tense
so long.
But he’s only the driver. He shouldn’t be this worked up.
He sat there behind the wheel, engine idling, as the others dragged the antique store owner
into the alley. They worked on him with crowbars while Vin went for the safe. An alarm must
have been tripped because sirens wailed in the distance before they’d nished.
All Avery had to do was stay alert, be ready to drive. But as Vin and her crew piled back into
the Corvette, all of them dressed in black and breathing hard as they clutched sacks full of
their haul, Avery hesitated. He stared at the store owner crumpled in the alley, blood pooled
on the cement.
“Go,” Vin had said, but Avery still looked at the body.
She hit him in the mouth.
He drove.
At least he does this part awlessly. He goes fast, his turns smooth, the way he weaves
amongst traf c more like ying than driving. Behind the wheel, he becomes a creature of
invincible speed and effortless grace, worth his place on this crew and worth the money he’s
paid.
He just—
He didn’t know working for Vin would look like this.
For a minute he wishes he were stealing houses with Sammy instead of here in this car,
holding back his need to stim like one would hold their breath.
The streets grow tighter and dank as the Corvette speeds home. No cops followed, but
Avery’s too fast for that. Vin has her boots on the dashboard, and she tugs off her ski mask
and lights a cigarette.
“Hey, Avery.” Her voice has a smoky calm to it that he knows not to trust. “Next time I say go,
you put your foot on the accelerator or I will put my foot through your face. Make sense?”
He puts ngers to his lip, to the soft open skin where his teeth tore esh after her punch. He
nods because his voice doesn’t work.
When the Corvette pulls up behind her house, everyone exits with their hauls, voices low but
still excited. Robbery brings a high like no other.
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 Vin icks her ngers for Avery to get out. “I need to go somewhere.” She yawns and then
reaches over to uff his hair. “Don’t be sad, kid. Just stop pissing me off and everything will
be ne.”
All he can see is broken glass and ripped out security cameras and faces covered in black
masks and blood dripping off crowbars.
He gets out of the car and Vin slides over to t behind the wheel.
“Hey, what’s your little brother’s name again?” she says.
Avery’s stomach tips sideways and he squeezes his hands into sts behind his back.
“Sammy— Sam.”
“Neat. Tell him to hang around. I want to talk to him.”
The Corvette slides away with a low growl and Avery is left standing in the muck-stained
alley, watching the others vanish into Vin’s shabby house. He sways, exhausted, or maybe
he needs to be sick, and he isn’t sure why Vin brought up Sammy.
Then he understands.
Sammy sits in the gutter with his backpack between his feet, chewing his thumbnail and
looking small and sleepy in an oversized hoodie. His shoelaces are undone, his jeans frayed.
He must have sat there for hours in the dark, surrounded by broken beer bottles and
cigarette butts. Waiting for Avery. Anyone could have come up to him. Cornered him.
Touched him. This is a bad street in a bad neighbourhood—
Avery hurries over, his ngers an anxious utter at his sides. All he wants is to wrap Sammy
up and take him far away.
Tell him to hang around—
All the things Vin could do with him start ashing through Avery’s mind like gunshots.
Sammy’s small for his age, the perfect size to post through tight windows, to climb on high
roofs, to lift over barbed wire fences. He’s also small enough to pin down and beat bloody if
he talks back or disagrees.
Vin would own him. Then hurt him.
With only a weak glow from a far off streetlight, Avery can’t check if Sammy’s hurt or sick, so
he settles for sitting beside him and rubbing his cheek on his little brother’s shoulder. They
are always this for each other, affectionate and gentle. By now they should be brothers of
harsh lines and sharp teeth.
Instead, they are soft.
Sammy’s smile is tired but relieved. “Hey, king of nowhere.”
“That’s bold,” Avery says, “coming from the king of nothing.”
He gets an elbow in the ribs for that, but Sammy looks at him fondly. “I was stealing a house,
but the neighbours called the cops on me. Can I stay with you tonight? I’ve waited for ages.
Where were you?” He notices Avery’s split lip and his frown is instant and erce. “Who did
that to you?”
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“I did it.” It’s the truth; he deserved it.
“Did you have a meltdown?” Sammy looks serious. “You’re supposed to come get me if
you’re overwhelmed. Before you start hitting yourself.”
Because despite the fact he is younger, Sammy is the one who xes things, who takes
control, who smooths over the world’s serrated edges.
He doesn’t understand that he needs protecting too, and Avery tries the best way he knows
how.
Sammy yawns. “I hate this place. I know a half-built house we can sneak into.”
If Avery isn’t here when Vin gets back she’ll be furious.
Sammy scrambles up and tugs at Avery’s arm. “Let’s go. You. And me. We. You’ll feel better
if you’re with me.” He looks hopeful and so young in that moment.
He is just fourteen.
Vin will destroy him.
Avery jerks away. “I don’t want to.” He is unravelling; he is emptiness ripping itself apart.
“You’re always b-babying me. I can do things by-by myself, alright?”
A small frown creases Sammy’s brow. “I didn’t say you couldn’t—”
“You’re thinking it.” Avery glares at him. “I can be alone. I want to be alone.”
Get rid of him. Make him go. Drive him away.
Staying with Vin isn’t always bad. She kisses Avery sometimes, and he knows he’s lucky for
that because when does a boy like him get to kiss a girl like her? When she’s in a good mood
she’s patient with him too. And he earns money fast here, faster than at any mechanic.
He’s doing the right thing, staying.
He’s doing the right thing, sending his brother away.
Sammy shoulders his backpack, his stolen keys clinking. “You’re about to have a meltdown.”
He sounds factual, unfazed. “C’mon. You can do things ‘by yourself’ next time.”
What Avery wants is the refuge Sammy offers.
What he does is step back, body stiff and sts clenched. “I’m staying here. At least when I
have a meltdown I don’t b-beat people up.”
Surprised hurt ashes in Sammy’s eyes and then his expression shutters. He hooks his
thumbs in his backpack straps and curls his shoulders. Absorbing the invisible blow.
Avery feels like a vile thing, but he has to do this.
“Fine. Do whatever you want.” Sammy turns away. “I’ll come back and see you whenever.”
He’s never left before without giving Avery rm promises about where he’ll be, an exact day
he’ll be back, an exact place to meet him. Avery spirals otherwise.
But this is the punishment. Let him panic.
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 He watches Sammy storm off without a backward glance.
If Sammy looked back, he would see Avery palming hot tears off his cheeks, his hands
apping in small, frantic circles. He would see Avery so close to
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himself under an ocean of pain.
He would have come back.
Alone, there’s nothing left for Avery to do but to go inside Vin’s crumbling house and wait.
Empty vodka bottles and beer cans litter the kitchen, pizza boxes with rotten slices piled on
the oor, junk and clothes hurled in lthy mounds. Everyone else has taken celebratory
drinks upstairs, and their laughter turns muf ed as the music gets louder. He’s so, so tired.
He clears off the sofa so he has somewhere to sleep tonight.
Except he knows he won’t be sleeping as he watches Vin walk in. The Corvette keys jangle
between her ngers as she vanishes into the kitchen and returns with wine and a bored
expression. She kicks off her shoes and sweeps a glance over the trashed room before she
notices Avery.
He sits on the sofa with knees pulled up to his chest.
“Where’s your brother?” she says.
Avery touches his broken lip, his mouth still tasting of iron. “He had to go.”
Vin’s eyes are merciless as she strides over. “You couldn’t convince him to stay for ten
minutes? That was too hard?” She smacks her knuckles across the top of his head and he
winces. “Let me explain it again. When I say drive, you drive. When I say stay, you stay.
When I say literally anything, you do it.” She leans in then, taking hold of his jaw and tilting
his face up. “Don’t say no to me.”
“I’m sorr—” Avery says, but she slaps him.
Fresh blood reddens his mouth.
“I want your brother to work for me,” Vin says. “Go bring him back.”
It is good, Avery thinks, that he has no idea where Sammy went.
“I don’t want him to get hurt.” He wipes his mouth, but blood only smears up his cheek. “P-
please, Vin. I just-just don’t want—”
Vin hits him again, and this time his neck wrenches to the side under the force of it. “Try
again. I want your brother to work for me.”
Avery closes his eyes while fear cracks his voice. “No.”
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 Chapter 14
Avery’s secret is this — he likes watching them.
It’s an indulgence, allowing himself to stand at the edge of their family, to track them out of
the corner of his eye, to memorise meaningless details and understand their inside jokes
courtesy of prolonged exposure. After nearly three weeks the De Laineys have become
familiar, no longer strangers. That’s the dangerous part.
He can’t get comfortable in this house, with this family, not even as his soul reaches for
something. For someone.
It would be easier if they hated him for all the trouble he’s caused.
But of course he’s stuck with the one family who refuses to lose patience.
He sits at the table and barricades himself behind the corn akes box and milk carton,
pretending he’s not watching the De Laineys get-ready-for-school chaos. It’s Wednesday,
which means any organisation they had at the beginning of the week has been lost, and
everything has gone cheerfully to hell.
No one’s folded the washing. The slow cooker isn’t working, and Mr. De Lainey is going gray
as he argues with it. Toby bathed with a macaroni necklace and bits of raw noodle are now
hardening in his curls. Dash’s shoelaces broke, but she didn’t tell anyone until right now,
thirty minutes before they leave for school. Moxie and Jack are engaged in a furious war over
who ate the last caramel chocolates. (It was Jeremy. Avery watched him steal the packet last
night and scamper upstairs with zero remorse.) And the baby has discovered it can spit
cheerios with a good amount of mileage and is now doing so at everyone. Gleefully.
Avery hates that he can’t look away.
“I’m making sandwiches!” Jeremy ings open the fridge. “State your orders! We’ve got
peanut butter and jam. Peanut butter and cheese. Peanut butter and…cabbage.”
“Jeremy, did this slow cooker work yesterday?” Mr. De Lainey has the beast of a pot held
upside down over the sink.
“It still does. Just gotta give it a— here, let me.” Jeremy makes a st and thumps the
underside of the cooker.
The light turns on.
“Bingo,” Jeremy says. “No one ever died from a little faulty wiring.”
Moxie gives them a wide berth. “Um, I’m pretty sure that’s how a lot of people die.”
“I’ll get a new one,” Mr. De Lainey says heavily.
Avery’s distracted by Dash sliding onto the bench beside him with her cereal and one of her
Elven Warrior books. She gives him a shy smile and he looks away fast.
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 The thing is, with the watching, he can’t be caught. He has to be cold, aloof, a prickly thing
impossible to hold.
He stabs at his cereal, but then half his barricade is stolen as Jack snags the corn akes.
Avery levels a death glare at him.
“I’ll give it back. Keep your socks on.” Jack upturns the box into his bowl. “Also, as much as
I’m thrilled you discovered the joys of clean clothes, you need to shower more. Or like, ever.”
Avery’s glare turns even darker. He’s still mad that he caved and began to wear the clothes
Jeremy bought — but they’re just so goddamn comfortable.
“I shower,” he mutters.
“Not enough.” Jack steals the milk next.
Avery has nothing to hide behind except his cereal bowl. He slouches lower.
Moxie sits down with the peanut butter jar, which she appears to be eating from with a spoon.
“Is it because the hot water runs out? It’s better in the morning.”
“How many times have you showered since you’ve been here?” Jack says.
“I don’t know.” Avery stares at his cereal. “Three.”
Jack looks exasperated. “For the love of—”
“Jack…” His father’s warning voice comes from the kitchen.
“—gosh darn,” Jack says, rolling his eyes.
Jeremy chooses that moment to come over with a four-layered jam sandwich. He settles in
next to Moxie. “What are we talking about? Who takes the longest in the bathroom? That’s a
tie between Jack and Moxie. They both spend so long on their curls. I am offering haircuts
of cially.”
“We’re not talking about hair,” Jack says. “You have the observational skills of a dehydrated
acorn.”
The baby spits cheerio on the oor and shrieks a laugh.
“Okay, but,” Jeremy takes a huge bite of his sandwich and jam squeezes out the edges, “do
you want a haircut, Avery? I am available.”
“You’re not available,” Jack hisses.
Jeremy has his cheeks puffed out chipmunk-style thanks to the sandwich. “I mean for
haircuts, Jesus.”
Avery is not keeping track of this conversation very well. “There’s no lock.” He’s surprised he
even said it, more surprised when the others stop bickering and listen.
“Ohhh,” Jeremy says. “We forget the bathroom lock’s broken because we’re so used to it. We
can x that. You should have said.”
“No one would ever, um, go in on you, Avery,” Moxie says. “You’re safe here, I promise.”
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An odd feeling pulls at his chest, and he isn’t sure what it is. He concentrates on his cereal,
his pulse picking up because he knows they’re looking at him. Truly seeing him.
Quick to x a problem. Give reassurances.
He didn’t ask for this.
He isn’t allowed to want this.
He needs to steal their car or set re to something or or or — attack someone. Unforgivable
things that will force them to call the police.
Instead, he’s listening to Jeremy and Jack talk about stopping by the hardware store on the
way home from school. For him. As if he can ask for things and they will become a priority.
“You know,” Dash says with the loudness of a kid keen to join a conversation, “in the fourth
book in the Thirteen Elven Kingdoms of War series, Lord Taren’leith uses elf magic to lock his
entire castle to keep evil out.”
“Is that a name,” Jeremy says, “or did you cough?”
“He’s autistic, too.” Dash pats her paperback for emphasis. “I was reading this forum, see,
and it’s not even a headcanon anymore. The author con rmed it in an interview. Taren’leith is
one of the main characters! You’d like him a lot, Avery. Want me to lend you the rst book?”
Dash goes suddenly shy. “You look a bit like an elf. You could totally do cosplays.”
Moxie groans. “Dash, not everyone is into your fandom stuff.”
Dash folds her arms, indignant. “Because you’re boring and won’t read them!”
Jeremy has clearly over-jammed his sandwich and his next bite sends an unfortunate
strawberry glob dripping onto his white school shirt. He looks peeved, tries to lick it, makes it
worse, and then simply takes his whole shirt off and tosses it on the sofa. He returns to
eating, unconcerned.
His skin still bears the tanned kiss of summer, his shoulders a perfectly sculpted slope.
Avery drags his eyes away.
“Nah, Dash is right,” Jack says. “Avery could pull off the Legolas look.”
“Fuck off.” Avery scowls at him.
“Manners, mate.” Jack looks like he’s enjoying himself.
“Please fuck off,” Avery says.
Jack bursts out laughing, chokes on his cereal, and starts coughing. Jeremy whacks his back
but seems unconcerned.
They are the reason Avery makes the mistake.
He’s swirling his spoon through his corn akes, eyes only on the twins, so he doesn’t see the
shadow come up beside him. He feels the weight of it too late, the presence of a person
suddenly there, tall and wide and muscular. There’s no time to escape. All that’s left is feeling
his heart ip inside out as a st swings through the air — ready to slam into his jaw.
He doesn’t want to be hit, he doesn’t want to be hit anymore—
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 Avery ings both arms up to cover his face so fast he knocks his bowl over. Milk and
corn akes spill across the table. He’s shaking, ngers curled into his hair, his eyes squeezed
shut, waiting, waiting waiting—
The blow doesn’t land.
Nothing touches him.
Milk drips off the table, the only sound in a room of dead silence.
Avery opens his eyes, arms still over his head, bones gone waxen and heartbeat staggering
in a sick gallop.
Mr. De Lainey has his hand on the table. He was never swinging. He was simply resting his
hand there so he could lean in to talk to Avery.
The stern frown slips from his face and he looks concerned as he steps back. “It’s alright,
Avery.” His voice sounds strange. “I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Everyone else still stares at him.
Shock, then pity.
This cowering, trembling, mess of a broken boy. Shattered to a thousand pieces and nothing
even happened. He can’t explain it, can’t put into words how much he
doesn’t
want
to be
hit anymore.
He scrambles from his place at the table and backs away. His face burns with the shame of
it.
Mr. De Lainey clears his throat, but his eyes look sad. “Avery, I just wanted to remind you
about your language. I…” His voice goes so gentle. “I’m never going to strike you, alright? I
will never, never strike anyone in this house.”
Ridiculously, Avery is going to cry.
Not here, not in front of them.
He makes for the front door as the world blurs hot and wretched around him.
“I’ll walk to work.” He can barely see the doorknob.
“Avery, wait—” Jeremy says.
But Avery’s already gone, shoes hitting the footpath with a reverberating slap, and then he’s
running hard and fast until he’s as lost on the outside as he feels within. If Sam had been
here—
But Sam isn’t here. He’s not going to save Avery. They are both alone, spines severed and
hearts punched out of their chests. They’re bleeding out on the oor and no one cares.
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They’re just yelled at to get up and behave and work harder because no one wants you no
one wants you no one wants—
Because that’s the truth of it, underneath everything else.
No one wants you, Avery Lou, and when the beating nally comes and your skin is left
mottled with plum bruises, it’s what you have always deserved.
He slows to a walk, breathing ragged, and uses the hem of his tee shirt to wipe at his face. If
he keeps in this direction, he’ll nd the building site eventually. Might take him all day, but
good. He doesn’t want to see any of the De Laineys right now.
He wants to be someone who ghts back, not cowers.
At least walking gives him a chance to tug himself together. He can think out here, with only
the sun above and the occasional car humming passed. Some of the pressure loosens in his
chest.
It gives him space to face the fact that he almost believes it—
Mr. De Lainey will never hit him.
Evidence has stacked up too high to be ignored now. Like the way Mr. De Lainey never yells,
never loses patience with his kids. Like the way, Jack and Jeremy made Avery drink a gallon
of water when they got back from the lighthouse last Friday so he wouldn’t risk smelling of
beer. Because they didn't want to hurt their father.
Not because he might hurt them.
A car slows down behind Avery. He walks on the street’s edge and the car could go around,
but when it doesn’t he tenses, thinking it will be the De Laineys.
That’s his rst mistake, being this consumed thinking about the De Laineys that he doesn’t
immediately register the pearly growl of a sleek engine. It promises speed and power,
seductive and dangerous. This is no clunking van with a squealing clutch.
The car glides alongside him and when Avery turns, his heart crashes to a halt. He shies
back, but it’s too late.
The Dodge Viper keeps pace with him, a horrible parody of the day Vin picked him up
outside the mechanic. The windows are down, a passenger in the front seat beside Vin.
Neither of them smile. Vin wears a black leather jacket with her hair in a ropey cord over her
shoulder. She ties it back like that before she gets her hands dirty.
Her companion sprawls like a jungle cat, eyes bright and vicious. One of Vin’s crew who had
more experience and charm than Avery ever did. The only thing Avery did better than all of
them was drive.
Now he is on foot, and the Viper has over six hundred horsepower.
“Hey, Avery.” Vin drapes her arm out the window as she drives, casual and cool behind her
tinted sunglasses. “Been waiting for you to be alone. Get in the car.”
Avery keeps walking, but he’s shaking.
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“It’s crowded in here but we’ll tuck you in,” Vin says. “Unless you want Trey to snap your
kneecaps and t you in the boot. I’m okay with that.”
Avery’s hands start apping. He looks around wildly for an escape, but there’s nothing,
nothing, nothing. The backyard fences are high here, dogs bark behind them.
No one is coming to save him.
“I’m not asking, Avery.” The pleasant air drops from Vin’s voice. Only ice cold fury remains.
“Do what you’re told before I add to that brain damage of yours.”
“I left.” It takes everything to keep his voice steady. “I’m not working for you—”
“Kid, you don’t get to leave.”
The engine revs suddenly and Avery inches.
“You will pay me back for the Corvette. Or,” Vin says, “I’ll run you down.”
Panic blooms black and rotten in his lungs. He licks the scar in the corner of his mouth.
Tastes blood and salt and petrol and a hundred nights with Vin.
“Fine,” Vin says.
The engine roars.
Everything inside Avery bursts into a thousand fractured pieces. He takes a breath
and
runs.
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 Chapter 15
The worst part about it, Jeremy thinks as he jogs down the verandah steps and messes with
his school tie, is that Avery won’t want them to go after him. He’s ne, wherever he is, and it
will piss him off to have a De Lainey — Jeremy, to be speci c — hurtling down the street with
arms ailing, asking if he’s okay.
It’s best to leave him alone until he cools off.
Jeremy stops on the driveway and watches Jack and their sisters pile into the jeep while Dad
nishes buckling the babies into the van and waits for Jack to back out. Faces are tense and
moods are on the oor, but the day must go on. Avery will return at some point, and he’ll be
angry and withdrawn, back to treating them all with suspicion and fear before skittering away.
Jeremy shouldn’t be this disappointed, but he is. He felt on the cusp of something with Avery.
Now it’s lost.
Jack leans on the horn, giving Jeremy a “what the hell?” gesture because he still stands
motionless staring into space.
“No.” Jeremy hefts his backpack and strides for the van. “No, he’s not hurting alone his time.”
He slings his backpack in the back of the van and vaults into the passenger seat.
Dad is about to start the engine. “This is not your ride?”
“Are you going to look for him?” Jeremy sounds more demanding than he means to, but he’s
not sorry. “Because I’m coming.”
Dad leans out the window and motions Jack to go on. “I was planning to circle the block and
see how far he’s gone. But I’m the last person he wants to see.”
“That’s why I’m coming.” Jeremy buckles up. “You can write me a late note for school.”
“Son—”
“Dad.” Jeremy claps his hands together. “On grounds of family crisis. Or drama. It’s the same
thing. Just drive.”
Dad shakes his head, but he drives.
The jeep zooms off towards school — Jeremy is going to catch it from Jack later for leaving
him out — and Dad makes slow circles of the surrounding streets while Jeremy hangs as far
out the window as his seatbelt will allow and scans for Avery. He might want to be alone, but
maybe he shouldn’t be alone. That was a whole triggered meltdown and someone needs to
talk to him about it. Reassure him.
In another world, another life, Jeremy would be able to fold his arms over Avery’s shoulders
and hold him, just hold him, until he understands what it means when someone whispers,
Everything’s going to be okay.
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They’ve done three blocks and Dad taps his thumbs against the steering wheel, his brow
furrowed. The babies start to whine in their car seats, aware something is off, and Avery is
nowhere. He could’ve sprinted through backyards. Hidden behind a house. He could be
anywhere.
“Do I come across as aggressive to you kids?” Dad says suddenly.
Jeremy snaps a glance at him. “No? It’s just you’re, well, big. And…I guess his dad was a
real piece of work?”
“I want to meet his father.” Dad’s voice goes hard. “I want to meet that man and—” He stops
abruptly, puts on his indicator, and makes a careful left turn.
Jeremy would love to know where that sentence was going. “It would help if Avery
considered our house a safe place. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even ask for stuff. I don’t think
he knows he can. You know what we could do?” Jeremy twists in his seat, excitement rising.
“We should help him get a driver’s license. Dad, he’s super into cars and he drives— okay,
that can’t be legal now that I think about it. But if he had a license with our address on it,
maybe our house would feel permanent.”
Dad makes a soft humming sound. “I’ll need to talk to Evans rst, but it’s a good plan. If
Avery agrees to a few driving lessons with me, maybe he’d see that I’m not…” He trails off.
It’s eating Dad up, Jeremy can see it in the tired lines around his eyes. Being seen as a
threat.
Jeremy’s mind tumbles in slow circles around the idea of Avery behind the wheel, how when
his arms twist, he’s all slim muscles and deft ngers, and how, when he relaxes, the ghost of
a smile sits in the corner of his mouth.
Not that Jeremy would look at his mouth.
“Let me tell him,” Jeremy starts, but his attention snags on a gure hurtling down the
footpath. The van chugs at a steady pace in the opposite direction, so all Jeremy sees is a
blur of jeans and white-blonde hair.
He blinks.
“Wait.” Jeremy shoves his head out the window. “That was— Avery! Why is he running?
Looks exhausting.”
Dad glances in the rearview mirror as he slows. “At least he’s nearly at the building site.”
Then they see the car.
It’s the kind of car that devours attention; some sort of sports car, all sleek curves and liquid
power seeping through every roar of the engine. It shoots passed them like a bullet, rubber
burning as it runs two tyres up on the footpath and keeps driving. Jeremy’s rst thought is, It
can’t be legal to do that. Then understanding hits him in the stomach so hard, he can’t
breathe.
The car surges forward in a fresh burst of speed — right behind Avery.
It’s trying to run him down.
“DAD.” Jeremy lurches forward in his seat.
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 But Dad has already slammed on the brakes and wrenched the van in a hard U-turn.
Jeremy’s seatbelt jams and half throttles him, but he can’t think past the blood roaring in his
ears.
“Dad, drive. DRIVE!” Jeremy shouts.
Colour drains from Dad’s face. “I’m trying.” The van gives a raspy cough as Dad plunges
through gears.
Reality feels disconnected from this moment. Things like this don’t happen in real life.
Movies, sure, but Jeremy’s never seen someone about to be run over like this.
They’re trying to kill Avery. This isn’t real—
Avery bolts to the end of the street, half tripping as he takes the corner at full speed. The
sports car has to swerve to avoid a light pole. That’s the only thing saving Avery from being
attened. He skims out of view down the next street, and the car screams after him.
The van makes a shrill hissing sound as Dad begs it to go faster.
“Call the police.” Dad’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Now, Jeremy.”
“My phone’s in my backpack,” Jeremy says, and glances helplessly into the backseat. The
babies seem ne, just wide-eyed in their car seats.
The van barrels around the corner — too slow, too slow — and up ahead the street widens to
a cul-de-sac, Dad’s beautiful nearly- nished house sitting at the end. The front yard is pure
chaos; scrap heaps and skip bins and a bobcat meant to get the landscaping started. Uncle
Rob’s 4WD isn’t there. Dammit, dammit.
This short length of road is straight. No footpaths. The sports car storms forward with power
like a curdling scream. Avery ies. His thin legs stretch, his head down. His lungs must be
exploding as he vaults into the building site.
The sports car pulls up a split second behind him, passenger door rushing open as a man
leaps out.
Jeremy rips off his seatbelt, but the van is still too far away. They’ll never make it in time.
All he can do is watch, helpless, as Avery trips over scattered trash in the yard, falls to his
hands and knees, and then scrabbles forward as the man grabs his ankles and yanks him
back.
He’s on Avery then, their bodies a confusing smear, until Jeremy can’t tell what’s happening.
He sees the st rise. Come down. He hears Avery’s cry.
Jeremy can’t do anything—
The van pulls up and Dad wrenches up the handbrake as he shoves out his door.
Jeremy’s tumbling out too, but his head is full of the broken, terri ed sounds coming from
Avery. Pinned to the ground. Hands curled over his head. He’s not even ghting. The man
grips the throat of Avery’s shirt, and slams down punch after punch. Every blow is purposeful.
Calculated. Controlled.
This is suffering, coloured in bloody, black agony.
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 Dad gets there rst. He is a mountain in that moment, strong enough to pull the whole sun
out of the sky.
He grabs the man’s shoulders and hurls him off Avery with pure adrenaline fuelled fury. “Get
away from my son!”
The man swears as he staggers, and then surges forward again, his eyes like pit vipers
locked on Avery, who’s curled on the ground.
Dad grabs the man by the shoulder, whips him around, and punches him.
The meaty thwack rings across the whole street. The man crumples like a lump of play-
dough packed down to t in its pot.
Jeremy stumbles to a stop, his heartbeat in his mouth and his eyes saucer wide as he stares
at the man twitching around in the dirt.
But Avery springs to his feet and zips out of there so fast Jeremy’s attempt to reach for him
ends in clasping at the air. Avery has one arm wrapped around his ribs, body bent double in
pain, but when he reaches the house he snatches for the nearest drainpipe and climbs.
Gravity leaves the conversation. Avery scuttles up, hand over hand, sneakers hooking into a
window frame and bouncing off bricks, until he’s at the gutter and hauling himself up and
over onto the roof. Legs ail, and then he’s gone.
Dad stands over the man, sts clenched and breathing heavy. “Get off my property. I’m
calling the police.”
The man blinks up at him with all the faculties of someone who’s just been belted into next
week. Then he’s on his feet, limping back to the sports car that’s already reversing.
They roar away, leaving streaks of black rubber smoking behind them.
Dad doubles over, his hands on his knees.
Jeremy staggers to him, but his legs have turned to jellied noodles. Holy…shit. He gets to
Dad and pats him on the back. “You…decked him.”
Dad seems to be struggling to breathe. He stares at his reddened knuckles. “I-I…I’ve never
done that before. I—” He looks at the roof where there is zero sign of Avery. “There goes
convincing him I’m not aggressive.”
Jeremy lets out an unfunny laugh because his brain is short circuiting on how to react to all of
this. “I think you just saved his life.”
“Avery?” Dad straightens, still nursing his hand. “Are you alright?”
No answer.
“We have to get him down,” Jeremy says. “If he has a meltdown up there….” He doesn’t
nish. There’s no need.
Jeremy scouts for a ladder, and they set it up next to the drainpipe. Then Dad heads back to
the van to check on the babies, both now howling at either being left or watching their dad
hulk out. It leaves Jeremy to make his tentative way up the ladder, and consider how often he
has to climb things to convince Avery to get down. But the way he scaled that drainpipe was
— like a runaway, a thief.
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A criminal.
Jeremy grips the top of the ladder and peers across the roof. With a house this size the roof
has plenty of gables and corners, everything done in elegant tiles.
Avery lies at on his stomach at the highest peak. He stares straight at Jeremy, his face
wiped of expression. The blankness is horrible, but not as bad as the blood running down his
nose and smeared over his lips and the red swelling on his cheek. And the way he had arms
wrapped around himself before…he might have broken ribs.
Their eyes meet. Avery’s mouth trembles.
“Hey.” Jeremy makes his voice as soft as he can. “They’re gone. They’re super gone.”
Avery shrinks like he wants to meld with the roof.
“I would really love,” Jeremy goes on, “if you came down with me. Please? Avery…please.” A
plaintive request, useless to a boy who never does what anyone asks.
But Avery edges forward, and then crawls towards Jeremy. His sneakers slip on roof tiles,
and Jeremy reaches out for him, far as he can.
Avery’s ngers brush his. Then their hands clasp tight. Jeremy never wants to let go.
“I’ve got you,” he says.
They climb down together, Jeremy letting go so Avery’s free to hold onto the ladder. There is
a chance Jeremy could vomit, or cry, or yell maybe. He has no idea how he feels except his
insides are churned butter and looking at the naked terror in Avery’s eyes has wrecked
Jeremy for good.
Feet on solid ground, Avery puts his back to the house and slides into a crouch, arms
wrapped protectively about his stomach again. Jeremy forces himself a few steps back
before he does something stupid like try to hug Avery.
Dad trudges across the yard towards them, phone in hand. “Avery, where are you hurt? I’m
calling the police rst, but then—”
“NO.” Avery rises, but he’s trembling with animal terror. “Don’t. You c-can’t. Don’t— don’t.”
Dad stares.
Avery wipes his face, blood ush on his lips, his cheek, streaking down his neck. “Please, p-
please don’t.”
“They tried to run you down, Avery. To…to kill you. Who—” Dad stops.
“It was Vin, okay?” Tears haunt Avery’s voice. He’s a second from losing it. “That was Vin.”
Jeremy’s trying to swallow the weight of this, but he can’t. He feels sick. “Then we have to
call the cops. They could catch her and get justice for Sam—”
“It’s not like that,” Avery says.
Jeremy’s trying not to raise his voice. “Then what is it like?”
“Avery,” Dad’s voice comes heavy. “Help us understand.”
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“She tried to kill Sam and now you.” Jeremy ails an arm in the direction of the vanished
sports car. “We can catch her—”
“YOU WON’T CATCH HER.” Avery slams his whole body backwards into the house. “You
don’t get it! You don’t get it—”
Dad holds up his hands. “Just take a breath, Avery. What don’t we get?”
“You don’t get it.” He’s yelling now, all control snapped. “She was n-never my girlfriend. I
worked for her. She’s a thief and she runs b-big jobs and she can get…get rid of people.” He
looks away sharply.
“Avery,” Dad’s trying to sound soothing. “We can explain this to the police—”
“You don’t know what I did for her.” His hands ap and he’s not trying to hide it anymore. “You
don’t know what I s-s-s-saw her do.”
Jeremy cuts a sideways look at his father, but Dad is as shocked as Jeremy feels. They’ve all
wondered if there’s more to the story of Avery and Sammy Lou than the brothers told, but
they didn’t ask. Maybe it felt easier that way. Safer.
One thing makes sense now, why Avery inches at every shadow, sees everyone as a threat.
What things, Jeremy wonders, feeling dizzy, has Avery seen?
“If you call the cops on her,” Avery’s voice cracks, “she’ll kill you.”
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 Chapter 16
Avery folds himself into a corner, a paper boy left bloody and swollen, untouchable because
who would want to get close. If Sam were here he’d take one look at Avery and know what’s
coming, know to take him somewhere quiet and safe, know to hold onto him with a pressure
erce and tight enough to keep Avery from detonating like a bullet shot through glass.
Nothing holds Avery together anymore.
He is going to lose himself.
The best he can do is hole upstairs in one of the huge empty bedrooms of Mr. De Lainey’s
mansion. He crams himself hard into a corner, nothing for company except a toolbox and
discarded packaging from the wardrobe shelving they put in yesterday. He’d nished
repainting this wall from his assault, and felt almost proud of the work. Now he hates it. Hates
this house. Hates that he failed, again, to make them put him in with Sam.
Avery digs ngers into the soft carpet. Focus on this. Don’t think about Vin. Don’t think about
how much your body throbs. Don’t think how you’ve brought Vin onto the De Laineys.
If he gets Sam’s favorite people killed—
Don’t go there.
But the truth burns inside his head, tearing holes through every fragile, cobwebbed lie he
reassured himself with. He shouldn’t have wrecked the Corvette. He should have let Vin win.
All of this, the bruises and the chase and her fury and the De Laineys’ shock, is his fault.
He needs to get to Sam. Get away from Vin. Leave the De Laineys before—
he hurts them.
Avery’s eyes slide to the toolbox.
It hurts like hell to move, but he makes himself stand. Vin’s attack dog worked Avery hard
before Mr. De Lainey got there; sts to his kidneys, his stomach, relentless blows he can still
feel rattling his teeth. A minute longer and his ribs would’ve cracked, his eye bursting with
blood. Mr. De Lainey tried to take Avery to the emergency room, but Avery refused. He has to
pretend the worst is his face — his eye is going to be a blackened mess tomorrow —
because no way will he go to a hospital haunted with memories of Sam’s stabbing.
What he wishes, pathetic and stupid and weak, is that Jeremy had stayed.
It had been a ght to make him leave. Mr. De Lainey insisted Jeremy had to go to school,
and Jeremy had been electric with indignation, demanding to stay. By the time Rob arrived,
Mr. De Lainey asked him to get ice for Avery’s face while he ferried Jeremy to class and the
babies to daycare.
The thing Mr. De Lainey didn’t say was: they’ll be safer away from here.
In case Vin comes back.
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 “I need to nish up the back rooms,” Mr. De Lainey had said, casting a worried look at Avery.
“Then I’ll take you home. Just rest, alright? We’ll leave you alone and Jeremy won’t crowd
you.”
A gift. But it’s really a punishment.
Avery doesn’t want to be alone. Hold me hold me hold me—
He limps to the toolbox and stares down at the collision of hammers and screws, angles and
tape.
What if Vin goes after the little kids? What if she goes for Moxie? What if—
Downstairs, a drill starts up in a loud, insistent whine. Wood clatters. Rob’s voice rises,
indistinct. They’re far away; they won’t get here in time.
He can do this.
Avery picks up a hammer.
A hurricane uncoils down his spine, slicing skin and tendons, ripping through his head with an
avalanche’s howl. He can’t think. Can’t hold this in anymore. His chest has been ripped open,
a wickedly dark void surging up his throat. When he falls, Sam won’t catch him. No one will.
It will be Avery and—
He slams the hammer into the wall.
—this nal attempt—
The hammer goes in again and again, punching through plaster and fresh paint.
—to make the De Laineys get rid of him—
A horrible sound rips from his throat. His arms tremble and his chest moves too fast, too
ragged. He’s drowning, his lungs are full of agony, and there is no air in the room.
Downstairs, the drill cuts out and someone shouts.
The hammer slams hard and fast into the wall while burning tears slur the world into a mess
before him. He’s ruining everything. He is destruction shaped as a boy, and that’s all anyone
will ever see of him.
He needs Sam. Sam.
SamSamsamsamsam—
Mr. De Lainey explodes into the room, catching the doorframe to keep from tripping.
Avery doesn’t stop, only puts his st into the plaster next, the shock up his arm so far away it
feels painless. Skin across his knuckles splits. All he can think of is Sam’s hands, bloodied
and bruised and violent, how that’s the real reason they locked him up.
That’s what Avery has to do next, the last line to cross. Hurt someone.
“Avery! Stop.” Mr. De Lainey crashes through the cardboard and plastic on the oor.
Avery spins, the hammer clutched in a bloodless grip. Everything shrieks passed his eyes in
a smear of electri ed light. All he has to do is—
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 hurt someone
In his hand is a hammer.
Mr. De Lainey reaches for him. He’s right there.
“Avery, give me the hammer.” The voice is steady and unafraid.
Avery’s shaking so hard he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t.
hurt someone
now now now now do it go the whole way you have to be with sam you can’t survive this
without sam they need to lock you up or you’ll get them killed you’ll ruin everything they hate
you they hate you everyone hates you
A gentle hand closes around Avery’s wrist. The hammer is tugged free.
Avery’s arm falls limp to his side.
He’s hot and dizzy and sick and he doesn’t remember sinking to his knees, folding up so his
forehead touches the carpet. He wants to stop, he wants everything to stop, but beating his
forearms against the oor isn’t enough. His head comes down hard, then harder. Sobs run up
his throat and spill between moaning grunts. He is not a person anymore; he is light torn
apart until it shatters with a scream.
“Avery.”
There is nothing in his head now, just the screaming.
“Avery, I need you to—”
His head connects with the oor, vicious this time. He can’t survive this alone. He doesn’t
want to be this—
A hand on his shoulder, heavy as iron and terrible as broken glass ground into bare skin.
Avery inches away and crashes into the pockmarked wall. He slams his whole body into the
broken plaster as hard as he can, not even sure what he’s doing anymore.
Something grabs him by the ankles and with a swift, taut jerk, he’s slid away from the wall.
Then arms slide around Avery’s shoulders, his chest, cutting off his ability to hit anything,
himself included, but leaving his hands free. He aps hard, wild, his legs pedalling uselessly
at the ground, but he can’t move.
Except that’s not true. He can move, he just can’t get free.
Mr. De Lainey’s voice remains the same, neutral and low. “Avery, you can move your hands.
That’s right. Keep doing that. I’m going to hold onto you for a minute, son. I’m not trying to pin
you down and I’ll let go soon.”
Avery's choking on thick, mucus- lled sobs now, his head lolling forward because he’s dizzy
from the blows.
“I don’t want you to hit your head.”
He wrenches his head back and forth, hands still apping. Nothing is in focus. Nothing is
okay. Somehow, distantly, he knows he failed again.
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“J-j-just—” Every word slurs in his mouth full of broken stars. “J-just send me to j-j-j-jail. I’m d-
dangerous. I’m terrible. I-I-I—”
“It’s okay,” Mr. De Lainey says quietly. “It’s okay.”
“IT’S NOT OKAY.” He’s screaming now, apping harder. “SEND ME AWAY.”
There’s a long pause. Mr. De Lainey loosens his grip and Avery hates that, wants to be held
tight and tighter. But Mr. De Lainey only hovers, waiting to see if Avery will start hitting his
head again, before he sits back on his heels. There’s something indescribably weary about
his eyes.
“You don’t want to live with us? Is that what it’s all about?” He rubs a hand over his face. “I
never meant to force you to be part of my family. I can ask Evans to nd you a new home.”
Every sob makes Avery feel sicker. It hurts to push words out between the wrenching spasms
in his ribs. “No. Not a home. JAIL. I said jail. You-you-you don’t listen. S-send me to f-f-
fucking JAIL.”
A wave of understanding washes over Mr. De Lainey’s face. His eyes widen and he lets out a
small, “Oh.”
At last. At long, long last.
“You think they’ll put you with Sam, don’t you?”
Avery’s nodding through his tears, backhanding his puffy eyes.
“Oh, Avery.”
Avery digs ngers into his hair, rocking back and forward, trying to slow his breathing. The
way Mr. De Lainey looks at him is the worst thing in the world.
Sad and pitying and gentle.
“I need you to take a deep breath and listen.” Mr. De Lainey rubs at his forehead. “No matter
what damage you do or crime you commit, they will never - never - put you in with Sam.”
Avery’s frenetic rocking slows.
“Do you understand?” Mr. De Lainey says. “They will keep you separated, always. And they
could try you as an adult. You’re almost eighteen. You can keep destroying things and hurting
people, and I can call Evans or even the police, but they will never - never - put - you - in -
with - Sam.”
Every word lands like another kick to Avery’s already caved in ribs. Silence lls the room,
broken by his hitched breathing.
Inside, he is empty. Everything has spilled from him onto the oor.
He stares at the dirty knees of his jeans.
When he forces his eyes up to Mr. De Lainey’s, he knows he looks like a patchwork of failure
and salt crusted tears and eyes nearly swollen shut from the crying.
“Please?” he says.
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Mr. De Lainey gives him the very saddest smile. “That’s not how it works, kiddo. All you can
do is wait it out. Sam’s going to be released, I promise, and you can stay with my family while
you wait, or I can call Evans and he can move you somewhere else. It’s your choice.”
Avery’s nose has started bleeding again. He wipes his sleeves over his face, smears snot
and tears and blood. “If you c-c-c-call Evans…”
“He’ll take you away,” Mr. De Lainey says. “But he won’t put you with Sam.”
“Not with Sam,” Avery repeats, raw. “But Vin c-could come back.”
Mr. De Lainey is already shaking his head. “We’ll deal with that if it happens. No, not we. I will
deal with that. I asked to be your guardian, and I’m trying my very best to do that. I know
you’ve spent the last years barely holding on, barely surviving, but you don’t have to do that
anymore. You get to rest, Avery Lou. You get to let go, because I am holding on for you.” He
sounds solid right then, earnest in an unyielding way, like all this time he’s been offering to
build walls around Avery — not to trap him, but to protect him.
“What if I s-s-stay then?” Avery feels split open, bones and nerves and muscles exposed and
vulnerable. Empty, but no longer falling.
Mr. De Lainey says, “I would love for you to stay.”
“I want to x the wall.” Avery sounds small and muddy.
“I’m not worried about the wall.” He hasn’t even looked at it, not once.
“But I want to.” Avery swallows hard, his frantic apping slowed. “I’m sorry…I-I-I know I wreck
everything, but I want to-to-to x it. Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks. Sometimes things j-just
need a little attention, and then they turn out okay, you know?”
Mr. De Lainey palms some of the blood and tears from Avery’s face. “I know.”
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 Chapter 17
After living in the butter yellow house for seventeen years, Jeremy would like to think he
knows which oorboards groan and which hinges whine and how not to sound like three
moose stacked on top of each other blundering loudly down a hallway. But no. He is the most
offensive thing to happen to a quiet Saturday morning and he feels so, so bad about it.
Because Avery is trying to sleep.
He’s mostly been sleeping since Wednesday — which Jeremy has slotted in as one of the
worst days ever — only surfacing for infrequent meals and painkillers. He refused to let Dad
take him to the hospital. Which, alright, he doesn’t like doctors. But Jeremy worked himself
into a spiral in Dad’s bedroom at 11 p.m. last night, pacing and gesturing wildly and ranting in
a whisper-shout that Avery might have a concussion, or his brain is bleeding and they’re
leaving him to sleep, and what if he’s dying and what if—
“Jeremy.” Dad had been in bed, owl glasses sliding down his nose and a book in his lap. “I’m
monitoring the situation. He had a meltdown after you left, and I think he’s doing a little
autistic shut down and reboot. Can you make yourself some warm milk and go to bed,
please?”
“I don’t need calming down with milk! I am calm!” Jeremy kept pacing. “And what do you
know about autism? I thought none of us knew anything.”
Dad raises one eyebrow and then props up the book. Some sort of memoir meets self-help
book from an autistic writer. Jeremy stops ailing around and considers this.
“I think,” Dad says, “he had a lot to let out.”
Jeremy sneaked into Dad’s bedroom the next morning, stole the book, and read a few
chapters on literal thinking and sensory overload. Then he found pages about how some
autistic people can’t articulate what is wrong because they don’t know, and all the wrong
things pile higher and higher until there is nothing left but thunderous eruption.
Living through that has to be exhausting.
Three days later and Jeremy is wishing he had the guts to knock on Avery’s door and ask if
he’s okay. Instead, Jeremy is ferreting all the dirty clothes from upstairs and marching them
to the laundry because if he’s going to vibrate with nervous energy, he might as well put it to
use.
There is no “catching up” on the washing in the De Lainey household. There is simply a
desperate struggle for survival in the war against Mount Laundry Doom. Someone is always
yelling they’ve lost a skirt or tie or favourite unicorn tee shirt. Even if Jeremy puts in maximum
effort and gets clean clothes folded and stacked in wardrobes, everyone just goes and wears
them again. What is the point! The babies go through three out ts a day and Jeremy has
chosen to die on the inside instead of question it.
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 He’s trying to tidy quietly, but so far he’s fallen into a plastic Noah’s Ark, hit every creaky stair,
knocked his elbow against a doorknob and had to swear for a good minute, then tripped over
his own laundry basket and hit the oor like a glorious beached whale. Is he always this
obnoxious and loud? He should ask Jack. Wait, he’s not asking Jack, he won’t get an
unbiased answer.
Jeremy stands in the hallway, holding someone’s underwear and Grady’s jeans — Grady
doesn’t even live here anymore — when Avery’s bedroom door edges open.
They stare at each other for a minute; Avery looking like he went three rounds in a boxing
ring and then got tumble-dried for days, and Jeremy waving about underwear that he’s now
realising are his. He stuffs them in the washing basket.
“Hi,” he squeaks. “Did I wake you?”
Avery frowns in the mussy way of someone not quite awake. “No…I think there was like ten
people in the hallway before, that’s all.”
Jeremy gives a sheepish smile and then points to his dragon hoard. “Anything to add? I’m
putting on a load. I’m putting on maybe, six loads.”
Avery wanders back into his room, mumbling to himself, and his door drifts open. An
invitation. Jeremy edges in. Avery picks up a few things off the oor to inspect if they’re dirty
enough — given his standards of wearing one shirt for two weeks, this process is not
trustworthy — and Jeremy has the unobstructed chance to look at him.
Mostly at the bruises. He wears only jeans, low against sharp hips, and black and green
bruises spread over his ribs and stomach. At least his black eye looks less swollen, but his
cheekbone has gone a livid plum.
“There’s arnica cream downstairs,” Jeremy blurts. “For the bruises, I mean. Dad’s been
slathering it on his knuckles.”
Avery works at his knotted frown with a thumb. “Okay.”
Okay. That simple? How much resetting did all that sleeping do?
Avery tosses some clothes into Jeremy’s basket.
“Those jeans look a bit manky,” Jeremy adds. “Want to take them off and add them in?”
Avery’s nodding. “Okay.” He starts unbuttoning.
Jeremy realises a second too late that he’s going to take them off now. Right now.
Immediately now. Because he’s a literal person and Jeremy asked him to.
“Wait! Waitwaitwait.” Jeremy half drops his armload of washing. “Um, sorry, I mean. After I
leave? I wasn’t trying to—” He laughs, panicked, “—order you out of your clothes.”
Now Avery looks confused. “Do you want me to take off my pants or not?”
“You know what,” Jeremy squeaks, “I’ll be in the laundry. Throw them downstairs when you’re
ready!”
He ees.
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Surrounded by boxes of detergent and piles of clothes, Jeremy sits with his back to the
washing machine as it thunders through a cycle. The vibrations up his spine are not quite
distracting enough.
He’s aware he’s caring a little too much about Avery Lou and he has to pack this up before it
gets worse.
What he needs to do is care in a foster-brotherly way. That’s ne.
Jeremy considers folding himself into a stamped envelope addressed to Iceland, no returns.
He’s still blinking hard at the wall when Avery slouches into the laundry, ings his dirty jeans
onto a pile and settles down beside Jeremy. This is — unexpected. Interactions with Avery
are numbered at One Per Day on a limited time frame with no repeats. But between the piles
of washing over owed to the oor and the warm hum of the machine going, it’s almost
comfortable to sit there together. Avery has on dubiously fresh pants, but still no shirt, and he
holds the pot of arnica cream, scrounged from the kitchen. He unscrews the lid and wrinkles
his nose.
“This is awful. What does it do?”
“Reduces swelling?” Jeremy says. “Look, I never know anything about anything. Are you in a
lot of pain?”
“I’ve had worse.” Avery sounds factual. “But Sam’s usually there. I’m glad he wasn’t though.”
He starts rubbing small amounts of cream onto the mottled bruises across his ribs. “Vin
would’ve killed him. He doesn’t know how to stop. Neither does she, I guess.”
“Do you…want to talk about it?” Each word feels tentative in Jeremy’s mouth. “Because you
can, you know. Talk about anything. I’ll listen.”
Avery’s quiet for a moment, and Jeremy feels he’s balancing on a high wire with no clue what
he’s doing, what’s allowed, what’s safe.
“Did your dad tell Evans?” Avery says at last.
“Not yet,” Jeremy says. “Does Vin run like, a gang?” He hesitates and then ploughs on.
“Does Sam know?”
Avery scoffs and then breaks off with a whole-body wince. “It’s just her and the crew, and we
stole stuff at night. Of course I didn’t tell Sam. I’m his older brother, I kept him safe.” He turns
on Jeremy then, something erce and bright in his eyes. “You’d do the same for your
brother.”
“The stakes are a little lower around here,” Jeremy says. “The things I keep Jack safe from
are swallowing snake lollies without chewing and clearing his browsing history.”
Avery’s leg presses against Jeremy’s. An accident for sure, since Avery’s focused on the
cream.
“You should save Jack from his very bad gear changes,” Avery says. “He hiccups shifting
from second to third every time.”
“He won’t do my homework if I criticise his driving.” Jeremy remains still so his leg doesn’t
jostle Avery’s.
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“Half the problem is your piece of shit cars,” Avery mutters, and then blinks hard as he
touches the corner of his black eye. “Sam says not to talk about cars too much, so I won’t.”
Jeremy trips over his own tongue to say, “No, no go ahead. You can talk about whatever you
want. I like cars. Who doesn’t like cars?” He has no idea about cars. “Hey, do you want me to
—” Since they’ve tipped into an upside-down twilight zone where he does things like sit next
to untouchable boys, Jeremy feels brave enough to take the arnica cream from Avery. He
scoops up a little and then touches Avery’s cheek. His ngers are feather light.
He’s lost his mind.
Avery tilts his head towards Jeremy. He doesn’t make eye contact, but he doesn’t seem
agitated. Jeremy brushes a thumb under Avery’s eyelid, the cream cool against soft skin.
Jeremy moves down to the bruised cheekbone, slow, so slow, because under his ngers is a
wild thing, part feral, part lovely, and he doesn’t want to ruin this.
It feels like a gift, this moment, a turning point around a corner that seemed far away. This is
a shy and tentative offering of trust from Avery, and Jeremy would rather fall off the edge of
the world than be unworthy of it.
“I don’t want to talk about Vin.” A small frown puckers adorably across Avery’s forehead. “But
I can tell you about her Corvette.”
“Isn’t that an ice cream?”
Avery looks affronted. “It’s a car.”
“Ah,” Jeremy says. “I was close.”
Avery lets his ngers dance in the air, and he’s un ltered right then. His frown’s not cross,
just serious, his body loose and stims unashamed.
And then he starts to talk.
It’s a glass shattering and water spilling everywhere, it’s a window left open and sunlight
pouring in, it’s a box unlocked and everything inside proving to be more beautiful than
imagined.
Avery is talking and he just
doesn’t
stop.
Jeremy feels as if he could smile forever.
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 Chapter 18
Anticipation runs beneath his skin like an electric current; the good kind, not the kind that
preludes a meltdown. Enough vulnerable corners and raw edges of Avery Lou have been on
display lately, so it’s a relief to feel like this for once. He’s not about to make a mess, wreck
anything, disappoint anyone, hurt himself.
There is just Avery, vibrating as he hops out of the van, slams the door twice to get the latch
to hold, and then darts across the street like an overwound music box about to explode into
song.
He’s jittering on the spot as he waits for Mr. De Lainey — who checks for traf c like a boring
old person — to reach the footpath. Today Avery decides he won’t hide his stimming.
They want him to stay, this is what they get. Bruises, serious frowns, hands that never stay
still, his words tumbling out full force when he decides to let himself go.
He’s been doing more of that lately, slipping up and letting go. As if he’s been given
permission. But more than that, as if he believes what Mr. De Lainey said that day after Avery
put a hammer through the wall.
Mr. De Lainey slipped up too that day, calling Avery son. That won’t happen again, but Avery
cautiously takes the memory out late at night and rolls it around like a gemstone in need of
polishing.
It’s been a week since then, his bruises yellowed and fading. But the memory of Jeremy’s
thumb resting against Avery’s cheek feels fresh; a brand, there forever.
Mr. De Lainey tucks car keys into his pocket and eyes Avery with amusement. “I’ve never
seen you this excited to see Evans.”
“I’m furious at Evans,” Avery says, tart. “What did you tell him about my face?”
“We’ve been emailing a bit,” Mr. De Lainey says. “I explained we had a run in with people
from your past. We can tell him more if—”
“Nope.” Avery isn’t about to trust Evans with anything. “Let’s collect my stuff and leave.”
“After a quick chat.” Mr. De Lainey holds up a hand as Avery starts to steam. “Then pick up
your ID before we go—”
“Get my license.” Avery hand beats a rhythm against his thigh. “Hurry up.”
He strides for the Child Protection Services of ce, a hurricane of frowns and single-minded
focus, while Mr. De Lainey follows with a wry smile.
The fact that Avery will end up driving in that resurrected corpse of a fossilised van dims his
excitement about the license, but the thing to focus on here is — he gets to drive again.
Legally. He didn’t think that would add to the thrill curling up his spine, but it means
something, the way he’ll no longer need to slide between dark places to do what he loves.
The way, if seen, he won’t have to run.
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 He’s going to grow slow and lazy like this, he thinks, stern with himself.
Or maybe he will take full breaths and…rest. He’s allowed.
They take the elevator to the second oor, trailing down beige corridors along beige carpet.
Everything smells of dull air-conditioning and paper and old coffee. The tap tap of long
ngernails against computer keyboards and professionally plastic voices answering phones
reminds Avery how much he hates government buildings. He hasn’t been in Evans’ of ce
since before they took Sam away — over a month now.
He’s been a month without Sam.
There’s a hollowness in thinking about that, a guilt in even being slightly happy right now, but
he can’t begin to sort through those feelings. He tucks them down and concentrates on
stepping exactly where Mr. De Lainey has stood as they stop before Evans’ of ce door and
knock.
“We probably should have changed rst.” Mr. De Lainey looks rueful at their work clothes.
Avery sort of likes it though. The way they’re both straight from the building site, covered in
sawdust with paint- ecked trousers and hair darkened with sweat. They’re taking a long
lunch break for this appointment, and if Avery passes the learner license test, he gets to drive
back.
“You know I don’t need lessons right?” Avery says. “I can drive very well and very fast.”
“Think of it as supervision then,” Mr. De Lainey says. “Did you read the learner handbook?”
Avery scoffs. “I know what a stop sign is.”
“How long do you need to indicate before turning a corner?”
“What?” Avery says. “Indicators aren’t important.”
There’s a muf ed “Come in” from behind the of ce door, and Mr. De Lainey turns the knob
while giving Avery a Caught You Out There look.
“You can’t teach me how to drive,” Avery insists, ploughing passed Mr. De Lainey. “I know
everything.”
Mr. De Lainey sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “Oh, Avery. I have news for you.”
Avery feels slightly mad as he stomps into Evans’ of ce, mostly because there’s a chance he
is wrong and should’ve read about road rules instead of watching horror movies with Jeremy
and Jack last night. The movies were bad, but the popcorn was buttered to perfection thanks
to Jeremy.
That’s new, lingering downstairs in the evenings. Sitting next to Jeremy on the sofa. An ankle
or knee touching, their eyes on the TV screen.
Avery’s doing a snap- ick motion with his ngers, glowering at Mr. De Lainey over his
shoulder. “I won’t fail the test and when I drive back to your house, I’ll show you how fast I
can go.” He turns to Evans, frown intensifying as he barrels right up to the desk and says,
“Did you visit Sam yet? A month is up and tomorrow is Friday. Sam calls on Fridays and you
said—”
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 He stops abruptly.
Evans sits behind a sleek black desk against a backdrop of chrome ling cabinets. His desk
contains a laptop, a silver pen, and a photo frame, turned unhelpfully away from guests.
Everyone else in the building seems overworked and underpaid with coffee stains on their
paperwork, but Evans looks like he’s auditioning to be the CEO of an important corporation
instead of a social worker who gets stuck with troublesome boys like Avery and Sammy Lou.
But it’s the three chairs before Evans’ desk that Avery stares at. Three.
One is occupied by a woman.
“See this is exactly what I mean. Those hand aps he does. He’s been developmentally
delayed since he was a child.”
Avery’s hands snap to his sides on re ex. A meat hook twists in his gut, cold and heavy and
nal, and everything in his head wipes clean. For a minute, he is a boy of blank spaces as he
watches Aunt Karen rise from her seat.
It’s been over a year since he last saw her, but she looks the same. Tall as a ladder with thin,
disapproving lips, grey hair showing through her dye, bones sharp and knobby. She can’t be
much older than Mr. De Lainey, but age lines have left harsh strokes on her face. Her work
uniform remains the same: black slacks and a tacky purple polo shirt with the service station
logo.
It’s Aunt Karen and it’s that horrible little house and it’s bullies jumping him at school and it’s
a wooden spoon striking Sam’s legs and it’s overwhelmed meltdowns at the dinner table and
it’s a broken arm and it’s—
Avery steps back and stumbles into Mr. De Lainey. A hand goes out to steady him. People
speak, their voices blurred. Avery is cold and dizzy and his ears ring with the echo of a slap
from years ago.
“—bit of a surprise,” Mr. De Lainey is saying in an unruf ed tone. “This is—?”
“Karen Lou.” Aunt Karen reaches forward and Mr. De Lainey shakes her bird claw hand.
“Avery’s aunt and legal guardian.”
Evans clears his throat, an odd look on his face. “I emailed you about setting up this meeting,
Reece, but I apologise for not following up. It’s been a complicated week for some of my
other cases. Karen requested to see Avery and talk about…options. Let’s all sit down, shall
we?”
Karen sinks back into her chair, taut as a bowstring. Her eyes bore into Avery, but he stares
at the oor.
Mr. De Lainey takes the middle chair and motions for Avery to sit. He doesn’t. He backs up,
putting his shoulder blades to the door, the tips of his ngers playing with the knob.
“I thought Mr. De Lainey was my legal guardian,” he says so low it’s almost a growl.
“That was my understanding too,” Mr. De Lainey says, and Avery’s never been so relieved to
hear it in his life.
“That's true--” Evans begins, but Aunt Karen cuts him off with a derisive snort.
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 “It’s neither here nor there. As I’ve been informing Mr. Evans, I am not the heartless monster
these boys have obviously painted me as. Try raising a violent, hysterical child like Sammy
and you get painted the villain for enforcing rules and boundaries.” Aunt Karen folds her
hands in her lap, snif ng. “But despite what these boys have put me through, I still care about
my nephew. I’m here to see that he’s cared for.”
Mr. De Lainey runs a hand through his hair, sawdust drifting down his neck. “He’s de nitely
being cared for.”
“Until you stop being paid for the trouble, I’m sure.” Aunt Karen looks sour. “I’m talking about
long term solutions for the problem.”
“I’m sorry.” Mr. De Lainey still sounds pleasant. “What problem is this?”
The problem is Avery, it always has been. His ngers twist the knob, but Evans gives him a
sharp look and points to the empty chair.
“Sit down, Avery,” he says.
“I’m meant to be getting my license.” Avery hates how damp his voice is, how shredded tears
cling to his tongue. “Not…n-not doing this.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Aunt Karen gives a harsh laugh. “No one in their right mind would let a boy
with autism drive a car. Mr. Evans, I hope you nip this in the bud. You saw him apping.” She
says it with such condescending disdain that Avery shrinks. “He’s been professionally
classi ed as mentally slow.”
Evans icks a glance at Mr. De Lainey, whose face has settled into an unreadable mask.
Aunt Karen starts tapping her foot. “You haven’t seen what I have. Failing school, tantrums
that lasted hours, throwing food, poor bladder control—” She all but rolls her eyes here, as if
a joke is to be had, “—inability to follow simple instructions, no personal hygiene, and of
course he can’t even connect emotionally with other people.”
Mr. De Lainey starts to speak.
Aunt Karen cuts him off. “Don’t contradict me. I was still having to clean him up right until he
ran away.”
It’s not true. At least, not in the way she frames it. Sam cleaned up the wet bedding when
they were kids, and food only hit the oor on accident if Avery was having a meltdown at the
table because she was forcing things down his throat that he couldn’t eat. Avery’s cheeks
burn and his stomach feels sent out to sea. Sam wouldn’t let her lie like this, but he’s not
here, and Avery’s alone and ashamed and far too hot in this overcrowded of ce.
He hates that Mr. De Lainey has heard any of this.
“That’s what you get with special needs children,” Aunt Karen says.
Evans picks up his silver pen and lays it down again. He says nothing.
Mr. De Lainey folds his arms and leans back in his chair. “Everything you described sounds
like a child in trauma.”
Avery’s heartbeat skips faster.
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 “Did you take him to see a counsellor?” Mr. De Lainey goes on. “A doctor?”
Aunt Karen’s mouth makes a thin line. “We didn’t have the funds.”
“There are accessible resources—”
Aunt Karen cuts him off, her voice rising. “I want Avery put somewhere that can handle his
ongoing issues. They’ll only worsen as he gets older and harder to pin down during the
tantrums.” She reaches into a bulky handbag and pulls out a stack of brochures.
They hit Evan’s desk with a slap and he looks startled.
“I’m sorry, what is this?” Now there’s an edge to Mr. De Lainey’s tone.
All Avery can think of is put somewhere. A thing, not a person. A broken toy, un xable but
unable to be tossed in the rubbish because of sentimentality.
Evans clears his throat awkwardly. “Karen requested this meeting to discuss the, ah, option
of moving Avery into a facility that specialises in the care of adolescents with disabilities. It
functions as a school, I believe.”
“It’s not cheap.” Karen taps hard at one of the brochures full of glossy numbers. “But I’ve
saved, and I don’t want him to end up like his sociopathic little brother.”
Avery’s ngers are at his mouth then, nails being bitten, until it’s not enough and he hits his
head. Turns away, shakes out his hand, tells himself, Don’t you dare do that again and prove
her right—
Evans blinks. “Avery, you need to sit—”
“Avery.” This time Mr. De Lainey’s voice lls the entire room, rm and calm and steady. “Sit
next to me, son.”
The mistake again. Son. Avery slinks to the chair and folds himself in, shoulders hunched
and ngers scratching against his jeans.
Evans watches this exchange with interest.
Mr. De Lainey takes one of the brochures and skims through, brow furrowed because he
didn’t bring his glasses. Avery peers over his shoulder at bold titles saying things like: secure
facility and structured routine and skilled teams offering 24/7 care.
“The children can’t run off either.” Aunt Karen sounds pleased. “One less thing to worry
about.”
“I have no doubt,” Mr. De Lainey says, “that facilities like these are important for those who
need them. But I can’t see Avery feeling comfortable there.”
“Comfortable?” Aunt Karen waves a hand dismissively. “I’m sure those bruises on his face
are the result of the ts he throws.”
“I don’t believe,” Mr. De Lainey says quietly, “that Avery throws ts.”
Avery’s having a hard time taking a full breath. His lungs are cardboard, his head cottony with
overwhelm. But a delicious icker of triumph warms his chest — because Mr. De Lainey is
defending him. When Sam does this, he gets hushed or sent to his room or slapped.
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This is the rst time an adult has done this.
Evans clicks his pen in and out and watches Aunt Karen and Mr. De Lainey as if they’re a
tennis match and Avery is the ball hurtling between them. “I think some valuable points have
been made on both sides, but ultimately I feel like we should conclude this conversation
without, er, Avery in the room.”
“But then we can’t hear what Avery thinks.” Mr. De Lainey looks down at Avery’s rapidly
tapping and dgeting shoes. He places his boot carefully over the toe of Avery’s foot, the
pressure grounding.
Avery takes a breath.
“It’s irrelevant what he thinks—” Aunt Karen starts.
But Avery says, “No. I don’t want to go. I d-d-don’t want to go.”
“There we have it.” Mr. De Lainey claps hands on his thighs and makes to stand. “I believe
Avery is safe and accommodated for in my home. Emery, do you have his ID for us?”
Evans takes out a manila folder. “Copies are here.”
“Excuse…excuse me?” Aunt Karen rises too, her ngers gone white around her handbag.
“You can’t ignore what I’ve said because you don’t like facts, Mr. De Lainey.”
“You were talking about the behaviours of a distressed child.” Mr. De Lainey tucks the folder
under his arm. “Avery turns eighteen this year. There’s no reason to move him to a facility
and he doesn’t want to go. I hardly see a point in continuing this discussion. However if you
insist on pursuing this, then I agree that we should move this meeting to another time without
Avery. I would also,” he turns to Evans, “like to bring in a lawyer if we’re talking about custody
arrangements. Noting Avery’s reaction to his aunt and her description of the abuse and
neglect he went through as a child—”
“How dare you accuse me!” Aunt Karen’s voice has risen two octaves. “That’s not what I said
at all.”
Evans looks thoughtful. “That’s wise, Reece. I can also see Avery is doing…well with you.”
“Fantastic.” Mr. De Lainey’s smile is wooden. “We’ll be in touch, Emery. And Karen, I’ll see
you later. It was very…enlightening to meet you.”
Avery doesn’t know what’s wrong with his face. Is he smiling right now?
Mr. De Lainey makes for the door and Avery shoots after him, all loose limbs and soaring
heart and lungs pumping hard as if he’s run a marathon.
They’re halfway down the corridor before Mr. De Lainey slows and gives Avery a rueful look.
“I’m sorry about that abrupt exit,” he says. “I was very near to losing my cool.”
How? He didn’t even raise his voice, he barely seemed cross. He looked like a mountain
Aunt Karen tried to come up against with a teaspoon as a weapon, and found she looked
foolish as she failed.
“If you’re feeling a bit stressed, we can go for the license another day,” Mr. De Lainey says.
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 “I’m ne.” Avery says it fast. “I want to. I really-really want to. Will they…” He swallows then,
suddenly shy. “Will they put your home address on it?”
“It would make sense,” Mr. De Lainey shes car keys from his pocket, “for them to put our
home address on it, yes.”
Avery’s smile is small, and satis ed, and erce.
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 Chapter 19
Baking has always been a good distraction. Productivity can be claimed, too — no, necessity.
Would the De Lainey household wither away and perish without frequent access to Jeremy’s
cakes? Probably. Clattering around the kitchen at 7:00 p.m. on a Friday feels like an ordained
act of sainthood.
He sets the electric mixer to beat eggs and sugar and vanilla, and focuses on this, only this.
He wants to forget the massive panic attack he had in school today where he couldn’t stop
xating on what if Jack suddenly died. He wants to forget his mountains of homework and
slipping grades. He wants to forget the reason he likes hanging out with a loud group of
friends is so he doesn’t have to think.
In truth, he’s mad Jack vetoed going out tonight in favour of nishing an assignment. The
nerd. Now Jeremy is being aggressively cheerful in the kitchen to compensate for the fact he
feels like a spilt jar of jam.
He’s also trialling the cupcake recipe he intends to use for Moxie’s upcoming sixteenth. He
can’t be critiqued if he’s doing something for his sister.
Moxie prowls into the kitchen to check his progress. Again. She wears one of her latest
sewing projects: a short skirt embroidered with a maize eld, glitter gold thread woven
through the cobs. Two tiny silhouettes stand between the stalks on her hem and hold hands.
Jeremy wants to ask if she sewed herself and Sam, and then crack a joke about being corny,
but he suspects he’ll get stabbed with sewing scissors.
“I’ll pipe caramel in the centre,” he says, “so when you bite into it, there’ll be a mouthful of
caramel surprise.”
Moxie frowns into the mixer and paces around the bench. “We’ll only need eight.”
Jeremy sifts our into the big yellow mixing bowl. “Erm, you’re turning sixteen? We will need
sixteen.”
“As long as no one gets ideas about guests.” She says the word with utter disdain. “Not even
Uncle Rob and the cousins. I am not sitting at the table while fourteen people bellow happy
birthday at me and I have to pretend to be happy.”
“Or you could be happy?” Jeremy says.
Moxie glowers at him.
Jeremy smiles innocently and claps oury hands together so white clouds puff into his face.
“Also shouldn’t it be fteen? There’s six cousins, Uncle Rob and Aunt Rebecca, Dad, ve of
your darling siblings, and Avery.”
“Avery’s not going to sing happy birthday to me,” Moxie says, prim. “He hates me.”
It did appear that way. The slow thaw towards the twins has not extended to Moxie, Avery
going so far as to move if she sits near him on the sofa. It’s odd because he seems to have
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even warmed up to Dad — and that’s a miracle. Jeremy heard him lecturing Dad in long,
indignant detail about engine maintenance the other day.
“You know what it could be.” Jeremy lowers his voice, even though it’s just them downstairs.
“He’s incredibly protective of Sam.”
“Oh, right, forgot all the ‘horrible’ things I did to Sam.” Moxie angrily rearranges the cupcake
liners. "Not like I took him in over the summer and fed him and helped him and saved his
life."
“No, you upside-down cactus. I mean, he’s jealous that Sam likes you.”
Moxie gives him a dubious sideways glare. “Upside-down cactus?”
Jeremy turns off the mixer. “You are. And it’s just a theory. Do you reckon Sam will actually
call tonight? I’m surprised Avery isn’t superglued to the phone.”
“Can you get to the part where there’s something good to taste?” Moxie grumbles. “Even if
Sam does call…I mean, he’ll just talk to Avery. I should go for a walk or something.” She
picks at the muf n tray.
She looks forlorn, Jeremy realises, and all this pacing and prickly supervision of his baking is
her way of avoiding feelings.
Both of them, it seems, are in need of distracting tonight.
“Woman,” Jeremy says, “that kid worships the ground you walk on. He’ll want to talk to you
too.”
“I suspect,” Moxie says, voice steady, “people change in prison.”
A tense pause stretches between them. Jeremy busies himself with fussing about with baking
powder and teaspoons, not thinking not thinking about the way Sam’s absence cut
something out of Moxie too. But she has to apologetically tuck her pain to the side in the face
of Avery’s all-consuming, explosive, rightfully devastated feelings over being separated from
his brother.
“Don’t,” Moxie snaps.
Jeremy blinks. “I did nothing?”
“You’re looking drippy and sorry for me and I’m not pathetic about this. I’ve already decided it
doesn’t matter if I don’t speak to him before he gets out. Maybe the distance is good. We can
see if we t later. We’ll be older then, wiser. Less of those temperamental,” she waves
vaguely, “teenage emotions.”
“Is sixteen,” Jeremy says, “not the age of temperamental teenage emotions? Because if not, I
did it very wrong.”
Moxie rolls her eyes. “You spent the entire year lovesick for Yeats. I’m glad you dumped him,
by the way.”
Jeremy rips open a packet of caramel chocolate chips and tosses a handful in his mouth.
Taste testing for safety’s sake. “I’m over him. Moved on.”
“To someone else.” Moxie holds out her hand.
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Jeremy starts to give her some and then retracts, narrowing his eyes. “There’s no one else.”
Moxie raises a single eyebrow. “Uh huh.”
“Oi,” he says. “You should be nice to the person in charge of your cakes—”
The phone rings.
Jeremy is still frowning at Moxie’s wickedly delighted smirk as he reaches for the phone. But
there’s a bone-rattling crash at the top of the stairs, and a body hurtles down like an
avalanche.
Avery skids into the kitchen with panicked hope burning in his eyes. He’s left no time to brake
on arrival, so he slams bodily into the fridge before snatching up the phone. The world has
ceased to exist for Avery in that moment. He clutches the receiver in trembling hands and
shouts, “SAM? SAMMY?”
Moxie goes still beside Jeremy, proving everything she said about not minding if she couldn’t
talk to Sam was a lie. She’s desperate to.
There’s an in nitesimal pause where Sam must speak. Relief folds over Avery’s face,
followed by a white hot stripe of fury. “You lied. You said you’d call and you didn’t and I
needed you and you goddamn lied to me, Sammy Lou, you-you-you—” Avery breaks off with
a choked sound, drops the phone, and bolts.
It happens so fast, Jeremy and Moxie stand there slack-jawed as the receiver bounces on
the end of its cord and Avery ies to the front door, rips it open, and hurtles onto the street.
Silence falls over the house.
Jeremy and Moxie exchange a glance. That was not…how they expected this to go.
Jeremy’s the rst to collect his scattered braincells and dive for the phone. He leaves
handprints of our all over it as he says, “Sam? Still there, bud?”
“Yeah. Um, hi.”
His voice is quiet but steady, and he doesn’t sound upset that he just got yelled at and then
abandoned. But he’s always been a careful kid, everything packed down tight until he trusts
those around him. The same as Avery.
“Your delightful brother,” Jeremy cranes his neck towards the front door, “appears to be
running….down the street.”
Moxie peers out the window. “He’s looping back.”
“It’s okay,” Sam says, soft. “He’s calming himself down.”
“He does have some incredibly interesting methods of doing so,” Jeremy says. “Anyway, how
are you? Want us to bake a le into a cupcake and post it to you?”
Moxie materialises at Jeremy’s elbow and swipes for the phone. “Give it to me!” She darts a
frantic glance at the door. “Before he gets back. Hurry up!”
Jeremy lovingly places a hand on her forehead to hold her off while she ails arms at him.
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“So Sam,” he says, conversationally, “a quick question. My sister is frothing at the mouth to
speak to you. But would you describe Avery as a quiet person?”
The pause feels tense and when Sam speaks, he sounds thinned out. “I guess so. When
he’s…around people he doesn’t know. Or trust.”
“Right, well,” Jermey says, “he currently does not shut up once you get him talking.”
“Is he… apping?” There’s a hint of something new in Sam’s voice. Eagerness.
Jeremy can’t stop the smile taking over his face. “All the time.”
Sam breathes out, long and shaky. “Okay.” Then in a way that is so heartbreakingly tender,
he says, “You’ve got the real Avery.”
Moxie escapes Jeremy then and snatches the phone. She twirls away, twisting herself up in
the cord as she cups a hand around the receiver.
“Sam? Sam. Are you okay— I mean, of course you’re not okay, but are you—” A pause. Her
eyes shine, somewhere between happiness and tears. “I miss you so much too,” she
whispers.
Jeremy takes himself back to his cupcakes, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. Everything
feels right. Even more so when Avery thunders back in the front door and slams it with an
echoing bang. He stands for a minute, face sweaty and hair an electri ed mess, sucking in
oxygen as if he’s forgotten to breathe these last minutes.
Then he zooms across the room and stands so close to Moxie he’s practically on her toes.
He’s a head taller, so she has to glower up at him, her grip tight on the phone as she listens
to whatever Sam’s saying.
“That’s mine,” Avery says.
“Don’t yell at him again.” Moxie’s eyes could burn holes.
They match scowls for a full minute, until Jeremy wonders if they’re about to throw a glove
down and duel. Then Moxie relents, rolls her eyes, and hands the phone over.
Avery takes it with a certain reverence this time, turning his back to them as he walks as far
as the cord will allow him. They really need a phone that wasn’t installed twenty years ago.
“I’m back.” He’s still panting. “Sammy? I’m back. I’m right here. I have—” He casts a terse
look at Moxie, who folds her arms and gives him a cool stare, “—decided not to yell at you
anymore. You can explain what happened and then tell me when I can visit you because I
need to visit you and Evans won’t give us a straight answer and he’s an asshat and—” He
cuts off as Sam manages to cram words into this one-sided rant. “Of course I don’t like living
here without you.” He sounds indignant.
Jeremy winces from behind the mixer and Moxie spins to give him a confused look. Hadn’t
they made progress? Hadn’t Dad said Avery asked to stay?
But then Avery continues, “And Mr. De Lainey did this cool thing and took me to get a
learner’s license. Legal and everything. Has my address on it and it’s legit for once and—”
Pause. He scoffs as he starts to pace, his ngers icking in time to his footsteps. “Obviously I
mean the De Lainey’s house. I said my address. This is where I’m living.”
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Jeremy does an over-dramatised st-pump in the air for Moxie’s bene t. But Avery turns in
that second and sees.
A small smile plays in the corner of his mouth as he looks at Jeremy. His eyes dart away,
glance back. Then he seems to put a lot of effort into schooling his expression into a serious
frown, but Jeremy won this round. He won that smile.
He can make Avery smile.
Phone to his ear, Avery stalks toward the laundry. They can still hear him, his voice speeding
up with infectious excitement.
“—and I have my own room, and a whole dresser of clothes — yup, and I can eat whenever I
want, and Mr. De Lainey pretty much told Aunt Karen to go to hell! It was so great. And I have
a license. Sam, I have so many things now—”
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 Chapter 20
Days stretch with an unhurried yawn as Avery slowly tucks himself into the warmest nooks of
the De Laineys’ lives. A rhythm can be found, if searched for hard enough, and he likes the
way he can predict what’s happening next. That was always the worst part of living in stolen
houses, and behind mechanic workshops, and even with Vin — every second felt unsteady
and unmapped, no planning of tomorrow because he couldn’t even plan right now. He likes a
solid routine pressed up against his heartbeat. He likes feeling safe.
This is safe.
There is a pattern to the days, and he has most of it gured it out. Mondays are always
chaotic, but Tuesdays are held together by warm, slowcooker stews and brown sugar
brownies. Wednesdays are best at the building site because they buy coffee and doughnuts,
and if Mr. De Lainey seems like he’ll forget Avery just follows him around and stares. Turns
out Mr. De Lainey has zero ability to say no to pastries.
Thursdays have the De Lainey kids coming in late due to tutoring and sport, so Avery uses
the quieter hours after work to sprawl on the sofa and play on his phone. The baby runs toy
cars down his legs. He doesn’t mind. Fridays are end of school madness, everyone both
overtired and excited for the weekend.
And Sam calls. Sam calls without fail.
Friday obviously the best day, though Avery has begrudgingly agreed to a give up fteen
minutes to Moxie. She doesn’t get them privately though. He haunts the kitchen like a
skeletal wraith and scowls in all the corners. He’s hoping Sam will lose interest in her, but if
Moxie gets the phone rst, Sam is always upbeat when he talks to Avery afterwards. He’ll slip
in “Moxie mentioned” and “Moxie said that too” until Avery barks at him there are no girls in
this conversation. Sam has such a bad crush.
Sundays are a different beast, the worst of the week, because the De Laineys invite an
unreasonable stack of people over for lunch. They hadn’t done this the rst three weeks
Avery was here, and he now realises they’d been cancelling. So they wouldn’t scare him off
when he was angry and hurt and new to them. Now he's simply one of them.
There will be cousins everywhere and far too many of Jeremy and Jack’s friends — though
not Yeats anymore, never Yeats. Avery is oddly pleased about that absence. And the De
Laineys always take care of Avery on those Sundays. They never forget him. Jeremy saves
him somewhere to sit, Jack levels a bearish glare at anyone who tries to mess with Avery
until they back off. Mr. De Lainey makes sure Avery has things he can eat and Rob even tells
the ood of knee-high shrieking children to settle down when they get too rowdy.
“Kids! Not everyone can handle that level of screaming,” he’ll say, all gruff. “Take it outside.”
Avery doesn’t know how to feel about any of it except—
He has a place here. He ts.
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There’s no sign of Vin. No more meetings with Aunt Karen’s vinegar demand. No visits with
Sam yet, but Evans keeps promising to x that.
As the weeks run out from under them and the last of summer packs itself up, an autumn
chill steals inside the butter yellow house. It’s then that Avery decides he likes Saturdays
best.
Saturdays mean Jeremy bakes something; apple strudels or buttercream biscuits or
shortbread or jelly jam scones. Saturdays mean the twins go out or stay in, but they always
include Avery. Saturdays mean no building houses. Saturdays mean movie nights and
popcorn and stretching in the dark on the sofa, not minding if a leg tucks behind Jeremy’s
because, well, there’s not enough room. That’s all.
He’s thinking about tonight, about popcorn and movies and Jeremy, while he sits at the top of
the stairs with a book. It’s a grey Saturday, cold and blustery outside, and he has on a brand
new sky blue hoodie that’s so meltingly soft he refuses to take it off. He’s never had so many
new clothes before.
Downstairs, Jeremy and Jack are arguing in the kitchen about going out, and Avery’s lazily
deciding if he’ll go with them or ask Mr. De Lainey if he can pull apart the van engine. He’s
asked this daily for about two weeks and so far it’s been a solid no each time.
“I will put it back together,” he insists. “I want to see what’s wrong with it.”
Mr. De Lainey always gives him a faintly amused look as he says, “What’s wrong is that it’s
old. I still need to drive it.”
“But what if I could make it go faster?”
“It can do the speed limit ne.”
“But faster—”
“Avery, we’ve talked about speeding before, haven’t we?”
A boring talk. Avery does not listen each time. “Speed limits,” he says, quiet and furious, “are
for the weak.”
It is tedious driving with Mr. De Lainey, that’s for sure. Avery’s not allowed to “drive alone” on
a “learner’s license” because it’s “illegal”, and frankly there are downsides to the lifestyle of a
good citizen.
Avery turns a page in his book and spares a glance through the rails to the kitchen below. He
can see the tops of the twins’ dark curls as they pace around, waiting for returned texts. Jack
had his phone con scated for swearing again so they’re swapping Jeremy’s back and forth.
“You know what?” Jeremy says, eating the last of the shortbread. “It’s too cold for this.
Cancel.”
“We’re not cancelling. This is tradition.” Jack texts fast. “Last swim before winter.”
“It is winter. It wintered outside.”
“It’s only May, you pathetic undercooked pizza crust. Dillon said the girls are coming, so we
are going.”
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Jeremy has too much shortbread in his mouth. “Bro, uft holds no sway wi’f me.”
“I’m going to get a girlfriend before graduation,” Jack says, grim, “or die trying.” He texts for a
minute in silence. “Or at least get kissed. Once.”
“You’re so adorably sad.”
“Shut up. You’re supposed to be my wingman. You suck at it.”
Avery turns a page, propping his elbow on his knee, chin on st. He wriggles his toes in his
socks. He is altogether comfortable.
Right until Dash plops onto the step beside him. She wears overalls and delicate pointy wire
ear cuffs, with a twist of vines around her waist for a “knife belt”. A typical elvish Saturday
look.
Her eyes go wide in excitement. “Are you reading—”
Avery snaps the book shut. “No.”
“Oh my GOSH.” Dash claps hands to her cheeks. “You’re reading Thirteen Elven Kingdoms
of War!”
Avery panics. He realises he is scared of little girls and the only thing he can think of is to
toss the book over the stair railing and pretend he was never holding it.
There’s a thwap below, followed by a yelp and a body hitting the oor.
“Wow, Jack,” Jeremy says. “You just got taken out by an elf.”
“What the hell? That’s like six hundred pages. DASH.”
Dash folds her arms and gives Avery a stern look, not at all concerned with Jack spluttering
below. “Don’t disrespect my books, Avery. But I’m glad you found it. I left it at your door for
soooo long. Did you get up to the part—”
“I’m not reading it,” Avery insists, desperate.
“Did you get the Battle of Mire Glen—”
“Don’t spoil it.” He gives her a horri ed look and decides the best course of action is to ee.
He hurls himself downstairs where he can put Jeremy between him and Dash.
She follows with the widest grin on her small face. “Avery’s reading my Thirteen Elven
Kingdoms of War books!” Dash starts doing a victory dance around Jack who has picked
himself off the oor and is rubbing his head. “He loves them! He loves them! They’re so good.
Oh my gosh!”
Jeremy rescues the offensive volume and casts a sly grin at Avery. “You are never going to
escape this.”
“I don’t like reading,” Avery mutters.
Dash snatches the book from Jeremy and keeps doing her victory laps. “You do so! You were
halfway through! I’m going to make you an Elven bookmark!”
“Someone has a cough—crush.” Jack fake covers his mouth.
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But Dash whirls on him, strikes a pose and karate chops his leg. “All you guys do is tease me
and disrespect my fandom! You are the worst brothers. Avery is much better than you.”
Jack dodges the attack and checks the phone again. “Right. We’re leaving. I’ve been abused
enough.”
It’s now that Avery notices Jeremy and Jack wear board shorts with their hoodies, and a
quick glance at the phone screen shows they were googling symptoms of hypothermia.
“Want to come, Avery?” Jeremy ashes one of those smiles that’s all golden sunshine and
warm honey.
Dash cuts off her ailing around to clutch the book to her chest and gasp. “Avery! You have
to see the movies. And I got the of cial board game for my eleventh birthday last month. Did
you know there’s a fan ction forum—”
Avery pushes quickly at Jeremy to get him moving. “We should go.”
*
This is a mistake.
A stiff wind has picked up and the brief walk to the beach is cold. They cut through a caravan
park, scaling a chain link fence and meeting up with several of Jeremy and Jack’s friends on
the other side. The crowd is thin, intelligence thinner. No one can back out because they’re
all hyping each other up for this last swim of the season, which is the dumbest tradition
Avery’s ever heard. None of the supposed girls Jack hoped to impress showed up, so now
the boys are just hollering at each other to not “chicken out”.
Avery should’ve stretched out on his bed and kept reading. Not that he likes the book, but it
is wise to see how it ends. And possibly he will see how the next twelve books in the series
end as well.
They torpedo towards a sluggish grey ocean, seven of them now, Avery trailing last to the
cold sand. The boys ditch shoes and jumpers and sprint with hollers towards the surf. Jeremy
drops his hoodie in a heap atop Jack’s and stands shivering before he gives a thumbs up to
Avery.
“This is so great,” he says. “Apart from you looking very disappointed in our life choices,
which, fair.”
Avery continues to look stern and judgemental. “I’m going for a walk.”
Jack nabs the back of Avery’s hoodie as he tries to slink off. “Hold up, we won’t know where
you are.”
Avery looks at him. “So?”
“So you could get eaten by sharks,” Jeremy says. “Or eaten by sand crabs.”
Jack shoots his brother an exasperated glance. “Or eaten by Vin, is the actual concern. Just
be back here in fteen minutes. We’ll be ready to go then.”
“Pfft, try ten minutes.” Jeremy swings his arms, apparently cheerful about freezing his hair
follicles off. “Also see the track going up the cliffs?” He points passed the rocks where their
friends are already climbing to jump off. “That goes up to the lighthouse bluff.”
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“Do not,” Jack says, “go up there. If you fall off something and break a bone, I will be so
pissed off.”
Jack’s circle of gruff protection has recently extended to Avery. It used to be solely for his
siblings, and consisted of insulting them before herding them furiously away from sharp
objects and tall ledges. Avery isn’t sure how he feels about being included, though he’s used
to being treated like a younger brother. The familiarity is…nice. But he could use tearful
puppy-dog eyes to make Sam do what he wants, whereas Jack gives zero ground. Like after
he realised having coffee leaves Avery jittery and anxious, he took the coffee jar off him and
started ranting about drinking water. Fair, but annoying.
Jeremy is more pushable. All Avery has to do is sigh into the fridge and Jeremy will offer to
make him a sandwich.
“What about we go home after this,” Jeremy says, “and I make hot chocolates and
pancakes?”
“Only if it’s the uffy kind you do,” Avery says promptly. “With chocolate chips.”
Jeremy grins, an explosion of sunshine against the clouded sky. “For you, good sir, anything.”
Avery has to pull his hood up to cover his own smile.
Jack looks from Jeremy to Avery and back again, his frown suspicious. “Anyway. Don’t go
far.” He whacks Jeremy’s shoulder, a little more aggressively than usual, and nods towards
the sea.
They take off, jostling each other until Jeremy jumps on Jack’s back and they charge into the
water whooping before toppling head rst into the surf. Someone yells about the cold.
Avery narrows his eyes and fails to see, at all, why this is considered fun.
He takes off for the cliffs.
It isn’t exactly that Jack said not to, but it is mostly because Jack said not to. Avery likes that
lighthouse and how it felt both ancient and tired under his ngertips, a centurion who would
never cease to guard ships at sea. It could use a little love and xing, and then it would make
the perfect hideout.
He thinks about that as he takes the steep goat track to the top. Despite the breeze, the
climb is sweaty work, and he’s out of breath as he navigates rocks and knotty beach grass.
At the top, he stands at the edge of the cliff with his arms out and pretends he could y. If
anyone from the below sees him, Jack will roast Avery to a chargrilled pile of bones, but it’s
worth it. He now has a quick route to the lighthouse.
A plan forms, tentative and strewn with holes, but one he can’t shake.
He could x it up. The stairs at least. Clean out the rubbish at the top. He knows how to cut
wood and Mr. De Lainey always has scraps in the garage. What if—
What if — it was his secret place?
He’s thinking of the lighthouse as he skids back down the narrow track, taking care at the
steep sections as pebbles skid out from under his shoes. He won’t fall. It’s ne. He must’ve
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 been gone for ten or fteen minutes, so he’ll get back and then it’s time for hot chocolates
with Jeremy.
He’s just leapt off the track, hitting the sand with a slight oomf, thinking of Jeremy Jeremy
Jeremy. Tall rocks rise to one side, shouts and laughter muf ed beyond. Once he rounds
these rocks, it’ll be clear open beach and he’ll see the others—
The shadow comes out of nowhere.
His hands tuck deep into his pockets, his hood up, his attention so far away. All he sees is
the shift of something beside the rocks, a gure lying in wait.
Pain explodes across the side of Avery’s head.
He can’t even call out. The world pitches sideways, reworks of black and red punching
across his vision. When he hits the ground, he barely misses smashing his head against
more rocks. Blood is in his mouth. His ngers dig into the sand. No air to cry out.
The world spins in a slow, sick circle of agony.
Something hot and wet slides down the side of his face.
He isn’t okay.
A boot on his shoulder, turning him over. Sand kicks up into his eyes, but when he tries to
ing up an arm to cover his face, he can’t move his arms. He can’t— nd himself—
he’s lost.
In his mouth is Jeremy’s name, but it slips out with bloody drool and runs down his chin. He
must have bit his tongue, hard.
There’s a voice, tinny and far away. A phone pressed to an ear. The gure doubles and
swims in front of his eyes and all he can focus on is hair, red as a bloody spill.
“…what? I told you not to search the caravan park. Come back towards the cliffs. I’ve got him
but I can’t carry him to the car by myself.”
She nishes the call and slips her phone away. Then she releases the rock she’d been
holding. It hits the sand right next to Avery’s face.
He tries to roll away, get up, run, but Vin drops down on top of him, straddling him and
pinning his arms with her knees. She rips his hood off and shoves his face to the side to
inspect the damage.
“Tsk, tsk, Avery. When are you going to learn?”
Blood runs in front of his left eye, thick and murky and confusing. He can’t struggle, can’t
remember how. He’s so dizzy. Bile burns in the back of his throat.
“Maybe I hit you too hard, hey?” She slaps his face, but the sting feels so far away. “Hey.
Stay awake. Your brain was already shit, this won’t make a difference.”
Hands on his arm. He feels his sleeve shoved up. Fingers, cold, tapping along the delicate
lines of his veins.
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 “I promised your brother that I’d carve my name on your skin before I killed you.” Her voice is
smooth, a smug laugh barely held back. “Remember that? I brought Joley this time to haul
your ass to the car. He’ll be here in a minute, but in the meantime...”
Something icks. A knife, opening.
Avery tries to cry out but she stuffs his own hood into his mouth. Joyful noises and shouts still
drift from beyond the rocks, so close so close, followed by the splash of someone cannon
balling in the water. If he could scream, if he could just scream—
He’s so sick of needing to be saved.
He worms feebly, but Vin feels like a mountain on top of him, crushing his lungs up his throat.
His vision splits, but he sees the glint of a switchblade.
All he can think of is
she stabbed Sam with this knife
she stabbed Sam
she stabbed
she
She pins his left wrist to the sand, his forearm bare to the cool air. The knife tip traces along
his veins. “You know, putting a knife in Sammy was like puncturing a soft toy. Watching all the
stuf ng fall out.” Her tone drips saccharine. Avery tries to wrench his arm free, but she drives
the tip of the knife in to the crook of his elbow and he stops. “I know which juvie he’s in, by
the way. How hard do you think it would be to mess with him? Pay off some psycho kid to
make his life hell.”
She smirks.
Avery chokes on a sob, the balled up hood in his mouth tasting of salt and sand, suffocating
him. He can’t breathe. He can’t ap. He-he-he—
is going to die here.
“You want to play with me?” Vin says. “Then let’s play, Avery Lou.”
She cuts a line on his forearm.
Avery’s skin bursts into ame. The re ex to yank away can’t be stopped, but she responds by
cutting another line. Then she’s leaning over him, working fast and quick, one knee sliding up
to press into his throat. Darkness crawls up over his vision like an incoming tide.
The cuts are purposeful, measured.
Blood soaks the sand red.
She pauses to check her work and then wipes bloody ngers on his cheek. “I own you. This
will stop you forgetting.”
She’s nished cutting a V and I.
Next, the letter N.
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 Chapter 21
The sky is an endless wash of grey above him. Jeremy oats, arms sweeping saltwater as he
steers away from the rocks and further out to sea. With his ears underwater, the whoops and
cheers of the others fade, and Jeremy’s alone with his thoughts.
For once, his brain isn’t in a doomsday spiral. He’s thinking of the little furrow that appears on
Avery’s brow when he focuses, the way it smooths when he smiles.
Jeremy’s heart is doing squishy, dreamy things when he feels a shape come up beside him.
He has one second to see water-slick skin and curls plastered at before Jack ashes a
devil’s grin and launches onto Jeremy’s head. They both go under. The world swirls in a
funnel of frothing water and kicked up sand, and then Jeremy bursts from the sea with all the
gasping drama of the Little Mermaid.
Jack surfaces and spits water in Jeremy’s face. “Look at the cliffs.”
Jeremy twists. “Why? What is— Oh.”
“He’s such a little shit.” Jack rolls his eyes.
Far above them, a small form ickers at the edge of the cliffs. It’s unmistakably Avery; the sky
blue hoodie and wisps of hair blowing about his face. He throws his arms wide and stands
there, leaning into the wind in a way that can only be described as So Very Unsafe.
But he seems happy.
The frightened, snarling Avery who moved into their house over two months ago is gone, and
what’s left is this boy made of private smiles and intense blue eyes and everything sweet and
honest and real.
And everyday Jeremy’s stomach does a giddy, sappy swoop, and he tumbles further from
simple little crush and into feelings that cannot be ignored.
“Well,” Jeremy says, “you also make questionable decisions all the time. Like this swim. I’m
so cold, Jack. I am so cold the water actually feels nice because my body is shutting down.”
“You’re dramatic.” Jack splashes water at him. “We’re ne.”
They bob together, drifting over small waves and watching their friends give up one by one
and stagger onto the beach. Everyone looks blue.
“Well,” Jeremy says, teeth chattering.
“Okay ne. I’m dying too.” Jack stands, water pouring off his shoulders. “Let’s go.”
With no towels because neither remembered to bring one and the wind picking up with an
arctic bite, Jeremy and Jack stand on the beach freeze. Everyone else snatches up their stuff
and stammers out frozen goodbyes. Now would be the perfect time to race home, take a hot
shower, and then drink a gallon of hot chocolate.
But, of course, Avery isn’t back yet.
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“I’m going to s-s-s-stuff him,” Jack says, “in a d-d-drawer when we get ho-ho-home.”
Jeremy tugs his hoodie on but his wet skin soaks it in seconds. “I’m g-g-getting pneumonia.”
“I’m not climbing that c-cliff to fetch him back.” Jack wraps arms around himself and shakes.
“You do it. You’re older.”
“Oh, now you’re willing to admit that.”
“As if anyone knows for sure. Bet Mum and Dad couldn’t tell us apart for months.”
“True,” Jeremy muses. “I could be the original Jack.”
As one, they walk towards the rocks and the scrawny goat track up the cliffs. No discussion;
they even turn at the same time. Even if Jeremy takes the path alone, he knows Jack will huff
and grumble…and follow. That’s how they are, always together.
They go slow, legs numb as they stumble through the soft sand. The way the cold has settled
into Jeremy’s core has him fantasising about drinking hot chocolate in a hot shower. When
they round the huge outcrop of rocks, ones best for climbing and striking conqueror poses at
the top, Jack’s arm shoots out and Jeremy thwacked into it. He blinks in confusion before
looking up.
The cold has made his brain foggy, and at rst he doesn’t understand what he sees.
Ahead, two gures sprawl on the sand, half concealed by rocks as if they wanted privacy.
Her apple red hair spills out to cover a boy’s face, head bent low as if to whisper in his ear.
It’s almost tender, the way she runs ngers through his hair.
The sky blue hoodie says the boy can only be one person.
A faint buzz starts up behind Jeremy’s eyes.
“The hell,” Jack says. “Is that Avery? Are they…making out?”
But Jeremy feels off balance. “Something’s not right—”
“That’s called jealousy.” Jack sounds prim. “And you need to snap out of it because you can’t
have a crush on your foster brother.”
Jeremy’s not listening. He takes a step forward, then grabs Jack’s shoulder, his ngers
digging in hard. He sees metal ash in the girl’s hand. A knife, the blade stained red.
A wild, horrible dread explodes in Jeremy’s stomach.
“That’s a knife.” His voice sounds striped. “Jack, that’s a knife!”
But Jack’s already running. He explodes forward, his shout turned to a roar. “HEY!”
This is worse than seeing Avery nearly run over because there’s already a stillness to him
that turns Jeremy’s brain to terri ed static. A distant part of Jeremy registers this has to be
Vin. She’s no longer a name, but a nightmare turned corporeal. All Jeremy can do is run
harder than he ever has before, knowing he’s too late too late too late.
They promised to protect Avery and they’re—
too late.
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Vin unfolds from Avery, lithe and elegant as the slender knife she holds. Even from a distance
it’s obvious she de nes the phrase viciously beautiful, the kind of girl who freezes boys’
hearts and eats them for fun. She wriggles her ngers in a delicate wave, her smirk saying it
all, and then she takes off in a run towards the beach scrub.
“You get him, I’ll get her.” Jack vaults after Vin, his sts clenched and his expression stone.
Jeremy trips over himself trying to grab Jack, but his brother slips through his ngers. “NO.
Dammit. She has a knife. Jack, come back!”
But Jack plunges into the bush after her.
There’s no time to yell for him again, no time to think. Because Avery has curled into a ball on
the sand and isn’t getting up.
Jeremy sprints to his side and crumbles to his knees, hands out to feel Avery for wounds. But
he stops himself. He never touches Avery. It feels off-limits considering he’s autistic and
touch has always meant violence for him. What’s Jeremy meant to do right now? He needs—
Dad. Dad always knows what to do.
Jeremy feels so goddamn useless.
Blood speckles the sand as if a sloppy painter has icked their brush, and Avery has drawn
so tight into himself, he barely seems to be breathing.
“Hey, hey.” Jeremy tries to sound comforting but his words crack. “Avery? I’m here. I’m...”
Failing you. I’m failing you again.
But how could Vin have known they were here? How could she have—
Unless she watches them, follows them. Maybe she does this all the time, waiting for Avery
to wander off alone. The thought makes Jeremy’s skin crawl, bile thickening in the back of his
throat.
“Avery. Let me look.” His ngertips touching Avery’s shoulder.
Jeremy sees it then, the blood crusting Avery’s cornsilk hair and drying in sticky streaks on
his cheek. Sand sticks everywhere, coats his hoodie, his jeans, catches in his eyelashes.
When he sits up, blood coats his mouth in a ghoulish red and he clutches his left arm tight.
There is so much blood.
“She cut you?” Jeremy whispers.
Avery says nothing, just jerks his sleeve down so Jeremy can’t see the extent of the damage.
Blood soaks through the fabric, deep and dark and terrible.
She pinned him down and ayed him with a pretty smile and a pretty knife, and no one came
to save him.
Avery starts rocking. “Sam.”
Jeremy’s throat closes. “Hey…it’s okay.”
“I need— Sam.” The words come out low and ragged, slipping through lips wet with blood.
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy says because he has nothing else.
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 Footsteps sound behind them, followed by Jack’s heavy breathing and angry face. His legs
are scratched up from running into the scrub, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“There’s a road through those trees.” He’s still panting. “She had a car there. Shit. Shit. I left
the phone at home. We have to call Dad.”
Jeremy chews his lip. “We need a hospital—”
“NO.” The force of the shout shakes something in Avery, and he doubles over and vomits
between his knees onto the sand.
Jeremy crouches there, helpless, wanting to brush hair out of Avery’s face but still terri ed to
touch him.
Avery wipes sick from his mouth and when he looks up he’s haggard and pale as death. But
a frenetic energy lights his eyes, like a fox cornered in a trap, desperate for the rst chance to
run.
Away from them.
Them, threats now too.
“I’m n-n-not going to a hospital.” Avery shoves backwards, away from them.
“Dude, your head. Did…did she hit you with a rock?” Jeremy swallows. “Can you at least
show us your arm?”
Avery clutches his arm to his chest, teeth bared. His eyes have gone far too bright and he is
seconds away from losing it.
Jeremy looks frantically at Jack, but they’re drowning with no idea what to do.
“We can stay with you the whole time,” Jack tries.
But Avery staggers to his feet, backing away and shaking his head hard and fast. Violent
trembles wrack his whole body, and in a second he’s going to back into the rocks. Hurt
himself.
He screws his eyes shut. “No, no no no NO NO—”
“Okay!” Jack raises his hands. “We’ll go home. Listen, you have to let us take you home.”
Avery stops shrinking away, but he refuses to look at them. “He said he wouldn’t let it h-h-h-
happen again.”
“Who?” But Jeremy understands as soon as the words leave his mouth. Dad must have
promised that with no idea of what Vin could do.
Because when Avery said, she’ll kill you, did they truly believe him?
The rst tear spills down Avery’s cheek, then the next. His face is a sea of ruin as he looks
straight at Jeremy and says, “Everyone lies to me.”
*
It takes forever to walk home. They’re frozen with the cold, shivering too hard to form
complete sentences, and Avery keeps falling. They help him up, but they’re too scared to
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hold onto him, and Jack even hesitates before grabbing the back of Avery’s hoodie to pull
him over the chain link fence.
Avery vomits again, this time drool and bile. His eyes look strange, so unfocused that he
squints at whatever’s in front of him, and the blood crusting the side of his head has swollen
into a lump. This time, for sure, his brain is bleeding and he’s about to die while all they can
do is watch and this is Jeremy’s fault because he let it happen and they can’t take him to the
hospital and Dad’s not here and they’re goddamn useless—
As soon as they’re through the front door, Avery takes off for the stairs. That sky blue hoodie
he loved so much is ruined for good now; not even bleach will get the blood out. If he gets to
his room, they’ll never get him out. He’ll hunker down and suffer this out alone.
Jack has already dived for Jeremy’s phone. He paces, shedding sand, and starts swearing
low and steady. “Dammit. The one time Dad won’t pick up. Where is everyone?”
Jagged handwriting on the family whiteboard says GONE SHOPPING, because of course
they’re having a crisis during the rare time Dad goes for groceries.
“Call Grady?” Jeremy says.
“What’s Grady going to do? He’s not even here. Remember the time I busted my lip open?
He nearly fainted.”
“But.” Jeremy’s legs feel weak, which is stupid. He’s not even the one hurt. “We need
someone.”
“Avery.” Jack storms over to cut Avery off before he reaches the stairs. “Show us your arm.
How deep are the cuts? What the hell was she trying to do?”
Avery ducks passed him, but stops and stares at the bottom step.
Dash has left the Elven Warrior book there next to a hand drawn bookmark decorated with
trees and swords and a quote done in a swirly, fantasy language. Blood runs from the tips of
Avery’s ngers and splatters onto the bookmark.
One drop. Two.
He sways as he stares down at it for a long minute, and then he tips forward, his face going
slack and his eyes sliding to the side.
Jeremy’s there rst, snatching Avery around the middle and pulling him away so he doesn’t
fall and crack his head on the stairs. Avery blinks hard and steadies himself, and Jeremy’s
quick to let go.
“Okay,” Jeremy says. “We are going to the hospital. Jack, get the jeep keys.”
Avery whirls on him, his lips bloodless but eyes like shattered stars. “No. I n-need to see
Sam.”
“But you can’t see him, he’s not here.” Jeremy’s starting to panic, his voice spiralling high and
untethered. “You probably have a concussion. You’re still bleeding and—”
“SHE SAID SHE’D GO AFTER SAM. BUT YOU DON’T EVEN CARE.” Avery ings his arms
out wide, every word cracking as he pitches towards a scream. “YOU T-TELL ME WHAT TO
DO ALL THE TIME, BUT NO ONE ASKS ME WHAT I WANT. WHAT I NEED. YOU J-J-J-
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 JUST SHOVE ME WHEREVER YOU WANT ME. YOU’RE LIARS. YOU’RE ALL LIARS. I
HATE YOU. YOU DON’T ASK ME WHAT I WANT—”
“You can’t see Sam!” Jeremy hates that he’s yelling too, but he can’t help it. He’s having a
goddamn panic attack right now. He’s absolutely losing it. “And you left us! We told you to
stay—”
Jack edges forward, looking unsure if he should reach for Avery or Jeremy. “Um, guys? Take
a breath.”
“I need my brother!” Avery grabs at his hair and pulls, doubling over as he keeps screaming.
“You don’t understand— you liars, you’re all liars. YOU HATE ME AND SHE’S GOING TO
KILL ME AND EVERYONE WILL BE GLAD. AND I-I-I-I CAN’T. I DON’T WANT THIS
ANYMORE. I WANT— I WANT—”
“I don’t know what you want! I don’t even understand what you’re saying!” Jeremy’s throat
feels wrecked. “Avery, stop.”
“Both of you stop,” Jack starts.
But Avery’s pounding a st against his own side now, hard enough to leave bruises. “—
HATES ME, HATES ME. I NEED SAM TO HOLD ME. HE KNOWS. HE KNOWS ME—”
“Avery!” Jeremy shouts.
“I NEED HIM TO HOLD ME. I NEED—”
“I CAN HOLD YOU.” Jeremy has no idea what he’s doing. He’s blinded by this all-consuming
panic and confusion and fury at himself for not being the cool, calm, collected one in a crisis.
He’s making a mess when he only wants to help.
So he takes a stful of Avery’s hoodie and waits a beat so Avery has time to wrench free. He
doesn’t. Fine then. Jeremy drags Avery in tight and close, wraps arms around his shoulder,
and holds him.
Avery’s face presses against Jeremy’s sea-soaked jumper. “Tighter.”
Jeremy absolutely crushes Avery to his chest. Bloody and wet. Both breathing too fast. Avery
is a gurine made of glass, riddled with ssures that will implode if he’s let go.
So Jeremy doesn’t let go.
Jack ducks out of the room because the phone has nally started buzzing and his agitated
answer melts into relief, a sign it’s Dad. A soft, tentative silence falls over the house as the
ghost of their yelling fade into the oorboards.
Jeremy holds on as Avery’s shivering turns to chest heaving sobs, his ngers curling into
Jeremy’s jumper and twisting tight.
Jeremy holds on as they lose feeling in their legs and sink to the ground. Avery ts perfectly
in Jeremy’s arms, his face curled into Jeremy’s neck, hot breath against cold skin. His chest
stops spasming and his tears slow.
Carefully, Jeremy hooks a thumb around the cuff of Avery’s hoodie and pulls up the sleeve.
Not far, because blood has dried and fused fabric to the wound, but enough to see deeply
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 parted esh, blood oozing fresh and crimson. It looks like a V, slashed in murderous red. It’s
enough to make his stomach spin out.
“I thought…” Jeremy swallows. “I thought autistic people didn’t like to be touched.”
Avery grips Jeremy like he’s a boy, falling, and his words come thick with unshed tears. “I’m
n-n-not autistic people. I’m Avery.”
That lands with a sting, and Jeremy winces, but he deserves it. How often does he assume?
How often do any of them ask Avery what he wants? Half the things Avery was yelling were
irrational hysteria, sure, but he was right about that.
Jeremy tilts his head so his cheek rests against Avery’s soft hair. “So do you want…anyone
to hold you like this?”
“No.” Avery sounds worn through, but his voice is soft and aching and full of want. “Just you. I
just want you.”
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 Before
Avery is sixteen when they put the gun in his hands.
They say this is so he’ll have a feel for it and get used to the weight, but they’d never give
him a gun during a job. Too much a risk for the boy they call halfwit while laughing over
drinks. He pretends he doesn’t hear.
They make him hold this gun, he knows, so his ngerprints will be found next to theirs. If one
of them goes down, the rest follow.
Midnight sits heavily against the windows of Vin’s rundown house, the weight of it like
molasses lling Avery’s lungs. Night air should be clean and bright and full of diamond stars
— but the nights Vin takes as her own always feel oppressive, like ngers around a throat
and dread pressed against a chest.
They won’t leave until two a.m., so everyone sprawls in the cramped living room and goes
over the plan again. A few beers are passed around, enough for a buzz but not enough to get
sloppy.
The job involves a pickup, a stolen car, a warehouse door popped open like an overripe
watermelon. An easy job. Vin chose Joley and Stokes for muscle, Avery to drive. She asked
them to come. She told Avery he would.
Vin sprawls in an armchair, one leg hooked over the side, sipping a beer and laughing at
something Joley says. They irt all the time now, and Joley is forever creeping out of Vin’s
room in the early hours of the morning. He’s the one who gave Avery the gun, who now claps
Avery on the shoulder and grins down at him. Condescending and arrogant.
A hot, sick pulse beats against Avery’s ribs. If Sammy saw this—
Sammy can never know.
“We’re not really giving Rain Man a gun, right?” Stokes nishes checking his toolkit before
casting Avery a disgusted look.
“Shut up.” Vin looks happy, one leg bopping. She is at her most magnanimous before a job.
“He’s a valuable kid. We got through that rough patch and now he does exactly what he’s
told.”
He feels unsteady, his skin itching all the wrong ways and his mouth too dry. He wishes he
could leave, but he stays tucked up beside Vin’s armchair, close because he belongs to her.
The gun burns hot as death in his hands.
Joley takes it off him and Avery lets out a shaky breath. He has to tuck his hands between his
knees to stop his ngers tapping their anxiety on his thighs. Look normal. Be normal.
Or they’ll get angry and who knows what they’ll do.
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 Vin slides onto the oor beside Avery, ignoring how the crusty carpet is covered in crumbs
and grot and beer stains. She slings an arm around Avery’s neck and tweaks his hair, her
smile the kind that could turn a city to gold.
“If everything goes right, we each walk away with ve thousand tonight. Excited, kid?” she
says.
He nods, though he knows he’ll get less. They always make his cut smaller, thinking he’s too
stupid to notice. He’s not stupid, which is why he doesn’t argue. There are things he’s done
once, and then, after the bruises heal, he doesn’t do it again.
Vin brushes lips over Avery’s ear, then down his neck, light as butter ies. The sensation feels
wrong, awful, like bugs on skin or dust in eyes, and he wants to shrink away, but he doesn’t.
He says nothing. She kisses the underside of his jaw and he thinks he should be pleased she
wants him right now and not Joley.
He lines up the words You Like This in his mind, because that’s step one to convincing
yourself a thing is good.
“Still pissed at me?” Vin bites his ear, playful and light. “C’mon, Avery, pull that stick out of
your ass. Everyone loses their temper now and then. You can’t be mad about a little slap.
Love means accepting the good and the bad.”
Avery slides a careful sideways glance at the others, but they’re busy discussing the route.
Joley loads the gun.
“I’m not mad,” he says.
She kisses him for real then, and he almost likes it. He’s liked it other times, so now should
be the same.
“What will you do with your money?” Vin drapes her leg over his, and he’s starting to feel
suffocated while the need to ick his ngers grows like panic in his throat.
“I’m going to buy a house for my brother,” he says.
Vin bursts out laughing. “You’re so cute. How about you start with some new clothes? Then
we’ll get you a little something to take the edge off, loosen you up. People like us don’t buy
houses. We buy fast cars and faster experiences.”
Avery frowns and tilts his head away, avoiding her next kiss. He wants to shove her off and
go nd Sammy. He’d put hands over Sammy’s ears and protect him from hearing words like
this, that his dream is impossible. Avery will get his brother a goddamn house someday, even
if he has to steal every star in the sky to do it.
“You could get money faster though.” Vin plays with the soft hair at the nap of his neck. “If
your little brother worked for us too. Hey, don’t get all pouty, it’s only a suggestion.”
Laced in poison. He knows how this conversation goes. They keep having it, he keeps
saying no, he keeps spitting blood onto the concrete and crying in the mucked up gutters
behind the house where no one can see him.
“I’m not angry at you anymore about this,” she says, light. “But you’re going to change your
mind, I can feel it. Now impress me tonight and you won’t have to sleep on the sofa.” She
winks and walks her ngers down his chest.
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Avery frowns. “I need to sleep on the sofa. I’m used to it and I want to sleep in the same
place every night.”
Vin rolls her eyes and reaches for the last of her beer. “God, you’re so thick. But whatever.
Joley, make him hold the gun while it’s loaded. Practice.”
The thing to focus on here is that Vin is in a good mood, she likes him, she protects him. She
called him valuable and she wanted him for this job, and when she kisses him, the heat in his
belly distracts from the anxiety punching holes in his lungs.
But he also wishes that
he could just
leave.
They put the gun in his hands again and rumple his hair like he is their dog, their mascot,
their gimmick. Nothing bad will happen to him if he does what he’s told.
This is the only way to get Sammy a house. They will be the kings of somewhere, always
together and enough like that.
He can’t want anything for himself.
Vin’s kisses, her slaps, her sharply mocking smile are the best he’ll get.
It’s not like someone could choose to love Avery Lou.
 Chapter 22
It takes Avery long minutes of staring into the rubbish bin before he forces himself to stuff in
his sky blue hoodie. What’s left of it. They had to cut it off at the hospital, throat to hem, and
then the entire left arm. Browned blood soaks one sleeve and speckles the front until it looks
like the ragged remains of a horror movie costume. There’d be no saving it. He only still has
it because he had to hold onto something while they stitched him or lose his goddamn mind.
Avery said no hospitals, he begged. But when Mr. De Lainey arrived home, he took one look
at Avery and at out ignored the pleading. Avery’s anger at that, his tearful fury at the
betrayal, kept him from melting down at the hospital. He put all his energy into glaring at Mr.
De Lainey who, as usual, did not seem to mind.
A day later and Avery still feels dizzy, his mind fogged up like hot shower steam collecting
against a mirror. There are stitches in the deepest cuts and he’s under strict instructions to
rest after the blow to his head. The side of his scalp has been left a tender soft boiled egg,
and he resists the compulsion to keep touching it.
But despite everything, what Avery wants most is to go back to yesterday, even with the pain
and the terror pooling in his stomach and his throat turned to sandpaper from screaming.
Because Jeremy held him.
Avery wants more of it.
This is the beginning of an insatiable, feral addiction, he knows it. He lives inside the
realization that he can and did burrow into Jeremy’s arms, his mouth only a breath away from
Jeremy’s neck. Avery’s whole world became damp salty skin and soft warm heat and Jeremy
Jeremy Jeremy.
Avery has never been held so tight yet with such tender reverence as in that moment, and he
craves it like a boy starved.
He punches the remnants of his best hoodie into the bin amongst a dilapidated art project
and cracker packaging, and tries to ignore the way he wants to cry. It’s not about the hoodie,
is it? It’s about Vin. It’s how Vin won’t stop and she will always nd him and each collision will
carve something fresh from Avery until there’s nothing left of him.
He scrubs at his nose and blinks hard, before noticing Moxie stands by the fridge, looking
extremely invested in not watching him. She has a cup of strawberry yoghurt in one hand and
she rummages around for chocolate chips. He scowls at her back and then wipes his face
clean of expression when she turns around.
They stare at each other for a minute, both agonisingly neutral. Then she returns to her
yoghurt, and Avery slouches away.
From the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees her sidle over to check the bin, but he decides
he won’t care she saw him cry over it. He has to funnel all his attention into one thing now,
the most important thing.
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 Vin saying, I know which juvie he’s in, by the way. How hard do you think it would be to mess
with him? Pay off some psycho kid to make his life hell.
Avery needs to talk to Sam.
A headache has picked up behind his eyes, a sign the last lot of painkillers is wearing off, but
he takes himself to the kitchen table and slides onto the bench. Sunday lunch was cancelled
and the afternoon stretches grey and chilled beyond the windows. Most of the De Laineys
laze about downstairs: the babies puttering around with their toys, still sleepy-eyed from their
nap, Jeremy and Jack playing a video game on the sofa, Moxie poking about her sewing
corner, and Mr. De Lainey at the table with his fossilised laptop doing nances. He’s been
frowning behind his glasses for an hour now. The numbers seem to be carving fresh lines in
his worried brow.
Avery scoots his way along the bench seat until he’s at Mr. De Lainey’s elbow. Then he sighs
angrily and cuts a glance at Mr. De Lainey to see if he noticed.
Mr. De Lainey icks through a notepad and squints at his laptop. “Do you want to say
something, Avery?”
“I’m nding it very dif cult,” Avery says, “not to swear.”
“I see.” Mr. De Lainey sounds unruf ed as he types something up with two ngers. He is so
old.
“At you,” Avery adds, in case this needed clarifying. “You forced me to do what you wanted.
Just like Aunt Karen.” His hands clench into sts as a surprising shot of venom laces his
voice. His left ngers can’t curl much because it pulls the stitches under the thick gauze and
bandages on his arm. He wears a loose tee shirt and plaid jacket overtop, buttons undone
because he can’t manage them.
The keyboard makes a click-clack sound under Mr. De Lainey’s laborious typing efforts.
“Avery.” He sounds unmoved. “When you were hurt as a child, did your aunt ever force you to
see a doctor? Take you to an emergency room?”
Avery thinks of scars and slaps and being locked in his room. “No.”
“Then I think you’ll nd I am not being like your aunt Karen at all.”
Avery sighs, less angry this time, and more tragically pained.
“I want to listen to you,” Mr. De Lainey says, “and give you as much control as possible over
your life. But I’m going to override bad decisions. I do that for all my kids.” He looks up then
and raises a single eyebrow. “How’s your arm that was ‘ ne’ and ‘doesn’t need stitches’?”
“It’s ne,” Avery insist, “and doesn’t need stitches.”
“And your head?”
Avery makes a face.
“You can have more painkillers in—” Mr. De Lainey checks his phone clock “—two hours.
Doctor said plenty of rest and don’t strain your eyes. If you watch a movie with the kids take a
nap after, alright?”
“I don’t need a nap.” Avery picks up a loose pen and ddles with it. “I need to call Sam.”
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“Next Friday—”
“I need to check on him.” Avery stabs the pen tip into his bandaged arm. It doesn’t hurt, but
Mr. De Lainey gives him an alarmed look and con scates it. “Vin said she’d go after him—”
“There’s absolutely no way for her to do that.” Mr. De Lainey takes off his glasses and rubs
his eyes, but Avery suspects the weariness is not his fault this time.
The numbers on Mr. De Lainey’s laptop leave him more haggard each time he begs them to
work. If the house they’ve built doesn’t sell fast and well…there will be problems. Avery
knows the details because people tend to forget he’s always there, always listening. To
phone calls. Waiting for Mr. De Lainey to nish with bank appointments. Watching the stack
of bills grow atop the fridge.
“Do you promise?” Avery says in a erce whisper. “Do you promise he’s safe?”
But Mr. De Lainey hesitates a beat too long. “Vin can’t get to him.”
It isn’t a promise. Sam isn’t safe and Avery can’t shake the snake of anxiety coiling through
his intestines that screams, go to him, hurry, you have to save him before it’s too late.
“But we should talk about Vin,” Mr. De Lainey says slowly. “Because we can make sure
you’re never alone again, but this situation is escalating. There has to be a way to involve the
police that—”
Avery hops off the bench abruptly and leaves.
He is aware this is a sulky exit, and he should storm upstairs and slam his door so the
severity of his opinion about talking to cops will be understood. But he doesn’t want to be
alone while he feels muddy and frustrated and anxious.
He wants to be held.
He can’t exactly ask Jeremy to do that again.
All he can do is crumple himself onto the end of the sofa down from Jack and Jeremy as they
play a car racing game. Their eyes are glued to the TV as they hunch over controllers and
drive in a way that is downright offensive to behold.
Avery digs his book out of the cracks between the sofa cushions. He’s not meant to be
reading thanks to the concussion, but he’s done with rules. He’s going to be mad and
rebellious. Take that, Mr. De Lainey.
Avery tries to stretch his legs out, but Jeremy is in the way.
“Move down,” he says, gruff.
Jeremy’s eyes stay xed to the TV. “What? No, you move…hey-hey! Jack, stop shoving me
off the track. I was distracted. Avery’s distracting me.”
“You were driving like a drunken grape on wheels before he started talking.” Jack sounds
cool as he swivels his controller. “You suck at this.”
“I do not—hey! STOP bashing into me.”
“Wimp.”
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 “You are a menace to society! Avery, tell him to be nice to me.”
“Can’t.” Avery puts socked feet on Jeremy’s leg and tries to push him down the sofa. He does
not budge. “You drive so bad you deserve it.”
Jeremy blinks. “Um, since when did you side with Jack? Traitor?”
Jack crosses a nish line and raises both arms in a silent party wave. “Eat dust, turtle.”
Avery shoves a bit harder and has to give up, panting. Jeremy is currently paying zero
attention to Avery because he’s arguing with Jack about virtual road rage while Jack gloats
about high scores. If Sam were here, all Avery would need is a pitiful snif e and Sam would
move.
But then, if Sam were here, he’d be safe and Vin would have no chance of attacking him.
Avery’s skin feels raw, the cuts stinging and his mouth full of dust. He needs a distraction. He
needs to think about anything except Vin.
He wrenches open the book, but the words smudge. His brain hurts.
Jack glances at him. “Tell me you’re not still reading the Legolas drivel.”
“I HEARD THAT!” Dash shrieks from upstairs.
“How!” Jack yells back. “Your hearing is like Dad’s.”
Avery licks his thumb and turns a page, his scowl deepening. Since he can’t stretch out —
and Jeremy obliviously will not be moved — Avery does the next annoying thing he can think
of and shoves his legs on Jeremy’s lap. That’ll show him. He’ll get up for sure.
Jeremy doesn’t even glance his way. He’s still trying to nish his lap of the car race, his
tongue poked out as he concentrates. He’s driving at two kilometres an hour and he still
crashes into a stop sign and a building. Then his face breaks into a smile.
“Look! I did it!”
“You ran over an old lady,” Avery says.
“Pfft,” Jeremy says. “That wasn’t a— oh my god, it was. I am a monster.”
Jack tosses his controller on the cushions and stretches. “We’re not playing this again until
you x your life.”
Footsteps clatter downstairs and Dash appears with leaves in her curls and a sword stick
shoved through the belt loop of her jeans. Her pockets rattle with shells and stones as she
stomps over to Jack and folds her arms.
“You need to x your life. Thirteen Elven Kingdoms of War is my favourite thing in the whole
wide world.”
“I had no idea,” Jack deadpans.
“Now you guys clear out because Dad said I could watch my movie.” Dash places a hand on
her sword stick in a regal threat. “The rst one! Time to watch Queen Thyl’thanius be
badass.”
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Jack topples onto the oor in a fake death spasm, the TV remote hidden beneath him. “I can’t
take it for the millionth time.”
Dash shrieks and jumps on him. “Turn it on for me! Jack Jack Jack—”
“Tickle him, Dash,” Jeremy says, before nally looking down and noticing Avery’s legs in his
lap.
Avery keeps the book in front of his face, the picture of innocence, and waits for Jeremy to
shove him off with a teasing complaint.
Jeremy does not.
He leans back into the cushions to get comfortable, and slings one arm over Avery’s
outstretched leg. His eyes are on Dash and Jack’s tousle, as if sitting like this with Avery is
the most normal thing in the world.
Dash wins the remote and settles onto the sofa. Jack remains on the oor, pulling out his
phone to text, while the opening credits start up with a blare of swelling violins.
“Avery, this is the rst Thirteen Elven Kingdoms of War movie.” Dash bounces on the
cushions. “You’ll love it.”
Avery hunches down. “I’m not watching your stupid movies,” he says while reading her stupid
books.
Dash gives him a pitying look. “Wait till you see the dragons. Oh. If you’re not nished
reading you’ll get spoiled. What chapter are you on?”
Avery tucks her handmade bookmark, blood splattered thanks to him, between the pages.
“Battle of O’syiren Mot.”
Dash blinks. “You pronounced it right.”
“Obviously I looked it up,” Avery snaps.
Jeremy has a hand over his mouth now because he’s choking on his own laugher. “I can’t
believe—” He has to pause and wheeze “—you’re a secret nerd.”
“I don’t like—”
“Lies!” Jeremy’s crowing now. “You’re so into it. You’re a fangirl!”
Avery scrunches up his face, but he’s not even sure why he resents liking something. Maybe
because it feels alien. To Sam, reading was an enforced school activity of pain, and Avery
always copied his little brother. But now that Avery’s not spending every waking moment
surviving, running, stealing, there are so many other things to try, to taste, to want.
He’s still stealing though. He’s stealing this: Jeremy’s space, and his touch, and his ngers
absently ddling with the edge of Avery’s sock until a thumb brushes an ankle bone and
ecstasy shivers all the way up Avery’s spine.
This doesn’t mean anything to Jeremy, of course, since he’s affectionate to all of his siblings,
and besides, what could Avery offer him? Unless there are locks to pick or cars to steal,
Avery can give nothing to make up for how volatile he is to be around.
“How’s your head?” Jeremy whispers.
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 Avery quickly looks away from Jeremy’s lips. He thumbs the scar in the corner of his mouth,
thinking of how Vin said it made him a shitty kisser.
“I’m great,” he says.
“True.” Jeremy smiles and looks back at the TV, leaving Avery with something warm and
unsteady heating up his chest.
“Alright everyone, hush.” Dash claps her hands together. “Look, look it’s Is-Allyill and the
Twelfth Queen! This is the part where they sneak away to nd their brother.”
Her words hit like an iron brand over Avery’s heart, and the jolt makes him sit up. Why didn’t
he think of that? They keep telling him no, but when has no ever stopped a Lou?
This is the part
where he sneaks away
to nd his brother.
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 Chapter 23
It’s a simple con to run, familiar too, because he’s done this countless times with Sam. One
of them is the decoy, the other steals from the mark. Sam is better at slipping a hand into
purse or lifting a phone, which leaves Avery as the performing spectacle, and he considers
himself quite good at it. He’s done this con in particular many times: chew up cheerios and
carrots and a cup of orange juice, and don’t swallow. Let it sit in the mouth as long as
possible while walking around looking peaky. Then the “vomiting” comes, violent and chunky
and colourful. Beforehand, he can scrub his face hard with hot water to add a pink-cheeked
“fever”.
Doing this on the street and then crying always hooked a worried do-gooder.
Doing this in the De Lainey kitchen and hurling his “guts” into the rubbish bin sells the fact he
is sick in ve seconds at.
Avery huddles on the sofa under a knit blanket with a mixing bowl nearby as a helpful prop.
Everyone’s still throttled by the Monday morning school rush, but Mr. De Lainey has already
fussed over him and Jeremy has been anxiously sympathetic — a bonus to this whole
situation. Even the babies have sidled passed Avery a few times with round, concerned eyes.
“Abery is sick,” Toby says in a serious voice to the baby. “If you poke your belly all your food
will come out too.”
The baby seems to think this is a fun idea and pokes vigorously at his own belly until Moxie
snatches him up to get dressed for daycare.
Mr. De Lainey comes by with a glass of water and has Avery drink the whole thing. “I’m
driving out of town to look at empty blocks on a new development. I was going to be gone all
day, but I can cancel—”
“You don’t have to.” Avery has perfected a thinned, weak voice. “I’ll just sleep.”
“It’s probably a side-effect of the concussion,” Mr. De Lainey says. “We’ll go to the doctor
tomorrow and check everything over.”
Avery frowns because that is not in his plan, but decides he’ll make a speedy recovery later.
Also not in his plan is the way Moxie has been eyeballing him all morning with shrewd
suspicion. There’s an acute sharpness about Moxie, not only in personality but in how fast
she cuts through lies. He expects her to out him as a faker, but her mouth stays pressed in a
tight line.
An anxious itch starts up across Avery’s skin. Anticipation. This has to work.
Jack clatters out the door with his backpack over one shoulder and jeep keys jingling in one
hand, only to return in a panic.
“The jeep won’t start,” he says. “Dad! We’re going to be late!”
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 Mr. De Lainey has arms full of babies, backpacks, a stuffed toy dinosaur, and Wiggles
lunchboxes, and he’s starting to look unravelled. “I’ll take everyone in the van. But we need
to leave now.”
“Or Avery could x it?” Jack says.
It takes a divine act of willpower not to look smug right then, considering the fuss Jack used
to make about Avery touching the car. But Avery manages to keep looking pathetic from
within his sickly cocoon. “I am sick.”
Jack groans to the ceiling.
“Let him rest,” Mr. De Lainey says. “Kids! Change of plans, we’re all in the van.”
If they popped the jeep’s hood, they’d see the problem. Battery cables, unattached. But the
De Laineys don’t know cars and Avery counted on that fact last night as he worked, quiet and
fast, with a socket wrench.
Five more minutes and he’ll be in the clear. His body coils like a rusted spring as he waits, his
ngers tapping against his cheeks as he watches Jeremy, Jack, and Dash traipse outside to
the van.
Only Moxie lingers, dragging her school bag. “Dad, I’m having the worst cramps.” She turns
big brown eyes up at him. “I’m bleeding through everything.”
Mr. De Lainey hesitates at the front door, his wallet and phone tucked under his chin as both
babies jiggle in his arms. “Oh.”
“Can I have the day off? It’s not usually this bad.” She blinks hard. “You could call the
school…”
The van’s horn blares from the driveway, Jack and Jeremy chanting, “We’re late late late!”
Mr. De Lainey hefts up a slipping baby. “Alright, alright. But I’ll drive back into town at lunch to
check on—”
“You don’t have to,” Moxie says. “I guess Avery will be asleep and I’m taking a long bath.”
He looks uncertain. “Text me updates then. Are you sure you’ll be alright?” He casts Avery a
quick look. “Both of you?”
Moxie wraps arms around her middle and winces. “Yup. Bye, Dad.”
He’s barely out the door before she shuts it with a satisfying bang.
Avery feels punched. Everything inside him unspools in liquid disappointment, and he truly
does feel sick now, anxious and hot and furious that she ruined it.
He can’t follow through with his plan if she’s here. He can’t—
Heat crawls up the back of his neck, an ugly feeling, like the welt after a switch strikes skin or
the swollen lump left by a wasp’s sting. He thinks he might hate her.
But as the van chugs down the street and silence settles over the butter yellow house, Moxie
strides over to the sofa and stands there, her arms folded and expression stony.
“So,” she says. “Are we doing this or what?”
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 Avery stares at her.
“I heard you yesterday.” Moxie tilts her chin at a de ant angle. “When you told Dad that Vin
might go after Sam. And I know about the chewed-up-food-vomiting trick because Sam told
me about your cons.”
Sam, the lovesick little traitor.
Avery tosses off his blanket since the trick has fallen, but when he scowls at Moxie a
brightness dances behind her eyes.
“I know you’re going to nd Sam,” Moxie says. “I’m coming too.”
*
Silence ices the car between them as they drive. Avery stays tense, drumming his ngers on
the steering wheel when he’s not shifting gears, which frustrates him because driving should
make him calm. It’s his thing. Instead, he’s a stful of strings pulled taut, ready to snap back
with devastating whiplash at any moment. He thinks he’s this wound up because of what he’s
doing: nally nally driving the two hours to the juvenile detention facility to see his brother.
But a small knot in his throat, hard to swallow around and harder to ignore, whispers that it
might be guilt.
He lied to the De Laineys. Stole their jeep. He’s driving illegally. He even took their daughter.
Not that he can be blamed for kidnapping her; rather she has him hostage with her frowns
made of lemon and salt as she takes over navigation duties and crisply directs them onto the
highway. He didn’t ask for this, he doesn’t want her here, and he doesn’t want her to devour
all of Sam’s attention.
Worse is the truth. That he’s scared Sam will be happier to see her than him.
“The exit isn’t for forty minutes.” Moxie tips her phone into the cup holder and pulls the
sleeves of her jumper down to cover cold ngers. The jeep roof is attached for once, but
chilled air slides through all the cracks.
Moxie ditched her school uniform for a huge knit woollen creation and jeans, while Avery has
on a thermal long sleeve shirt and a brown striped jacket. He misses his hoodie, misses the
way it made him feel like the whole blue sky, blown wide with possibilities.
Avery changes lanes, fast and neat, and cuts in front of a minivan. He coaxes the jeep fast
and then faster, his pulse racing as the speedometer climbs. Once, he wouldn’t have cared
how risky this is, but now he has the imprint of Mr. De Lainey’s unimpressed frown in the
back of his dully throbbing head. Dammit.
“You drive like a racer,” Moxie says.
Avery changes lanes again, the highway zipping away beneath them. “I drive like a—”
“Getaway driver.” Moxie slides him a cautious glance. “So. Since we’re forcibly hanging out,
maybe we should talk.”
Avery’s ngers tighten on the wheel. “No, thank you.” See? He is polite about it.
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 But Moxie settles back and her voice takes on a no-nonsense edge. “All I want to know is
why you hate me so much.”
This is the part where he says I don’t hate you, and the words are right there, trapped behind
his teeth, but he hesitates because he’s not sure if they are a lie. Hate is something reserved
for Vin and Aunt Karen and his father. Moxie is—
“You’re jealous of me,” Moxie says, and he feels ugly with the truth of it out between them.
“But don’t you think it’s pointless? There’s nothing to be jealous of. If the world was ending,
Sam would choose you. No hesitation.”
“Maybe not.” Avery’s voice comes low. “He’s tired of me. He’s probably glad to have…to have
the break.”
“Bullshit,” Moxie says easily. “Sam’s entire world revolves around you, and maybe we should
actually talk about that? Because it seems like it’s wrecking you both. You don’t want him to
have a girlfriend, but does he stop you having friends too?”
He can feel her stare, but he keeps his eyes on the road and tries not to think about all the
times at school when Sam didn’t want him to play with other kids. “I picked shitty f-friends.”
“That’s not the point. You’re both determined to be absolutely everything for each other, and
it’s too much. It’s exhausting. You’re each other’s brother and best friend and protector and
parent and safe space and home and…and punishment. He told me stuff, you know. About
your ghts. And sure it’s normal for siblings to ght. I ght with my dumbass brothers all the
time. But the fall out destroys you guys because if you’re ghting with the only person you
consider safe, then you’re suddenly alone and terri ed and sick over it.”
Avery swallows and his stomach feels ready to seesaw out from beneath him.
“I’m not trying to upset you.” Moxie’s voice softens. “I just think…it doesn’t have to be like this
anymore. Dad can be your parent. My brothers can be your friends. Our house is your safe
space. Maybe you two could go back to loving each other but trusting others to love you too?
Sam’s not going to abandon you if he likes me. You’re not going to abandon Sam if you don’t
do everything he says.”
“I like doing what he says—”
“You do not.” Moxie gives a small snort. “You love testing Dad. I bet you do the same to Sam
and then you two ght because he’s a highly-strung disaster.”
A muscle in Avery’s jaw twitches because all of this is true. The way, last summer, every time
they were together they fought — how Avery hated hated hated it, but he couldn’t stop them
always tipping sideways, always going wrong.
“He chose you,” Avery says. “He stopped running for you. They put him in prison because of
—”
“Because he wants a life where he can keep you safe.” Moxie’s words are rm. “Because he
wants to stop hitting people and scaring you. Because he wants a family, but he made sure
you got a family rst. Avery, this is for you.”
A pause stretches. Avery’s heartbeat feels loud enough to ll the whole car.
“Did you plan this speech?” he says, gruff.
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Moxie folds her arms, staring straight ahead. “No. Well…a little bit. I wish you’d believe I’m
not your enemy. I…wish we were friends.”
“Sam’s not highly strung,” Avery says. “He’s—”
“Probably autistic, right?”
Avery blinks, refocusing on the road. “Nobody else notices that.”
“I didn’t until I started reading stuff about autism because of you.” Now she sounds
embarrassed. “And most of it was a neon sign towards Sam as well. Especially the sensory
stuff. Never saw him so blissed out as when sorting buttons. And if you put him anywhere
loud and bright, he falls apart.”
“He’s obsessed with collecting keys,” Avery says. “And houses. Houses are his thing. He
didn’t even talk when we were kids. Not ’til he was like four.”
“And he hates tight clothes touching him. I didn’t realise I was torturing him with that
waistcoat. He looked cute though.” Her voice holds a smile. “I guess his autism doesn’t affect
him as much as yours does. Or yours is…louder? I don’t know the right way to say it.”
Louder feels right to Avery. He’s always felt like an explosion, Sam an implosion. Avery’s
always needed more help than Sam, so Sam had to be the person to give it. He spent all
those years researching autism in lonely, dusty libraries until he inadvertently learned how to
pack his autism down so he could teach Avery to do the same.
Except he was a bad teacher because he loved Avery too hard, too erce, too tight, to do
anything but let him be exactly the way he was.
Sam just never accepted it for himself.
Avery has no idea how to chew through all of this. But the dark and bitter and resentful
weight he’s been carrying with Moxie’s name on it has slipped from his ngers.
If she sees Sam this easily, this beautifully, how can Avery dislike her?
“Also,” Moxie says. “You can’t be mad at me for liking your brother when you like my brother.”
A pause stretches. Avery becomes invested in checking all his mirrors and overtaking a few
more slow cars.
“I don’t,” he says, “know what you’re talking about.”
“Ha. Ha. A truce,” Moxie says. “We are simply the Sam fan club, and we will take care of
him.”
“Fine,” Avery mutters. “But Jeremy doesn’t like me.”
“First of all,” Moxie adds. “You knew I meant Jeremy and not Jack, so you know he does.
Second of all, that boy is besotted with you, Avery Lou.”
It’s not even true, it can’t be. Avery is a thing to tolerate, not want.
Yet warmth has stoked to life in his chest, and it chases all the iced air from the car and
keeps his cheeks ushed rosy for the rest of the drive. He holds the thought of it like a soap
bubble, rainbow light dancing across the delicate surface, determined to stay perfectly still so
it won’t pop.
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 Jeremy can’t like him.
But what if he does?
Thinking about it distracts him from the swelling anxiety about driving into the juvenile
detention car park. The facility is halfway between their town and the city, squashed between
bushland and a neighbouring industrial area. At rst all Avery can focus on are the walls, so
many walls, the tallest made of concrete with barb wire at the top, merging into mesh fences
with the holes too narrow and slick to get a foothold on. The tops curve inwards so steeply no
one could climb out. Of the few block buildings they can see, most are painted a sickly
yellow or grey, all windows barred and security cameras everywhere.
This is a mistake.
They both know it as they get out of the jeep and slowly trail down the footpath to the front
entrance. Moxie fumbles with her purse, looking for her school ID, and Avery taps his hands
against his thighs in a beat speeding up with each step. In the distance, a low clamour can
be heard. Voices? But are they shouting or crying?
“This is horrible.” Moxie sounds grim. “Are you okay?”
A sudden swell of nausea has hit, but he’ll never admit it. His head pounds, but he’s not sure
if it’s the concussion or because his muscles are stiff and spasming. The hours driving have
left his wounded arm numb and he wants to ap hard, but he holds it in. There are so many
cameras. It feels as if the whole world stares at them, these two small and nervous kids who
stop at the front doors and realise, like a blow to the stomach, they can’t go in.
The doors don’t open.
Moxie nds a red button and pushes it, and they wait for agonising minutes, blowing on their
icy ngers and walking in small circles. Finally the doors slide open and a uniformed woman
steps out. She looks as tall and severe as the barb wire circling the compound, and she gives
them a scathing once over as if they’re moths about to be swatted away from a light.
“You children need to leave.” Her voice has the rasp of a smoker.
“We’re here to visit someone,” Moxie says, and Avery’s suddenly glad he has her, because
his voice has stopped working. “I read visiting hours start at 1 p.m. and we—”
“No minors,” she says, sharp. “The offender’s caseworker should have informed you of this.
Visitors must be over eighteen and have court approved permission. And all offenders must
serve six months before being granted visitation rights. Now leave, please.”
Avery and Moxie have gone still in their shock. The world sharpens, blisteringly bright, and it
feels like glass has slashed Avery across the face. Evans never told them. He kept saying
things like privatised facility and looking perplexed at the hold up so maybe he doesn’t know.
He should have known. He let Sam get sent here. He—
“Breathe,” Moxie whispers, and Avery realises he’s not.
His next breath is so ragged his chest half caves in, ribs pierced through lungs, heart falling
down to his toes.
“Thanks for your time,” Moxie says, bright and professional, then she turns away and drags
Avery with her.
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 His hand is so cold in hers. His legs won’t work.
“This is so messed up.” Moxie storms forward and only pauses when they reach the mesh
fence bordering the footpath.
Voices lter from the other side of the building, kids outside for rec time or sport maybe, but
Avery can't see anything but the ugly backs of brick walls and the sharp edges of locked
gates.
Moxie grabs Avery by both shoulders and gives him a small shake. “You have to hold it
together. You have to drive us home. Avery. Avery. He’s okay in there. He’s got to be okay.”
“But I h-have to see him.” Avery’s chest moves too fast, his ngers uttering at his sides.
“Maybe we can wait here for a bit. See if anyone comes near this fence.”
But they both know the chances are slim.
They stand there in the cold, staring through the fence until their eyes burn, willing Sam to
appear. But he doesn’t.
They wait until Avery’s eyes sting with hot tears and Moxie’s face crumples and indecision
buries hooks in their stomachs.
They wait there until Moxie’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and winces. “It’s Dad.”
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 Chapter 24

Jeremy has his tie wrapped around his neck like a dramatic scarf as he saunters out of
school. “I hate Mondays. I hate school. I quit!”
A few paces behind, Jack has his backpack looped over one shoulder and holds an ungodly
amount of textbooks. Research or something. Jeremy never pays attention.
“You do this every afternoon.” Jack bypasses students lining up for the bus and starts for the
senior car park before pulling up short. “Dammit. Forgot we didn’t have the jeep.”
“We don’t have little sisters either.” Jeremy catches up, dragging his school bag by one strap
so it scrapes along the footpath. “Let’s do something fun.”
“Like walk downtown to the library and study until Dad picks us up.”
“I despair about your de nition of fun.”
“I want to graduate.” Jack swats the back of Jeremy’s head. “Stuff to do, places to be. Stop
being a child and pick up your backpack.”
Jeremy pulls a face which doesn’t vouch for his maturity levels, but today’s worn on him
because he’s been hardcore avoiding his session with the school counsellor about university.
He wants to go home and check on Avery, see if this level of illness requires someone to sit
comfortingly on the sofa with him. For hours. Forever, even. Jeremy is super exible about
time frames.
Dad said he’d pick them up at ve if they couldn’t get a lift home, and Aunt Rebecca is
collecting Dash from the primary school along with the gaggle of cousins. Normally an
afternoon downtown with Jack would be exciting.
But Jeremy wishes Avery was here.
His phone hums in his back pocket, and he startles. An arrow of irrational terror zips through
his guts. No one calls him unless — what if it’s an emergency? An accident? He abandons
his backpack and fumbles to answer.
Pins & Needles ashes on his screen.
“Moxie?” he says. “All limbs attached?”
Jack has walked ahead and now lounges against Dillon’s 4WD as he talks to the guys.
“Yes, my limbs are attached. Why do you ask such weird stuff? I need a favour.”
“Is it buying womanly stuff?” Jeremy says, cagey. “I’m not embarrassed to do it, but you yell
when we get it wrong and we always get it wrong.”
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“No, why? Oh… Never mind that. Just listen.”
“It’s actually hard to hear you.” Jeremy covers his ear. “Sounds like a ton of wind on your
end. Are you outside?”
“Jeremy, focus. If Dad calls, can you tell him that you two came home, and Avery and I felt
better so we all went for milkshakes? I’ll owe you. Anything.”
A pleased smile crosses Jeremy’s face. His little sister is not one for subterfuge, rather she
watches Jeremy and Jack break rules and blackmails them later. He hasn’t had anything on
her since she was ten and cut herself out of ve family photos and said Jack did it. After six
years, the potency of using that crime as leverage has dimmed.
“Okay, Miss Crafty One,” Jeremy says. “But I demand details. Like what are you even…” He
trails off and the smile drops from his face.
Jack glances his way and notices the expression change. He hurries over.
A heavy, horrible weight settles inside Jeremy, rooting him to the ground. All humour has
gone dead in his voice. “Moxie. Are you in the jeep? Because there’s no way… If Dad’s not
driving, then—”
“I’ll explain later,” she hisses. “Just cover for us.”
Jack snatches the phone. “Moxie? Is Avery driving the goddamn jeep right now?”
Whatever she replies sends a sweeping shadow of purpled fury over Jack’s face. He stares
at Jeremy and for a minute neither of them have words.
If police pull the jeep over, that’s the end of Avery Lou in the De Lainey household. His social
worker will pull him in a ash. What would the cops even do? Suspend his license sure, but
he couldn’t pay a ne. Would it be community service? A prison sentence? He wouldn’t cope
with that. Three months they’ve had Avery, and Jeremy knows that Avery does - not - cope.
What has he done?
“He has a concussion.” Jeremy’s never felt so lifeless. “Jack. Jack. If he gets a dizzy spell or
blacks out and crashes—”
Jack’s grip has gone white on the phone. “Pull over. Moxie, no— you listen to me. I swear to
god, I am not kidding here. Get off the highway. Wait at the nearest service station and text
us your location. We’ll come get you.” There’s a pause, but Jack’s voice is steel. “No, no. Do
what I goddamn said, Moxie.”
Their friends are peering at them with interest now. Jeremy doesn’t know what his face looks
like, but it can’t be good. No one is meant to see him like this. Stripped and numb and devoid
of jokes. But he couldn’t manage a smile right now for anything.
“We can’t get there—” He starts, but Jack storms back to their friends.
“Dillon, can you give us a ride?” he says. “My sister is being incredibly stupid and we have to
go get her.”
“Dude, I would, but I’m picking up my step-brother.” Dillon looks concerned. “Everything
okay?”
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 “Just siblings being shits,” Jack says, a forced lightness in his voice. He checks Jeremy’s
phone; Moxie must have texted the location. “It’s like a forty-minute drive. We’re kind of
desperate—”
“I can take you.”
Jeremy closes his eyes and lets out a long, shaky breath. When he turns, Yeats stands
behind him, looking cool and fresh even after a long day of school. Hair perfectly tousled and
white shirt pristine, his smile a tentative peace offering.
“It’s no trouble,” he says.
*
There is nothing as awkward as an impromptu road trip with an ex-boyfriend-who-claims-he-
was-never-a-boyfriend in a devastatingly expensive car that holds memories Jeremy doesn’t
want to think about. He forgot how rich Yeats is. Even the stereo looks like it will send a bill if
ngerprints are left on its glossy exterior.
“Do you want music?” Yeats says.
Jeremy’s not thinking about everything they did in the backseat, especially since Jack
currently sits there, an ominous presence whose very breathing sounds like a threat.
“Silence is okay,” Jeremy says. “Sorry, we’re a little stressed.”
“No worries.” Yeats hums to himself for a minute and then says, “I kind of wanted to
apologise for how I left things—”
“Olivia dumped him,” Jack says from the backseat.
Yeats doesn’t even have the shame to blush about the fact he’s feeling Jeremy out for a
rebound. He shoots Jeremy this self-deprecating smile, and Jeremy wonders why he was
ever a sappy-eyed mess for this boy.
“It’s ne.” Jeremy’s voice feels far away. “The exit is in twenty minutes.”
“I thought maybe we could talk—”
“Tyler,” Jeremy says. “It’s ne.”
Conversation dies an effective and permanent death after that. Yeats acts wounded, but has
the intelligence not to push when Jack’s boring holes into his back. Part of Jeremy thinks
maybe he shouldn’t have shut it down, because at least with Yeats he knows what he’ll get
and there’s comfort in familiarity.
Avery doesn’t even like him like that. And, well, no relationships between foster siblings
allowed.
But there was yesterday with Avery’s legs on his lap, and the day before when Avery’s body
t perfectly in his arms, and Jeremy has noticed that whenever he walks into a room, Avery
leans towards him like a wild ower searching for the sun.
Right now though, Jeremy feels wooden. It isn’t until they pull into a highway service station
and see the jeep in the far corner of the car park that Jeremy realises what he really feels.
Betrayed.
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 Avery lied to him. Avery lied and took off and clearly did not think about Jeremy even once.
Jack slaps twenty bucks on the console. “Thanks for the ride.”
“You don’t have to pay,” Yeats says.
“Nah, we’d rather not owe you.” Jack pops out of the car and strides towards the jeep.
Jeremy shes twenty from his own wallet and adds it while Yeats looks confused.
“It’s not that much for fuel—”
“For wasting your afternoon.” Jeremy slides out of his seat, hesitates, and sticks his head
back in. “Thanks. I hope you work it out with Olivia.”
Yeats says nothing, and Jeremy shuts the door softly.
He has to run to catch up to Jack who strides across the huge carpark like there’s war on the
other side and he’s the entire backup cavalry. Huge trucks pull in and out of the petrol
pumps, and they have to pause for a line of caravans to snake towards the exit.
Two gures sit on the jeep’s bull bar, bodies curved together like quotation marks, their heads
bent close. A splash of blonde against dark curls. It’s odd seeing them close instead of acting
like magnets born to repel. If Jeremy wasn’t swallowing back his anger, he’d be grateful their
escapade knit the wound between them.
Jack is still several metres away when he ings both arms in the air and yells. “WHAT THE
ACTUAL HELL!”
They both jump, guilt branded on their faces. Avery slides off the bull bar and stands there
shivering, his hands stimming behind his back. But Moxie stays seated, her back
straightening, because she knows to keep a height advantage in an argument. There’s
nothing apologetic about her glare of frosty resentment, but Avery looks ready to cower.
“How could you be so bloody stupid!” Jack stops in front of them, breathing hard while fury
rolls off his back. “Give me the goddamn keys.”
Avery slowly holds them out and Jack rips them from his hand. Avery curls back against the
car, his eyes on his shoes.
This is the part where Jeremy plays peacemaker and smooths things out and says let’s talk
about this rationally. But he can’t. His throat has turned to sawdust, his body not even
attached. It’s not a panic attack, he doesn’t think, this is just him swallowing wave after wave
of disappointment.
He didn’t think Avery would do something like this. He thought Avery trusted them, cared
about them, liked them.
“Can you please not tell Dad?” Moxie sounds stiff. “I said I’ll do whatever you want—”
“The hell this is about bargaining!” Jack yells. “Do either of you at least get the part where
you could have been in an accident? You have a goddamn concussion, Avery. Do you know
what that means? Do you?”
There’s a blankness in Avery’s face, a light turned off, shutters closed.
“What if you’d passed out?” Jack goes on. “What if the cops picked you up?”
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Moxie’s cheeks have gone red. “We had to see Sam, okay? Stop shouting. You’re being an
asshole.”
Jack fakes a laugh. “Oh sure, I’m the asshole. At least I’m not the dick who sabotaged the
car, lied, broke so many laws, and took off on a merry little road trip.” He turns to Avery,
gripping the car keys so hard they bite into his hand.
Jeremy grabs Jack’s shoulder then, pulling him a step back. “Don’t.”
“Are you even going to say anything?” Jack shouts.
Avery turns into the jeep, one nail scratching at old paint. There’s nothing at all on his face.
No guilt, no apology. Nothing.
“Forget it.” Jeremy barely recognises his own at voice. “He doesn’t even understand what
he did wrong.”
Avery never once looks at them.
They drive home in silence until Jack turns on the radio and swivels the volume hard until it’s
blasting out their open windows. He seems intent on making the trip as uncomfortable and
cold as possible for their two prisoners in the back. Jeremy lets him. He puts an elbow on the
window and stares at the passing cars until they blur into a rainbow smear. All he can think of
is how there’s a black, cavernous hole between his world and Avery’s — how maybe it’s
meant to be there, maybe this is a reminder they don’t match. Jeremy would never have
thought to do something like this. Avery saw it as a completely viable option.
He pulled a freaking con on them and now they’re going to have to lie to Dad to save his ass.
“Was it even worth it?” Jack snaps as they pull into their driveway.
Moxie wipes quickly at her face, but her back stays straight as a queen’s. “We couldn’t get in.
We’ll never get in. You have to be over eighteen to visit, which is bullshit and not how juvie is
meant to work. Kirby has a cousin who went to juvie in Darwin, and she said it’s not like this.
They’re meant to encourage visitors for moral support. We couldn’t even—” Her voice
catches. “See him through the fence.”
Jeremy’s anger mellows, a lonesome weariness lling the burned out hole in his chest. A
year without seeing Sam. No wonder Avery’s completely shut down.
They pile out, Avery last because he’s holding his head now. He wouldn’t have had
painkillers for hours, wouldn’t have eaten or rested or—
Jeremy has to grit his teeth and remember he’s meant to stay mad. Right now, he has to
focus on sweet-talking Dad and then he can decide if Avery deserves sympathy or should
stew a little in his consequences.
That plan dies the second they trudge towards the butter yellow house.
Dad stands on the verandah with his arms folded. He looks altogether huge then, towering a
few steps above them, shoulders broad and annel shirt taut around biceps, workbooks
dusted with wood shavings and paint.
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 Jeremy sidles in front, Avery and Moxie hovering behind him, while Jack tames his
thunderous face. Furious as they are, Jeremy knows he and Jack will never snitch on Moxie
and Avery. They’re family. This is what they do.
“Hey…Dad.” Jeremy stitches arti cial energy into his words. “I was going to text. Everyone
was feeling better so we went out for milkshakes.”
Silence.
Jeremy can actually pinpoint the second the world tips sideways, all his game pieces sliding
off the table while concrete settles in his gut.
They’re in deep shit.
“Jeremy John De Lainey,” Dad says. “Did you just lie to my face?”
Nope. They’re straight up dead.
Jeremy, who never shuts up and is the rst to ramble his way through a mess, snaps his
mouth shut. Dad’s already using middle names. One look and it’s as if he can read all their
sins tattooed red across their skin.
“All of you get inside and sit at the table.” Dad’s voice lands heavy and hard, zero room for
negotiation.
They trail inside in a thin line of shame, dumping shoes and school bags at the door and then
sliding onto the same side of the table in unanimous solidarity. Jack looks like a volcano
about to lose its lid, a sure sign he won’t go down to save Moxie and Avery. But one glance at
Avery and Jeremy’s insides unravel.
All colour has left Avery’s face and his eyes are churning blue seas of fear. He still looks
emptied, a boy who took a wrong turn and lost his way, and the best Jeremy can do is make
sure Avery sits between him and Moxie. It feels like a poor barricade.
Dad makes them sit there for ten minutes in silence before he comes inside. He stands on
the other side of the table, his arms still folded, and he looks each of them in the face. This is
classic Dad Is Disappointed In You And You’ll Look Into His Eyes And Stew In Your Guilt. It’s
worse than being yelled at because the silence is suffocating and twists their stomachs like a
waterlogged towel.
Finally, Dad says, “So far Jeremy, Moxie and Avery have all outright lied to me. Jack. Want to
add anything?”
Jack stays quiet.
“I called Moxie to say I’d be home early.” Dad’s voice is deadly low. “I was told you were
feeling better and might go out with Jack and Jeremy. However I pulled up here at two forty-
ve to no one home and the jeep gone. Unless the twins skipped class, there’s no way they
could’ve come here and left again. And let’s not forget the jeep wasn’t working this morning.”
“Dad…” Moxie stops and bites her lip.
“Now that’s what I assumed,” Dad goes on. “That you boys skipped school. Anyone want to
ll me in on the truth? Avery?”
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Avery seems smaller right then, his expression glazed from pain or maybe because he’s
locked down in survival mode.
“Let me be clear.” Dad’s voice doesn’t soften, but he sounds less angry. “You are all in
trouble and I’m very, very disappointed. But I am not going to hit anyone and I am not going
to yell. Do we understand?”
Three heads nod. Avery pulls at his eyelashes.
“Avery, talk.”
“I just—” Avery shivers to himself and tucks his hands between his thighs. “I h-h-had to see
Sam. You don’t understand.”
“Make me understand,” Dad snaps.
The truth comes out in pieces, Moxie lling in the gaps because Avery’s stammers are
disjointed and incoherent. Dad looks surprised at the rules about visiting Sam as well, but it
doesn’t wipe the severity from his face. He talks long and hard about how dangerous and
foolish their actions were, and it settles deeper than Jack’s yelling.
“I’m con scating your phones.” Dad points to Jeremy and Jack. “I expect, no, I need
responsibility from both of you. And I’m incredibly upset you lied to me, Jeremy. Now you
two,” this time, his iron gaze lands on Moxie and Avery, “are grounded. A month— no, two
months. Moxie, pack up your sewing machine and put it in my room. Avery, there will be no
more driving. Inde nitely.”
Avery slumps even lower.
Jeremy knots his ngers together under the table to keep from reaching for him.
“And since I can’t trust either of you,” Dad says, “you’ll be spending your free time under my
supervision. That means going on errands with me, no fun trips out of the house, no holing
up in your rooms. If I’m downstairs cooking, you two can do the dishes. If I’m at an
appointment, you two are in the waiting room. Understand?”
Moxie looks angry, her nose going red, a sure sign she’s holding back tears. Avery nally
gives up and rests his forehead on the table, his eyes crushed closed in pain.
“Avery, do you understand what you did wrong?” Dad says at last.
Avery props his head up, blinking hard. He seems about to slip somewhere dark and
endless, somewhere they can’t reach.
“I got caught,” he says.
Jeremy can’t hide his wince, and when his eyes ick to Dad, he’s not surprised at how weary
and inexplicably sad his father looks.
“Go to your room,” Dad says quietly.
Avery slides from his seat and leaves, silent and slim and unrepentant. Jeremy starts to
follow, but Dad shakes his head.
“I want you to leave him alone,” he says. “He has to understand, he has to learn. He loses
time with you until he does.”
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 Chapter 25
Avery takes their disappointment like a blow to the stomach. He makes himself small, his
body folded inwards until he is a stful of paper crushed between angry ngers, and he waits
for it to get worse. He’s never been grounded before, but he imagines he’ll lose a little of
everything. His freedom. His things. His family.
they were never your family—
No, but he could close his eyes and pretend in the dark when the nightmares were at their
worst.
Now all he thinks about as he waits for sleep is when Jeremy told him the punishment for
breaking rules was their father looking so, so sad. Avery had thought that pathetic.
Now he gets it.
When Mr. De Lainey looks at him with deep, grieving disappointment, it feels worse than
being kicked bloody.
The rst days after being grounded, Avery battens down for the worst of the storm to hit. He
hides anything he owns that can be torn or broken, and he wears four of his favourite shirts
so no one can cut them up. He packs his pockets with granola bars for when he’s not allowed
food anymore. He doesn’t swallow his last painkillers and instead tucks them under his pillow
for an emergency.
Except he’s wrong, again, and the confusion of misunderstanding everything and everyone
leaves him dizzier than the concussion.
The day after the escape to see Sam, he’s lying on the oor in his room without much
interest in ever getting up when a tap sounds on his door. He doesn’t respond. Hinges creak
and Moxie peers in with the baby on her hip.
“It’s dinner time. Dad made potato cakes.”
Avery rubs his cheek against the worn carpet. “But I’m grounded.”
Moxie squints at him while the baby lands a sloppy kiss on her shoulder. “Um, you still get to
eat. What do you think grounding is…” She trails off and her next words sound tight. “Is that
what they did to you as a kid? Because that’s bullshit. You always get to eat.”
Everything he does and expects is wrong, isn’t it? He’s tired of trying to gure out their world.
He rolls to face the wall. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
She leaves, but later he nds food outside his door along with a list written in Mr. De Lainey’s
blocky hand. Two columns. One says: Things That Will Happen To Me While I’m Grounded. It
includes a lot of boring chores and being within Mr. De Lainey’s sight most of the day. No
phone. No going out. No driving, no engines, no cars are all underlined.
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 The other column says: Things That Will Never Happen To Me In The De Lainey House.
Something relaxes in Avery’s throat until he almost cries. The list includes: going without
food, being threatened, being hit, loss of personal items (apart from phone), anyone going
through my room.
But it doesn’t say we will never send you away.
It seems ridiculous that he worked hard to be thrown out and, now that he wants to stay, he
keeps risking everything. If he’d hurt Moxie, they’d never have forgiven him. Sam would
never forgive him. But what else could Avery do but try and get to his brother? Sam would’ve
done it for him.
Sam would tear apart the world with bare hands and a howl before letting anyone take Avery
away.
But now Avery is left with this: the sudden withdrawal of the De Laineys’ trust and affection.
He’s on the edge of this all ending, he can feel it, one foot sliding out from under him and
dangling over an endless drop. All this time the De Laineys thought they could tame him into
something resembling a Good Boy, straighten him out a little, polish him up with new clothes
and a clean face. But he’ll never be good enough. Everything inside him has been so
viciously screwed up for so long, he’ll never t with their family.
He ts in the shadows with blood in his mouth and adrenaline-fuelled fear ruling his
heartbeat. He ts with someone like Vin.
No one could ever truly want this
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that is Avery Lou.
It’s strange to be supervised all day, and yet feel so alone. Hours move like sludge between
his ngers. They declare the house they've built of cially nished, and the auction date is
circled on the calendar in thick red marker. Mr. De Lainey moves straight onto picking up
carpentry jobs and consulting for another building company, while Rob takes shifts at a
lumber yard. The in-between-building-a-house time means stress is high and money even
tighter. An apprentice isn’t needed right now, which leaves Avery either trailing behind Mr. De
Lainey on odd jobs or waiting in the van. His book is uninteresting, his head blank. He
doesn’t want to talk anymore. He doesn’t want to do anything.
The pain of missing Sam is a gunshot through Avery’s guts.
When Evans makes his next house call he nally explains about Sam’s juvie visitation rules.
He seems agitated, the news surprising to him as well.
“It’s unreasonable,” he says. “If a support system is available for these boys, they should
have as many visitors as possible. Reece, if you could at least visit him when the six months
is up, I will push for the paperwork to go through. Samuel’s not…doing well.” He looks
carefully at Avery as he talks. “He’s very withdrawn. Keep the phone calls encouraging.”
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 Avery already knows this. He can tell when he talks to Sam, can hear the emptiness echoing
in both their voices. It’s as if the last strings between them have frayed to almost nothing, and
if a breath catches, a tear falls, a rib cracks, then one of them will be lost forever.
Avery’s desperate enough to split the phone time fty- fty with Moxie because she chatters,
all peppery and bright, about things that make Sam smile.
May pulls into June and winter settles in to the old oorboards of the butter yellow house.
Grady comes to visit for a few weeks. Jeremy and Jack turn eighteen. Dash wins a ribbon for
her creative writing about elves. Toby and the baby grow far too much. School crushes Moxie
and the twins under so many assignments they barely come up for air. Avery tries to tell
himself this is why Jeremy isn’t around as much, this is why Jeremy has put boxes between
them. But maybe school is an excuse.
Moxie was wrong when she said Jeremy liked him. Or if he did, he doesn’t anymore. It hurts
because Avery wanted—
He just wanted.
He’s so foolish.
As the rst month of the grounding slogs by, Avery realises he has to start taking care of
himself again. A plan must be cobbled together, a safety net woven so when he falls he won’t
break before he hits the ground.
They taught him how to cut wood and use a hammer and build. He can use that. He can
build something for himself and Sam, some place safe.
The lighthouse makes sense. The route from the butter yellow house up to the bluffs isn’t
easy, but it’s doable, and no one else ventures passed those rusted fences and warning
signs. Avery picks nights when the moon sits like a white globe in the sky, and he lls a
backpack with drill bits and screws. He carries a handsaw under one arm, a wooden plank
under the other, and then toils his way up the cliffs. It’s sweaty, grotty work, and his hands
end up covered in splinters and blisters — but he slowly xes the steps, one by one.
He’s breaking his grounding rules, but he has to do this. Even when his eyes blur with tears
and sweat, he has to face the fact that he can’t put all his trust in them.
A few times, Avery thinks he sees a blue Viper prowl down the De Lainey’s street. He hides,
lungs working overtime and pulse climbing up his throat, but it can’t be Vin. She must have
better things to do than hunt for him, right? Her name is on his skin, the lesson is learnt. But
he stays vigilant on the night ventures, hides often, and keeps everything a secret.
It all leaves him exhausted during the day, but with Mr. De Lainey low on jobs at least Avery
has time to doze in the van.
He’s waking now, groggy and irritable, stretched out in the back seat with his boots up
against the window. The cracked vinyl groans beneath him as he shifts his cramped muscles.
They’re still parked outside Bunnings — Mr. De Lainey’s favourite place in the world
apparently — and wooden planks are layered down the length of the van. What they need is
a work truck.
What they need is money.
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 Mr. De Lainey sits upfront nishing a call. “Right, talk to you later then—”
Avery stretches, and his sleeve edges back revealing the ugly, twisted grooves of Vin’s name
on his esh. He jerks the sleeve down. This is something Sam can never see or he’ll ip out
— the ropey scar tissue, still red and nasty and cruel.
But this is all Avery is, a boy made of scarred places.
He pushes to his feet.
Mr. De Lainey sits quietly with the phone. It’s auction day, yet they’re here and not at the
house. Avery is annoyed about it because he wanted to see crowds of people clamouring to
bid on their beautiful mansion.
He slouches to the front of the van and knots himself up tight behind the driver seat. Lately
he’s kept distance between him and Mr. De Lainey, but he misses those days when he felt
comfortable.
He wonders when he gets forgiven.
“Why didn’t you go?” Avery says.
Mr. De Lainey rubs at the stubble on his chin. “I get nervous.” He sounds rueful. “This is the
biggest house I’ve ever built and part of me thinks I should have bought up smaller blocks
and done a few generic homes for a faster turn around. But it is what it is. I’ll just pray I get
the price I need.”
Avery snaps his ngers in a soothing beat.
“Avery.” Mr. De Lainey sounds careful. “You don’t have to answer right away, but I’d like you
to think about going to school next year.”
Knives pull through Avery’s stomach. Mr. De Lainey doesn’t want him around anymore. “No
school.”
“I promise this will be a different experience. You could do senior year with Moxie and Sam.
Just think about it, alright? You’ll have more doors open for your future.”
Avery thinks of xing the door of the lighthouse, oiling the hinges and buf ng up the salt
spray stained glass. A door that will open and close whenever he wants.
“You’re very quiet again, son,” Mr. De Lainey says. “I enjoy listening to you talk, you know. I’m
not angry. I’m sad you betrayed my trust.”
What is there to say? When Avery would do it again in a heartbeat for his brother.
He picks at his bottom lip and says nothing.
“If you don’t want to talk to me,” Mr. De Lainey goes on, “what about talking to a therapist?”
Avery glowers at the back of the driver seat. “Do you have a checklist to go through of all the
stuff I hate?”
There’s a small huff, almost a laugh. “Next up, let’s talk about vegetables and how it would be
great if you ate one.”
“No.” Avery starts to feel attacked before he realises something.
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Mr. De Lainey is teasing him.
You don’t tease people you're angry at.
Avery’s frowning his way through this concept when the phone vibrates again and Mr. De
Lainey answers fast. This time the conversation has long pauses, and though Mr. De
Lainey’s voice doesn’t change, his thumb taps against the steering wheel. When he nishes
the call he sits in silence for a long time.
Their small pocket of warm quiet and gentle teasing is over.
“Went for a lot lower than I’d hoped.” Mr. De Lainey rubs the worn steering wheel. “But I
couldn’t wait for a better buyer.”
“We can build another house.” Avery leans over the console. “Right?”
Mr. De Lainey wipes a hand over his face and he looks old then, more grey at his temples
and purple circles under his eyes. Avery feels like he’s intruding on a private moment of
sorrow, but his guts are all knotting up in his stomach and he doesn’t know what to do. How
to help.
Very carefully, he touches two ngers to Mr. De Lainey’s shoulder.
Mr. De Lainey shoots him a surprised look and then his eyes soften. “Not yet, son. I need to
clear some debt. Might need to sell a few things. The jeep maybe, and some tools. If the kids
go to public school next year…” He sighs. “It won’t be enough.”
It’s then that Avery knows what comes next. He’s listened and watched for too long.
The butter yellow house is supposed to be a pocket of sunshine and gold, a place where
magic is real and lost boys are wanted and no one goes hungry and there is someone to hold
you tight for as long as you need. Sam found this house. It’s a treasure box. It’s home. It’s
unequivocally part of the De Laineys’ souls.
“You can’t sell your home,” Avery whispers.
Mr. De Lainey sits there, an odd blankness in his eyes. “I have to tell the kids. I have to
prepare them for the possibility.”
Avery wants to yell at him, punch out of the van and start running until this moment is dust
and memory behind him.
“You can’t sell your home,” he says again, erce and damp and furious.
They drive back in silence, Avery having climbed into the front seat so he can steal worried
glances at Mr. De Lainey. They should be buying tubs of celebratory ice cream and relaxing
now that a big project is successfully done. It shouldn’t be like this.
They pull into the driveway as dusk settles with a cold bite.
“Avery, it’s going to be okay.” Mr. De Lainey’s voice is gentle, but Avery slides out of his seat
and runs inside.
Everyone is in the kitchen, eating bowls of noodles and arguing about whose turn it is to
unstack the dishwasher. Jeremy calls out for him, but Avery ducks upstairs. He closes his
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 door and leans against it, breathing hard. He doesn’t want to be there when their
disappointment hit the walls like a sledge hammer to brick.
He stands there in the greying dark, breathing hard and listening to everyone downstairs.
First their happiness: words toppling over each other as they greet their father, the baby’s
delighted squeal.
Then the drop in tone, everyone talking at once, words laced with distress. Their confusion
turning to disbelief.
Avery starts to sink down to a crouch when he sees his bed has been covered in caramels.
They’re laid out in a smiley face on his pillow and a note lies folded in the middle.
i wish you were never sad
- love J
The pile of cloth beside the caramels takes Avery longer to understand. He picks it up,
tentative, the sick knot in his chest fading as he stares.
It’s his sky blue hoodie, most of it. Half has been salvaged and scrubbed clean. But the other
half has been replicated into a patchwork wonder. Blues and yellows interlock in delicate
squares and patterned triangles, all sewn into the hoodie side like two odd halves fused to
make a new whole. Another note has been taped to the hem.
i know it’s different but sometimes different isn’t bad. we get used to it and nd ways to be
okay.
- from Moxie
With her sewing machine con scated she must have hand-stitched this whole thing. Even the
inside is lined with fresh, velvety eece. It’s so, so soft.
Slowly, his body trembling, Avery sinks down onto his bed covered in caramels, one hand
sted in his new hoodie and the other tight around the note from Jeremy that says love.
And he listens to the De Laineys’ hearts breaking downstairs.
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 Chapter 26
Sitting on the verandah steps and pulling on work boots leaves Jeremy with an odd feeling of
disconnect. As if he’s watching himself check for spiders and ex his ngers inside garden
gloves, his smile unbothered and calm, prepackaged and premixed, no truth required below
the surface. He thinks of burying his ankles between the rosebushes and taking root there so
that his family can’t leave.
They can’t sell the house.
It doesn’t make sense. The De Laineys have always lived in this house, Jeremy grew up in
this house, this is their mum’s house. What about their heights notched on the doorframe,
back to when Grady was a baby? What about how Dad designed the kitchen speci cally for
Mum? What about every bump and divot in the oorboards that comes with a story? Or how
the stairs used to be carpeted until a ve-year-old Moxie spilled nail polish everywhere so
Dad sanded them back? What about how they have to lock the back door a certain way? Or
how they have sock sliding races around the sofa? Or how the house ts them all perfectly
and it knows how to breathe out enough to t in just one more if they ask?
They can’t sell the house.
Even if it’s not happening yet, today feels like a prelude of making everything “nice” for
prospective buyers. Dad asked them to tackle the garden. The jungle, more like. Jeremy
could not feel less like reclaiming the lawn or ghting back the rabid rosebushes. Let
everything stay wild and unwelcoming.
It’s Saturday, the sky a spill of bright blue above them. Jeremy has on a too-small and fairly
obnoxious rainbow hoodie while Jack wears one of Dad’s old work shirts, sleeves rolled back
and dirt streaking his arms. He’s dealing with his opinion about selling the house by
aggressively yanking out weeds. The cold has left their noses pink, but the sun feels almost
warm on the back of Jeremy’s neck. It would be a good day for stretching out on the grass
and napping. All problems can experience a ight delay, thank you very much, boarding gate
has closed, book again ve thousand years in the future.
More interesting than battling the thorny vines eating their way up the verandah railing is
watching Avery. Dad said “you three boys” when he suggested this frolicsome way to spend
Saturday, and Avery is being earnestly unhelpful.
He refuses to wear bulky gardening gloves because they feel weird, but he also refuses to
touch anything with bare hands, and he kept packing up the garden tools Jack is trying to
use. Before Jack lost his cool, Jeremy suggested Avery gather up all the kiddie toys that
have spent summer disintegrating into the grass. Avery is now lining them up on the driveway
with a running commentary on if they can be salvaged.
“Do you want to know how unhelpful you are?” Jack says.
Avery doesn’t look up. “Do you want to know how much organs sell for on the black market?
Yours, speci cally.”
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Jeremy pulls out half a rosebush and gets slapped in the face by a leaf. “I want to know. How
much can we get for Jack’s kidney?”
Jack snaps pruning sheers in his direction. “Sell your own kidney.”
“Let’s sell all our kidneys,” Jeremy says, generous. “But, out of curiosity, you don’t really have
experience in this line of illegal trade, right? Avery?”
Avery has on a placid smile as he turns back to his sorting. He says nothing. Jeremy
honestly cannot tell if they’re being trolled.
He likes this Avery though, the one with a surprisingly wicked sense of humour. The last
month has felt off, with Avery’s grounding leaving him locked under Dad’s watchful eye all the
time, and school eating Jeremy’s soul alive. Less time to hang out. Forget the existence of
fun. Jeremy couldn’t play sympathiser either, not when Dad said not to, and Jeremy felt the
need to atone a hundred fold for lying.
Avery folded in on himself again too, a shutdown that seemed more like depression,
incurable as long as he’s separated from Sam.
But it’s wise, Jeremy thinks, to take a step back and get his feelings under control. Avery is
not a creature to be tamed or pinned down and Jeremy will only get hurt if Avery ies away.
The trouble is, Jeremy loves the beautiful, feral side of Avery. He loves it in a wretched,
yearning way.
Stop thinking like this.
But if Avery could stop being cute as he surveys his organised piles while wearing his new
patchwork hoodie, jeans cuffed and shoelaces undone, that would be super helpful.
Jeremy stuffs an armful of rose vines in the bin and tries not to feel like he’s betraying Mum
ripping these up. He untangles a nasty thorn tendril from his sleeve and winces.
“Jeremy.’”
Jeremy jumps, his yelp undigni ed but kind of warranted because Avery has materialised at
his elbow with no sound.
Jeremy laughs, but he’s sweating. “You need to stomp while you walk. Need something?”
Avery has hands behind his back. “I have something for you.”
Jeremy has the dubious idea it might be a snake and he’s about to prove how high he can
scream. But this is Avery, not Jack, so he relaxes when Avery pulls out a packet of sour
skittles.
“Did you grow that out of the garden just now?” Jeremy says. “Because if so, I am keeping
you forever.”
Avery frowns. “I had them in my pocket. Also this.” He pulls out a tiny clear plastic ball lled
with glitter. “And this.” Next is a stress ball in the shape of a ghost. And then a collection of
tiny metal rings all hooked together. He digs about in his back pocket and pulls out one more.
“This too. See it’s a burrito and then you ip it—and now it’s a sandwich.”
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Jeremy accepts the plastic burrito-sandwich and ips the tiny toy back and forth. “Where did
you get all these?”
“They’re for you.” Avery squishes the ghost a few times to demonstrate and then tucks it into
Jeremy’s pocket. “I want you to… I am—” He seems to be struggling, and he turns to glare at
the street. “Don’t be mad at me anymore.”
Jeremy’s heart turns to absolute mush in his chest. “I’m not mad.” But he is holding himself
apart, isn’t he? What is that, if not punishment? He winces inwardly. “You didn’t have to get
me things. Like, I love them but— Oh. Are these dgets?”
“I bought them at this store.” Avery’s awkwardness vanishes and he rocks on his heels. “The
sour lollies are helpful too, you know. Distracts during panic attacks.”
Jeremy raises an eyebrow, but he can’t stop smiling. “This is really thoughtful.”
“And they’re pocket-sized.” Avery rips open the skittles. “No one has to know you’re ddling
with them.”
“Do you need sour skittle anxiety distraction right now?” Jeremy says.
“No, I’m hungry.”
Jeremy laughs, he can’t stop. Avery looks calm standing there, eating skittles and surveying
the garden with thoughtful pride as if he’s done any work at all.
He’s so goddamn sweet—
Feelings are throttling Jeremy’s heartbeat.
Jack, the only one sweaty and grimy from working, stomps out of the garage with a hedge
trimmer. He stops in front of them, his eyes narrowed. “Either of you delicate dandelions
interested in helping out? Because I have places to be.”
“I’ll use that.” Avery reaches for the hedge trimmer but Jack sweeps it out of the away.
“Ha, not you.”
“Wait, where are you going?” Jeremy says.
“Monika’s picking me up in forty minutes for a study session at the library.”
“I didn’t know we were going to the library.” Jeremy takes the skittles from Avery and tips
some in his mouth.
“Because we aren’t,” Jack says. “I am.”
The slightest pause sits between them, long enough to be noticeable, but easily enough
covered if Jeremy smirks.
“So it’s a date.” He wriggles his eyebrows.
“No,” Jack says. “It’s a study session. I want top marks in math and I have a lot of stuff to
cover before exams.”
Jeremy waits for the blush or blustering that indicates it is, secretly, a date, but none comes.
Jack wipes his forehead and smears dirt, but his expression stays serious.
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“You don’t have to stress so much for school though,” Jeremy says. “It’s not like Dad cares
what your ATAR is. He’ll still hire us.”
Jack sets the hedge trimmer down and removes his gardening gloves one at a time. He’s not
looking at Jeremy when he says, “I’m not working for Dad. Next year I’m going to university.”
A strange pounding starts behind Jeremy’s eyes, though he’s still smiling. It stretches his
mouth like an orange peel. “Pfft, what? You want to get out of school and do more school?”
“Yes.” Jack turns his gloves over and over. “I want to be an architect.”
“Oh.” That made sense, a little, after a life of growing up around house plans. “I guess you
can do that via correspondence—”
“Jeremy.” There’s a strain in Jack’s voice now, and the way he keeps looking at his gloves
says this is not news he’s come up with on the spot. “I’m moving to the city next year. Grady
says one of the guys in his share apartment is moving out and I can have the room if I sign
the next lease in December. I might move up early though, after Christmas, and get a job.”
Jeremy stands there. The smile has slid off his face.
Avery edges backwards and vanishes into the garage, but Jeremy barely notices.
His voice sounds pulled as he says, “Gee, Jack. Sounds like a whole life plan I didn’t know
about.”
“I’m telling you now. I know you don’t want to go to uni—”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Jeremy stuffs the skittles into his back pocket and links his ngers behind
his head. He starts pacing. “So you’ll take the jeep? That will be so much petrol—”
“What?” Jack looks confused.
“To go up and down every weekend,” Jeremy says, tight. “It’s four hours, isn’t it?”
The way Jack’s eyes soften then is worse than a st in Jeremy’s face.
“I’m not going up and down every weekend.” Jack’s voice is gentle. “I’ll come back and visit .
But I’m going to live there…I’m moving out, okay?”
Jeremy stops pacing and stares at him.
They’re meant to be cutting back the roses. They’re meant to be mucking about on a bright
winter’s day and thinking about nothing.
Avery has sidled out of the garage wearing huge orange safety goggles. He positions himself
next to Jack and points at the hedge trimmer.
Jack scrubs a hand through his hair and uses the excuse to look away from Jeremy. “Avery,
what the hell?” But he sounds tired, distracted.
Avery taps his goggles. “Let me trim stuff.”
“Fine.” Jack steps back and Avery snags the trimmer like the little chaos gremlin he is.
When the motor starts up with an oily whine, it at least drowns the spiralling roar in Jeremy’s
head.
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 Jack folds his arms, his boots planted rmly in front of Jeremy. He’s not backing down or
brushing this off like they usually do if teasing turns to a real ght.
“You could come with me,” he says. “Get a job in the city, too.”
“We were going to work with Dad.” Jeremy’s voice is a wounded mess in his throat, two
seconds away from damp.
“I literally never said that. And you’re not passionate about being a builder either. You could
gure out what you want for once.”
“Wow,” Jeremy says.
“You refuse to think about graduation. You never talk about next year. We’re eighteen. What
do you even want to do with your life?”
“God, sorry, didn’t realise I signed up for career counselling amongst the roses.” Jeremy
laughs, but it comes out wrong.
Behind them, Avery saws into a hedge in a wild sweep. Leaves swirl around him in a
miniature cyclone of greenery.
“Sure, make a joke,” Jack says. “That’ll x everything.”
“Nothing needs xing?” Jeremy snaps. “You blindside me with your ve-year plan and then
expect me to have one to match? I don’t have to know right now.”
“You’ll never know if someone doesn’t kick your ass into gear.”
“Well, some of us don’t want to abandon our family—”
“It’s not abandoning! Jesus, Jeremy. It’s called growing up. A phrase you’re allergic to, but it’s
still happening.” Jack rubs at his temple and looks like Dad right then. “If you don’t want to
move out yet, ne. But I do.”
“Yeah, but—” Jeremy swallows. Everything about this is wrong and twisted and his guts feel
like they’ve jellied. He digs his hand into his pocket and his ngers nd Avery’s little
sandwich-burrito. He icks it a few times. “But I thought we’d stay together? We’re twins…”
“Not conjoined.” Jack sighs. “What do you want me to do? Quit my dreams because you
don’t like them?”
Yes, a horrible blackened voice pulsing behind Jeremy’s dying heart says.
“Of course not.” His mouth feels dry. “But Dad won’t want you to leave either. He needs us.”
“Dad knows.” Jack has the grace to look guilty. “I told him ages ago. I put off telling you
because you’d freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out!” Jeremy says, currently freaking out.
Jack gives him a at a look. “Sure.”
Jeremy stands perfectly still, a screaming vortex whirling in his head while his entire brain
goes through a le shredder. The stupid little dget didn’t help. He wants to throw it.
Instead he watches Avery brace himself like he’s wielding a battle sword before ploughing
into another rose bush that is, literally, being beheaded for its war crimes.
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 “I’m sorry.” Jack pokes Jeremy’s shoulder and gives a small, sad smile. “I’m not trying to be a
dick. I just also want to do things. Come with me, okay? You could work in a bakery or
something. You’d like that.”
Would he? Nice to know. Jeremy will write it on a sticky note titled, Life Dreams Decided By
Twin Brother Because Couldn’t Think Of One For Myself Due To Never Thinking At All.
He could move out with Jack. Nothing’s stopping him.
Jeremy watches Avery, who’s smiling now as he surveys his work, his sleeves shoved up and
speckled in green sap and dust. On his left arm, the ugly scars of Vin’s name look violent
against the sunlight.
“If Dad’s selling the house,” Jack says, “next year will be full of crappy changes anyway.”
Avery turns around, pushing the safety goggles on top of his head as the hedge trimmer
motor winds down. His face is a mess of dirt, but he looks pleased.
“I trimmed it!” He gestures to the nub of hedge with four leaves left on one spindly branch.
“You scalped it,” Jack hollers over his shoulder. “That’s hedge murder, Avery.”
Avery revs the engine, knocks his goggles back down over his eyes, and turns to the next
shrub.
Jack groans. “You sort him out. I need to get ready to leave. Let’s talk about this later, okay?”
Jeremy forces fake cheer back into his voice. “Or never is cool too. Actually, let’s make it
never.”
“Oh, come on—”
“You do you, bro.” Jeremy claps Jack on the shoulder and walks away.
He gures Jack will be looking pissed off, but when Jeremy sneaks a backwards glance, his
brother is only picking thorns out of his shirt, his mouth turned down and shoulders slumped.
All of Jack’s usual bravado and con dence is gone as he trudges inside.
No. Jack doesn’t get to act hurt when he pulls this.
Jeremy hits the off button on the hedge trimmer so it dies in Avery’s grasp. Then he takes the
goggles off Avery’s face and — because to hell with it — starts picking leaves from his wispy
blonde hair. Jeremy’s touch is gentle as clouds and he lets his ngers linger on Avery’s
cheek. Totally unnecessary.
Then he just looks at Avery, looks and looks.
A thunderstorm has always lived behind Avery’s eyes, a blue so beautiful and moody it
makes Jeremy’s breath catch. Eye contact with Avery is elusive if not outright unheard of, but
there is a second right now where their eyes meet and Jeremy knows he could tip into that
blue and drown in a storm of Avery’s making. He’d choose to. He wants it.
Don’t be an asshole looking for a distraction, he tells himself bitterly.
If he goes with Jack, he loses Avery.
It’s not a choice, is it? Brother or just some boy.
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Just some boy.
Avery’s glance has icked away already, but he leans in to Jeremy ever so slightly.
If Jeremy kissed him right now, Avery would taste of engine oil and sunshine and the dirt of a
winter garden.
“When Sam and me have a huge ght,” Avery says, “I spit in his cereal.”
“I will keep that in mind,” Jeremy says. “Want to take a break from leaf murder and hang out
while not talking about next year?”
Avery shrugs and wipes at his grimy face. “Want me to distract you from your panic attack?”
Jeremy looks at Avery’s mouth even though he should not look at Avery’s mouth. “What did
you have in mind—”
Avery whips another packet of skittles out of his back pocket.
Jeremy blinks. “How did you t all of that—?”
Avery pats the skittles in a very satis ed way. “I am a man of many secrets.”
It’s true and he is and that is somewhat of the problem.
But Jeremy no longer cares.
If he has to lose his house and his brother, he’s holding onto Avery.
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 Chapter 27
Avery slaps his plate on the table and settles in with a glower, shimmying with elbows out so
Moxie is forced to scoot over. Her expression is thoroughly unimpressed, but she doesn’t
argue, only swats away a little cousin’s hand creeping towards the orange juice before she
passes Avery the bread basket.
His voice is low and gruff. “How did you know I wanted bread?”
“I read minds.” She does a spooky nger wave. “C’mon, Avery, you eat like, two things.
Obviously it would be bread. Want to try some coleslaw?”
Avery leans away in disgust.
“Want to,” Moxie lowers her voice and nods across the table, “ x my brothers? Because this
is weird.”
A better descriptor for it would be wrong. Avery’s been living with the De Laineys for nearly
ve months and he’s never seen Jeremy and Jack have a ght that lasted longer than an
hour. This has gone on since yesterday and now includes silent treatment, avoidance, and
passive aggressive comments. Despite the chaotic clamour of Sunday lunch, neither Jeremy
or Jack will look at each other. They’re not even sitting together. Jack is down one end of the
table talking to Rob while Jeremy sits as far away as he can get, pulling faces for the baby
and bouncing a cousin on his knee. He’s being obnoxiously cheerful and a model son,
helping in the kitchen and complimenting his aunt’s cooking — all the while ignoring Jack
with vicious precision.
Avery and Moxie watch Jack try to pass Jeremy the potato chips, while Jeremy breezes off
into the kitchen as if his brother doesn’t exist.
“I’m thinking,” Moxie stabs at her coleslaw, “we should smack their heads together. I knew
Jeremy would be clingy about it, but this is a whole new level.”
“You knew?” Avery whispers.
“Everyone knew except Jeremy.” Moxie grimaces. “He’s like Peter Pan sometimes. He
doesn’t want to grow up.”
Avery doesn’t think it’s that. He can see someone being suffocated by anxiety and refusing to
talk about it. Takes one to know one. But Avery lets his anxiety play out in his stimming
ngers, his outbursts, his body that never stops. Jeremy’s standing there, laughing at the
baby’s antics like nothing is wrong.
He’s such a liar.
Mr. De Lainey sets down his glass with a contented sigh. “We still need to celebrate, don’t
we? The house is nished and sold thanks to everyone in this room. And Grady,” he adds.
“Less thanks to some,” Rob says, very obviously not looking at Avery, “but nished all the
same. You did good, Reece.”
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Mr. De Lainey’s smile is tired, but there’s still pride there. Even with his world, his house, his
family, folding in like wet paper he’s still focused on the good. “Ice cream? We need ice
cream.”
A cheer goes up from the younger cousins.
“How about you boys go to the store for us?” Mr. De Lainey says. “Avery, you can have an
afternoon reprieve from being grounded.”
“Is this a trust thing?” Avery says.
Mr. De Lainey raises an eyebrow. “Yes, it is a trust thing.”
Avery makes a great show of sighing into his bread, but he’s pleased. Moxie already got her
sewing machine back, proof that their sentencing has whittled away to almost nothing. It’s
only taken forever.
Rob digs some keys from his pocket. “I forgot to hand over my keys. Want to drop them by
the house, Jack? Just lock it on your way out and we’re done.”
Jeremy’s the one who takes the keys, jingling them from hand to hand. “Jack can get the ice
cream. Avery and me will take these to the house.”
“I’ll drive—” Jack starts.
But Jeremy has already zoomed off. “We’ll bike.”
Jack looks half confused, half angry. “Why? It will take ages to bike over there—”
“It’s a nice afternoon, it will be fun. Right, Avery?”
Avery is planning to annoy Jack into choosing ice cream with peanut butter brittle, which will
require him to be there to do the annoying. Plus why would he ride a bike when he could be
in a car?
His mouth pulls down at the corners and he starts to say, “I don’t want to—” But Moxie kicks
him hard under the table.
Avery jerks, rubbing at his leg and shooting Moxie a furious look.
She makes her eyes wide and nods towards Jeremy.
“What?” Avery hisses.
Flirting, Moxie mouths. He - is - irting - with - you.
Ohhh.
“Sure.” Avery rubs his abused shin. “I would love to…ride…a bike.”
“Perfect.” Jeremy beams and powers for the door. “And we’re off!”
Mr. De Lainey watches him with a faintly concerned expression, but Jack shoves free of the
table and storms away to get the jeep keys. Alone.
A taste of what he’s chosen, Avery supposes, but it still feels wrong. Avery is here with a hole
punched through his heart because his brother was torn away, but Jack wants to leave?
How?
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But Jeremy will decide to go with him; it feels inevitable.
They bike the streets at a lazy pace, Jeremy chattering away about nothing and Avery tilting
his head back to feel the soft winter sun on his face. His hair streams behind him until he is a
comet of white re and patchwork smiles.
What he is thinking of is yesterday in the garden, when Jeremy leant in so close, his eyes
dark and wanting. That second where Avery thought Jeremy would kiss him. And he didn’t.
—that boy is besotted with you, Avery Lou.
Avery is struck hard with this erce and thorny need to test it. To break rusted locks and push
at closed doors and stand in places overgrown with ivy and wild roses and demand to know if
he’s welcome. He can imagine the exact way it would feel to grab Jeremy by the shoulders,
hold him still, and kiss him.
It feels like Jeremy wants it but can’t decide, can’t commit, can’t stop uttering about like a
nervy butter y because he’s terri ed of being vulnerable.
Dumbass.
Avery’s smile is soft as he dumps his bike on the mansion’s driveway next to Jeremy’s. In the
afternoon light, the house looks regal and elegant, a designer’s dream with those artfully
swooping gables and spacious balconies. They let themselves in with Rob’s keys and
wander around the empty rooms that still smell of paint and new carpets. Jeremy shouts
cooee and listens to his voice echo back. Their socked feet sink into lush white carpets and
then glide on the glossy tiles until they’re both breathless from running.
They don’t need to linger. Drop the keys on the bench and then leave. But Avery hated and
raged and wept and softened in this house, and he doesn’t want to shut the door for the last
time yet.
“Want a tour?” He hops onto the staircase, his hand rubbing at the shiny cherrywood
bannister.
“I helped build this place last summer too.” Jeremy saunters over, arms swing as he stares
up at the fancy light xtures.
“Okay, so you don’t want an Avery tour.” Avery spins like he’s about to head for the front door,
but Jeremy glides in front of him, all smiles and twinkling eyes.
“Maybe I do,” he says.
Avery runs up the stairs, Jeremy on his heels, and he sweeps down a hallway with his arms
out. “I poured paint down this hall. And into here.” He heads into a bedroom and puts hands
on his hips. “See that wall? I put so many holes in the plaster. We had to replace the whole
thing.”
Jeremy’s hiding a laugh. “Is this an Avery’s Trail of Destruction tour?”
“Not just my destruction. Look.” Avery putters into the next room. “See this door? Your dad
hung it upside down the rst time. Oh and that mirror fell and smashed when we tried putting
it in. I said that’s a whole lotta bad luck, and Rob yelled something about me being their anti-
lucky-charm.” Avery sniffs. “I spat in his coffee once.”
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 Jeremy chokes. “You can’t just spit at everyone you don’t like?”
“Why not?”
“Avery.” Jeremy wipes at his eyes. “You’re the worst, by which I mean the best. Keep going.
This is my new favourite tour.”
“Okay well, in this bathroom, Rob did the tiling wrong and I heard him swear.” Avery feels
very smug about this. “He sat there ef ng everything for a good ten minutes.”
Jeremy perks up at this. “Ever heard Dad swear? I’m convinced he slips up, but I never catch
him.”
“Once he said ‘bother it’ in this very aggressive way…but that’s it.” Avery swings on the
doorknob of the master bedroom before letting them in. “But don’t worry, I’ll piss him off
enough eventually and he’ll have to swear.”
Jeremy follows. “Look, if you haven’t yet, it’s not happening. Pretty sure you’ve pushed every
button Dad has, and he still likes you.”
Avery wanders around the room, his arms out as he twirls. Spinning isn’t usually his thing,
but it feels good in this beautiful, spacious bedroom. He wears Moxie’s patchwork hoodie and
it must turn him into a kaleidoscope of colours, the kind that’s hard to look away from,
because Jeremy can't stop staring at him.
Avery stops, dizzy. “He doesn’t like me. He barely tolerates me. He didn’t realise that when
Sam asked him to look after me it was going to be a full time job.”
Jeremy is being too quiet, and Avery turns around, feeling serious and a little down, only to
nd Jeremy with both hands over his mouth, his whole body shaking. He’s losing it.
“Avery.” He’s laughing so hard his eyes are wet. “You are a full time job. The best full time
job.”
Avery shoves him, but Jeremy buckles onto the carpet, still laughing. There is no choice.
Avery jumps on him, trying to cover his mouth before poking hard at his heaving ribs, but all
Jeremy does is tackle him back.
They wrestle for a moment, the carpet like cotton clouds and feather beds beneath them,
until Jeremy rolls on top and pins Avery’s hands. His grip isn’t tight, just a solid weight against
the mad pulse in Avery’s wrist. There is a moment when Jeremy hovers over him, their faces
close.
“I like,” Jeremy says, laughter gone and his voice oddly husky, “the view in this room.” He
doesn’t take his eyes off Avery.
“The view’s the same in most of the bedrooms.” Avery glares as he struggles.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it—”
“Avery.” Something catches in Jeremy’s voice. “Do you…”
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 But then he releases Avery’s wrists and rolls off him. The vanished weight leaves Avery lying
there for a long minute, breathless with no reason to be. He thumbs the scar in the corner of
his mouth, and suddenly his chest feels too tight.
There is so much of Avery Lou that isn’t easy to touch or hold or want. He has always been a
slippery thing, freshly pulled from a muddy lake, skin too clammy and mouth too strange and
everything about him curious and awful at the same time. He pushes himself upright, ngers
exing against the carpet and eyes xed on his socks.
“I know everything is shit right now,” Avery says, “but you should tell your dad you have
anxiety.”
Jeremy makes a face and pulls his knees up, wrapping his arms around his legs. “Eh, it’s
ne. It’s not even a big deal.”
“Kind of is though.”
“Okay, but you can’t talk, Mister I Refuse To Go To Therapy.” Jeremy goes for a smirk, but
misses. He just looks sad.
Avery rubs his hands against the carpet, the texture delicious against his palms. The words
feel cottony in his head as he sorts them out because he’s never said this before. Not even to
Sam.
“Want me to tell you why?” he says.
“I always want to listen to you.”
“When I was like seven or something, my mum took me to…a psychologist, I guess. My
school probably told her to.” His brow furrows as he reaches for the memory. It feels like a
clouded photograph, edges crumpled and everyone’s faces cut out and expressions gone. “I
don’t really remember her, but I remember that day because she held my face really tight and
she was crying. She told me to be good, don’t ap and don’t talk too much and be normal.
Then we went in and there were a bunch of toys and puzzles and a lady kept talking to me. I
guess it was all a test.”
“It was an autism assessment?” Jeremy says softly.
“I did everything wrong.” Avery tilts his head towards Jeremy. “We went home and my
parents screamed at each other for hours. He was like, It’s your fault he’s fucked in the head.
And she said she never wanted me in the rst place.”
“Avery…”
“So I don’t like therapists.” Avery scrubs at the frown knotted between his eyes, then he
slides a glance at Jeremy. “You could tell Jack. Or Moxie even. Just someone so you don’t
feel alone with it.”
Jeremy sighs and tugs at his lower lip.
“It’s okay if you’re scared,” Avery says. “You don’t have to pretend to be happy all the time.
You’re allowed to be a mess. And it’s also okay if you don’t want to kiss me.”
There’s an aching tenderness in Jeremy’s voice then, a raw honesty he always hides. “The
only person in this entire world who I want to kiss,” he says, “is you.”
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 They sit side by side, shoulders touching, and it takes no effort at all to lean over and rest
ngers on Jeremy’s perfect cheekbone. The afternoon sun bleeds gold into their quiet haven,
and all that’s left between them is bare, bruised hearts and a need so desperate it cracks all
hesitations in two.
Avery is made of violent, incandescent joy when he presses his mouth to Jeremy’s. He is an
electrical storm and he is light, and when Jeremy leans in and kisses him back — hard and
erce and true — Avery feels like he’s home.
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 Chapter 28
In the dark, the twins’ bedroom feels colder. Jeremy lies in his bunk thinking daggery
thoughts into the mattress above, which takes considerable effort because he’s never been
one to hold a grudge. He’s carried this one for four days now and the weight of it feels like
rocks in his mouth and bricks packed into his stomach. Yesterday at school, he took off
instead of eating lunch with Jack, and he’s never seen such a forlorn look of abandonment
on his brother’s face. They are a mirror split, each half taking off in a different direction, while
leaving a trail of spiteful shards behind them.
Jack has complained about being a twin all year. How did Jeremy not see they’d always been
catapulting towards this?
Jeremy stuffs his face into his pillow and screams in silence.
“I can hear you fussing around.” Jack’s voice is dull and disembodied from the top bunk. “Say
it’ll ruin your life and I won’t leave.”
“And then I’m the dick you’ll resent forever.” Jeremy rolls onto his side and stuffs his cold
hands deeper into the quilts. “It’s ne. You’re right. We’re growing up, choosing our paths. I
might be a pizza taste tester, professionally.”
“Or,” Jack sounds wooden, “we could skip the jokes and have a real conversation. What do
you even want from me? An apology? I’m sorry this sucks.”
“Isn’t it midnight?” Jeremy makes a show of yawning. “We should sleep. Wednesday
tomorrow. I have tests to fail.”
The mattress shifts above as Jack rolls over and Jeremy knows without seeing that he’ll be
lying with one arm under his chest, pillows bunched up and quilts tangled. He knows Jack.
They are attached at the hip, each half of a soul, and when one laughs, the other is already
smiling.
“Just come with me.” Jack’s voice is quiet. “Dad’s got Uncle Rob to work with, and well,
Avery. The business won’t fall apart without us.”
Jeremy huffs around in his pillows. “I’m sleepy.”
Jack growls and there’s the thump of a st hitting a pillow. He seems about to say something
and then falls silent as footsteps pad past their closed door. Probably a sibling on a midnight
bathroom trip. A dark and woollen silence has engulfed the entire De Lainey house, and
sleep should come easy. But Jeremy wonders if anyone is sleeping well as they think about
the house being sold, Jack leaving, Sam barred from them completely, Dad looking more
worn through than he ever has before.
Stairs creak. It’s an imperceptible sound, followed by socked feet quickly going downstairs.
Jeremy strains to hear more, but there’s nothing. The chances of Moxie or Dash going for a
subtle fridge raid without turning a light on seem slim. Is it Avery?
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It’s been three days since their kiss and it takes up ve hundred percent of Jeremy’s mind.
He thought kissing Avery would be an explosion, a heady rush of risk and daring, because
that boy is all things glass and danger and ragged edges. And it was that. But it was also
right. Their collision had been a warm and honeyed inevitability, and some of the anxiety in
Jeremy’s chest could unspool knowing they t together like he’d dreamed.
Except now Jeremy wants to kiss that boy like, all of the time.
He slips out of bed now, picking his way across their messy oor.
Jack sounds half conscious as he mumbles, “Thought you were sleepy.”
“Getting some water.” Jeremy closes the door softly behind him.
The plan in his head is half-baked at best, a vague idea that he will lean against the fridge
and look tousled and suggestive and attractive…in his old pyjama pants and llama socks with
holes in the toes and a ratty sweatshirt with chocolate stains that says SportsMan. He
doesn’t sport. This is probably Jack’s.
In other words he looks as attractive as the crumbs in the bottom of a toaster. But Avery’s
seen him slob around the house for months. He doesn’t mind.
And isn’t that the best part of this? Jeremy doesn’t have to pretend to be anything for Avery.
He is just Jeremy: loud and anxious and disheveled and chaotic and real.
Feeling his way downstairs without tripping over the goddamn Noah’s Ark in the hallway or
falling into a washing basket takes a lot of concentration. A small light icks on in the laundry
and Jeremy drifts towards it like a lovesick moth. He rounds the corner, coy smile playing on
his lips, and starts to whisper, “Suuuurprise,” before halting in confusion.
Avery’s at the back door, backpack slung over his shoulder. He's dressed all in black with a
beanie pulled down to his ears. The rst thing that crashes into Jeremy’s head is: He looks
like a cat burglar. The next is: Shit.
“Hey,” he says, urge to irt dying in his throat. “Um.”
Avery spins and his eyes widen before he turns his torch off.
Jeremy’s voice sounds at in the dark. “Bit late. I already saw you. Please tell me this isn’t
what I think it is.”
“What do you think it is?” Avery whispers.
“I don’t know! Grand theft auto?”
“Isn’t that a video game?”
“Avery,” Jeremy hisses. “What are you—”
But suddenly Avery’s next to him, his face pressed to Jeremy’s neck in a way that makes his
stomach do a catastrophic swoop. Avery slides his mouth up to Jeremy’s ear, and his breath
is so warm, his ngers so con dent as they take hold of Jeremy’s hip and pull him close.
There is a kiss, at Jeremy’s throat, and then Avery whispers, “I have a secret, but I’ll show
you. Come with me?”
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Okay, secret, yes, Jeremy wants secrets. Focus on words. What are words. He is
unreasonably ustered by a move like this, and also ashamed that he thought their rst kiss
would be the beginning of something tentative.
In truth, Avery knows exactly what he wants and then proceeds to do exactly that. No mind
games. No teasing. He is either kissing Jeremy or he’s not, and he does not do subtle irting.
But Jeremy thinks he’ll like this. The way he doesn’t need to drop hints. He can just ask.
“I’ll come,” Jeremy says. “But I need a little more information. You aren’t…burgling cats?”
Avery gives him an odd look. “I have never stolen a cat. I’m building something.”
“Sneakily?” Jeremy says.
Avery cups Jeremy’s jaw and his ngers trace along his chin. “It’s very dark. I’m looking for
your mouth.”
Jeremy sounds a little bit husky. “And what will you do when you nd it?”
“Not sure,” Avery says. “Cover it with my hand so you’re quiet. I can’t get caught after all this
time.”
“How about you kiss me instead— wait. Did you say all this time? How long have you been
—”
Avery’s kiss is hard and fast and leaves Jeremy breathless. That is when he realises Avery
could be building a rocket ship on top of Mount Kosciuszko and Jeremy would still doggedly
follow him.
Avery waits while Jeremy nds shoes, and then they sneak into the cold night like thieves
and troublemakers — or simply like boys used to stealing kisses in the dark. Avery turns the
torch on and keeps the beam pointed low to the ground, but he twists back and reaches out a
hand.
Jeremy twines their ngers together and they walk like that. Alone, they are allowed to touch.
This is the thing they haven’t talked about: how they’re not allowed this. Jeremy’s turned
eighteen, but Avery hasn’t, and the foster rules seemed pretty strict. Plus, Dad would not be
on board with Jeremy having a live-in boyfriend. It would be like one of them was grounded
at all times, Dad eyeballing them and banning alone time. It’s only been four days of stolen
kisses, but Jeremy’s entire insides sour at the idea of Avery becoming a forbidden fruit,
forever close and forever out of reach.
However, if Jeremy is willing to sneak around for kisses, then he hasn’t the right to grouch at
Avery for whatever midnight escapades he’s been up to.
Take a deep breath, no judgement. Ignore the anxiety. Think of this as a secret adventure.
He’s eighteen, for God’s sake, he can do a little reasonable rule breaking. This isn’t stealing
cars and it isn’t illegal…so far.
It’s cold enough that their breath puffs white in front of them as they climb the chain link fence
and sneak through the caravan park down to the beach. Avery goes slow, murmuring
warnings about uneven ground. But as they reach the steep track up the cliff, understanding
clicks in Jeremy’s head.
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He knows where they’re going.
When they reach the top and stand on the bluff, frosted wind swirling in circles about them,
dread spikes in Jeremy’s gut.
“Avery…” he says, but Avery takes off towards the lighthouse.
When Jeremy doesn’t follow, Avery beckons, his eyes bright and a smile playing with his
mouth. Up here the moon glows white gold in the sky and the world seems lit with fairy
magic. Jeremy doesn’t want to be mad. He can’t be, not when Avery looks this happy. But
this is de nitely...illegal.
Avery trots towards the lighthouse with the comfortable con dence of someone headed to a
well-loved space.
“You’re going to love this.” Avery worms open a loose edge of the gnarly KEEP OUT fence
and waits for Jeremy to squeeze through.
He drags Jeremy towards the staircase that used to be splintered and rotted through. Now
each step is solid, the fresh wood uneven and rough but de nitely crafted but a deft hand.
Avery runs halfway up and then back down, his ngers dancing at his sides in pleased
patterns. Not a single step shudders or creaks.
Jeremy swallows. “You… xed them?”
“Yup.” Avery leaps off the last step and lands with a spin. He looks giddy as he snatches
Jeremy’s hand and pulls him up. “You don’t have to be anxious about falling now. Follow me.
There’s more.”
What Jeremy needs is a minute to sort out the scrambled mess of his brain right now. He
should be upset. This is the lighthouse he thought Avery fell from the rst time they came
here. And not only that, but Avery sneaks out at night when Vin is on the prowl? His self-
preservation levels are on the oor.
But Jeremy feels drunk on midnight and out of breath from the climb and it’s impossible not
to be impressed by the work Avery’s put in. This is the boy who hates building and keeps his
secrets bricked up tight at all times. Yet he’s done this.
He’s let Jeremy in to his sanctuary. This moment is a gift,, and Jeremy has starved for it.
When they reach the top, Avery opens a little door with a sweep of his hand. He struts in after
Jeremy and ashes the torch around like they’ve entered a museum and he’s about to show
the most prized paintings.
“The only thing I haven’t xed yet is the railing outside,” Avery says. “Don’t lean on it or you’ll
go straight through and die.”
“First of all,” Jeremy says. “I would go gaily through.”
Avery stops around the middle of the oor. “I boarded up the huge hole that was here. I know
how to do ooring. Your dad showed me.”
Jeremy spins in a slow circle and tries to take it all in. The entire room is circular and walled
with square plates of glass. Several are missing, but Avery’s cleared smashed glass and
boarded them up. It’s cold up here, but at least there are no frigid drafts. The ooring feels
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 solid, screws lined up and edges cut neat. It’s only when Jeremy catches sight of tools laid
out on an old crate that he realises Avery’s done all this by hand. No power saws. No electric
sanders. Old boxes have been positioned around for furniture, a table here, a seat there, and
ice cream buckets line up along the wall next to a sleep bag.
“This is a hideout,” Jeremy breathes.
“I xed the windows,” Avery says, “and got new hinges for the door. I bought them with my
own money from working.”
“Where did the wood come from?” Jeremy says.
“Scraps.” Avery looks dismissive about this. “Your dad didn’t notice.”
A small worm of doubt chews through Jeremy’s gut. It’s a lot of wood. If Dad didn’t notice his
scrap heap walking off, he must be super stressed. But then, Sam lived in their house the
entire summer and Dad didn’t notice.
Avery putters around like a contentedly nesting pigeon, rearranging his things and unrolling
the sleeping bag and checking on the ice cream tubs. One opens to reveal biscuits. Another
has tiny tins of baked beans surrounded by extra batteries. He sets up a camping lantern on
his makeshift table and the yellow glow makes the room feel smaller and cosy.
“You can sit down.” Avery pats the sleeping bag. “I’ve got scotch ngers and ginger nuts.”
Jeremy looks out the wall of windows for a long time, at the sea stretching like an endless
deep blue void below them.
“Did you do this for fun?” Jeremy puts ngertips to the cold glass.
“For Sam.” Avery rummages in his ice cream tubs. He sounds relaxed and utterly
unbothered. “He wants a house more than anything in the world, and so I’m building him one.
It’s not perfect, but it’s better than sleeping in a park.”
“But,” Jeremy tries to keep his voice even, “you have our house? You literally have a home.”
“For now.” Avery snaps lids back into place. “This will be our safe house. Our emergency
place.”
Jeremy digs ngers into his temples and massages. Do not freak out — do not.
“Okay, so.” His voice feels uneven. “You don’t trust us. That’s what you’re saying.”
Avery has gone still behind him, nally sensing the agitation. Jeremy’s anxiety tips into the
room like spilled curdled cream, the weight of it slippery and wrong and disappointing. He
badly wants to be in awe of Avery right now, not mad.
Avery picks himself up and slips over to Jeremy. “I said it’s for emergencies.”
“But you don’t trust—”
“Stop it.”
The erceness in his voice makes Jeremy inch. He turns and sees Avery staring at him with
his eyes hard as steel blue int.
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 “We’ve always had nothing.” Avery’s voice is low. “Sam and me. Nothing and nowhere and
no one. You don’t understand because you have a family.”
“And now we're your family,” Jeremy whispers.
“For now—”
“Stop saying that.” Jeremy’s voice stretches too high. “It’s for always.”
“You don’t know that. I screwed up when I took your jeep. Next time your dad might not
forgive me.” He says it in a factual way, but his body curls away from Jeremy.
Jeremy wants to reach for him, but his brain is a mess. “But you can’t just x up abandoned
buildings and live in them. This place is condemned and dangerous and—"
“No one else wants this place,” Avery says. “No one will know. Please…please don’t tell your
dad. I’m t-t-trusting you.”
That stammer only appears when he’s distraught or scared or angry, and Jeremy feels sick.
If he starts dropping ultimatums or threats, he’ll lose Avery.
Because if there’s one thing Jeremy knows, it’s that Avery wants them but he doesn’t need
them to survive. The lighthouse is proof. He could run away at any time and survive.
But Jeremy can’t imagine going back to a life without Avery Lou.
His heart still going too fast, Jeremy takes hold of the hem of Avery’s black hoodie and
ddles with it. He gives the slightest tug and Avery folds into him.
“I need a safe p-place.” Avery sounds near anger but even closer to tears. “I need it.”
“The problem with your plan,” Jeremy says, soft, “is that if you were lost, I’d come nd you.”
“Maybe one day you won’t want to.” Avery sounds stubborn, but he doesn’t draw away when
Jeremy slides his thumbs into Avery’s belt loops.
“I get it,” Jeremy says.
“You don’t—”
“Okay, I don’t, but I’m trying. I get that everyone you’ve ever known has let you down, so why
trust us to be different? Why trust me? And I guess we keep demanding you put all your faith
in us without proof everything will be okay. So you’re right.”
Avery’s scowl turns to guarded surprise.
Jeremy gives him a sad smile. “It kind of breaks my heart though. I wish no one could ever
hurt you again.”
Avery is quiet, staring at Jeremy’s thumbs twisting in his belt loops. “But you won’t hurt me.”
“I won’t,” Jeremy says. “I promise, I won’t.”
“Also Sam will beat you up if you do,” Avery says.
Jeremy holds his face still for ve whole seconds before he cracks up. He slumps into Avery,
face pressed into his shoulder as he laughs. Avery tolerates this for a minute before taking
hold of Jeremy’s face and kissing him into silence.
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Avery’s frowning when he pulls away. “Don’t tell your dad about my lighthouse.”
“Only if you promise not to come here alone,” Jeremy says. “I don’t want anything bad to
happen to you.”
“Don’t baby me.” Avery’s frown deepens. “I can do stuff on my own. But I’ll tell you the nights
I go, so you can watch out for me.”
“Deal,” Jeremy says. “I’ll pine for you like a wretched widower watching his beloved admiral
go out to sea.”
“And you’re not mad, right?”
Jeremy’s thumb smooths the furrows in Avery’s forehead, something he’s wanted to do
forever. “Keep kissing me and I won’t remember how to be mad.”
At least up here in the lighthouse they can fold into each other without worry. No one will see
this. No one will guess. It is just them, backlit by lighthouse windows full of the moon as they
kiss until their mouths are numb and their lungs can’t catch a full breath. They kiss until it’s
late and Jeremy knows he’ll be dead in school tomorrow. Avery looks so mussed up and
sleepy that Jeremy’s heart falls over itself with how badly he wants to hold onto him forever.
“Give me a minute,” Avery says after Jeremy opens the door and lets in far too much cold air.
“I want to work on the railing, then I’ll come.”
“But—”
“This is the part,” Avery looks stern, “where you trust me too.”
“Okay, okay,” Jeremy says. “But not for long, right? You have to sleep too.”
Avery nods, yawning as he reaches for his tools. “See you at your house.”
Jeremy folds his arms. “See you at home.”
The smallest smile tugs at Avery’s lovely mouth. His hair is a mess, courtesy of Jeremy’s
hands, and he looks soft as he repeats, “See you at home.”
As if he might actually believe it.
Jeremy is light as air as he jogs down the stairs with the torch. His heart is ridiculously full.
His feelings for Avery exist in a pocket where everything feels right and good and perfect,
and Jeremy will curl himself into that warmth like a boy left too long in the cold.
The problem of Avery being a magnet to the words illegal and unsafe can be thought about
later. Right now Jeremy walks with hands in his pockets, his heart a twist of ribbons and
roses, and his head full of Avery Avery Avery. He reaches his home street, torch swinging in
cheerful circles. Home is ahead.
When headlights ash over Jeremy’s back, he turns on instinct. His hand rises to block out
the high beam glare, and his heart does a triple skip, thinking it’s Jack in the jeep come to
hunt him down. For a second, Jeremy is blinded.
Then he sees the car is blue.
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 Chapter 29
A stiff cold has climbed into Avery’s bones, and waking up is a lesson in agony. He shoves
upright, his vision blurry as sunlight slams into his face. His hair is a mussed bird’s nest, his
face imprinted with seam lines from the sleeping bag. It takes him a solid minute of staring at
the sunrise stretching across the shimmering silver sea to understand where he is. What he’s
done.
He fell asleep in the lighthouse.
Shit. Oh shitshitshit.
Avery scrambles to his feet, screwing up the sleeping bag and knocking over the camping
lantern. He only sat down for a minute, planning to x the handrail before heading back. He
promised Jeremy he wouldn’t be long. And the fact he’s been gone all night is not going to go
unnoticed by Mr. De Lainey. It’ll be another round of being pinned under a deeply
disappointed gaze, and Avery’s stomach is already churning in dread.
He’d been so close to being forgiven.
This isn’t fair.
Avery scrubs at his face, hating how sick and unsteady and angry he feels. It’s not even
what’s coming, it’s how everything feels all wrong. His body aches from sleeping on the hard
oorboards and there’s too much sun in his eyes. Everything magical and special from last
night is gone. He wants his morning routine at the De Lainey house: waking up burrowed in
cosy quilts, pulling on jeans warm from the dryer, breakfast with the others, Milo in a big mug,
tagging along after Jeremy unhelpfully as he puts on a load of washing, checking the family
whiteboard schedule so he knows what’s coming up today.
It’s then, as Avery shuts the lighthouse door and catapults downstairs before bolting across
the bluff, that he realises he’s gone soft.
Incredibly soft.
He used to sleep on the goddamn oor surrounded by tyres at a mechanic. He’s pretty sure
Avery-of-six-months-ago would be side-eyeing him right now.
It would be funny if he wasn’t in so much trouble.
He runs all the way back to the butter yellow house, practically ying once he hits their street.
This early, a sleepy quiet still has hold of the world, and everything is covered in ne dew and
light grey shadows.
Avery squeezes through the laundry door and shuts it without sound. He scuffs off his boots
and tries to decide if he can get away with a lie about an early morning walk. Unless Jeremy
has already had a panic attack about his absence and alerted everyone.
But it isn’t Jeremy lying in wait for him to reappear.
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Jack appears like a thunderclap in the laundry doorframe. He wears his school sweater,
collar sticking up and tie undone, hair spiky and untamed. Everything about his expression
says: You Are Dead.
“Oh boy,” Jack says. “You guys are going to be grounded till you’re thirty.”
Avery wriggles out of his black hoodie and picks out a semi-clean looking red annel shirt.
Now is the time to look less like a thief, more like a forlorn picture of penance. It’s strange
how, last night, Jeremy thought Avery was stealing something.
The only thing he wants to steal these days is Jeremy.
“It was an accident,” he hisses. “I meant to be back ages ago.”
“Yeah, that makes it so much better.” Jack folds his arms. “I’m trying not to yell here. I’m
goddamn trying. But you really both said to hell with common sense. This is not the rst time
Jeremy’s sneaked out at night for a boy, but seriously?”
Avery slides him a sour look.
“You can’t,” Jack lowers his voice, “like each other. You can’t. If he’s doing this to get back at
me—”
Avery folds his arms, starting to feel cold in only the thin annel. “Or he’s kissing me because
he likes me.”
“He can’t like you!” Jack digs ngers into his hair. “Just—argh. Also tell him to hurry up and
come inside because hiding in a bush isn’t going to save him. I will bite his head off. And then
Dad…oh, boy, Dad knows. I didn’t snitch by the way, it’s just pretty obvious when two people
are missing.” Jack peers over Avery’s shoulder at the closed laundry door. “Well?” He looks
impatient.
“Well, what?” Avery wants tea, hot and spiced with cinnamon and for Jack to go away. “Want
to move so I can go get Disappointed at?”
“Where is Jeremy?” Jack yanks open the back door and peers out. “Come out, coward.”
“What are you doing?” Avery shoves the door shut and glowers. “He’s not out there. He came
back ages ago. I fell asleep by myself.”
Jack snorts. “Sure.”
They stare at each other for a minute, but a strange chill folds ngers over Avery’s throat. He
feels it sinking into his chest, an icy dread slowly thickening.
“He’s not in your room?” Avery says, low.
Anger slips from Jack’s face. “He’s not in the house. He’s with…you.”
Avery starts tapping his ngers. “No, he came back hours ago. Like at two a.m. or
something.”
“If you guys are lying to try and cover—”
But Avery shoves passed Jack and runs into the kitchen. Everything smells of coffee and
toast as the normal breakfast chaos commences. The baby scoots by on a trike while Toby
eats cheerios one by one with pauses for a happy dance. Lunch boxes and half built
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sandwiches line the kitchen bench. Moxie is threatening Dash with a comb. Mr. De Lainey
has his World’s Best Dad mug in one hand while the other hand massages an Avery Shaped
Headache forming at his temple.
As Avery skids towards the stairs, Mr. De Lainey clears his throat. “Back here young man.
We are having a long chat.”
Avery ignores him.
He takes the stairs two at a time and strides straight into the twins’ room. No Jeremy. Avery’s
not breathing now. He crashes into his room, the door slamming into the wall with a
shuddering bang. Empty. The girls’ room is the same, the babies’ room, the bathroom. He
even checks Mr. De Lainey’s bedroom before tumbling into Jack in the hallway.
Jack grabs Avery by the arms and an odd look has folded over his face.
Worry is unfamiliar on Jack.
“I told you he’s not here,” Jack says. “Where were you guys? Did you leave him there?”
“No.” Avery jerks free. “I t-t-told you. He came back hours ago.”
Mr. De Lainey is at the bottom of the stairs now. “Can you both come down and talk to me
right now, please?”
“I’m JACK,” Jack snaps. “Jeremy’s not here.”
“Well, where is he?”
“Good question.” Jack says it half under his breath and glares at his bedroom, as if Jeremy
will materialise there with a yawn and a sheepish smile about oversleeping.
Avery dances his ngers against his jeans, holding back the need to ap. Jeremy has to be
here, there’s nowhere else he could be.
He knew the way back.
Jack digs his phone from his pocket and puts it to his ear, but the answering buzz comes
from his room. Jeremy’s phone lies under his cold pillows.
“Maybe he fell.” Avery’s mouth is dry. “I have to go look. I have to…” He tears downstairs,
avoiding Jack swiping for him and calling, Wait.
Because even as the words leave his mouth, Avery knows he’s grasping for an answer that
isn’t—
Vin.
It won’t be her. He’s panicking, is all. He’s freaking out because this morning hurtled into
existence wrong and it’s continuing that way. He’s overtired and he doesn’t want to be in
trouble and he screwed up again again again and his eyes feel hot and heavy and he doesn’t
want this he doesn’t want—
It’s not until he’s gripping the front doorknob that he realises Mr. De Lainey has strode over
and put a hand on the wood, holding it closed.
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 Avery twists the knob uselessly, his heartbeat in his throat. “Jeremy’s not here. He might
have f-fallen. I have to look. I have to look for him—”
“Avery,” Mr. De Lainey says. “I need you to calm down and take a breath. Tell me what
happened. Where did you two go last night?”
An iron band tightens around Avery’s chest, the explanation trapped behind his ribs like
paper birds in a cage. Because if he confesses, it’s all over. His lighthouse, his secret, his
safe space for Sam.
“I need to know.” Mr. De Lainey’s voice stays rm, but worry has crept in.
How many strikes does Avery get before they say enough?
He’s ghting to keep the tears out of his voice. “I was trying to build a house.”
*
They stay silent as the jeep winds its way up the narrow road to the lighthouse. Bush scrub
sits thick on either side of the road and both Avery and Jack have their heads out opposite
windows as they scan for signs of Jeremy.
They’ve already searched the beach and rocks, covering every crevice and nook before
pacing along the track up the cliffs. Nothing. No sign of a fall, no wildly churned sand. Avery
stood for a long time in the place where Vin cracked his head with a rock, but his blood has
long since vanished into the sand.
She wants Avery.
She wouldn’t go after Jeremy—
So why does Avery feel so dizzy with the threat of it? It’s as if his heart has been punched out
of his chest and now sits in his palm, blood pouring between his ngers, while he waits for
Vin’s mocking lips to curve in a victorious smile.
Don’t say no to me.
When the jeep pulls up in the overgrown car park surrounded in rusty chains and NO ENTRY
signs, Avery thinks he might throw up.
Mr. De Lainey has said little except when he calls for Jeremy, his voice a strong and solid
boom. A beacon to summon his children home. Avery’s throat already feels raw from the
yelling, but they had to keep it up. If Jeremy had fallen and hit his head, maybe he could’ve
made a noise to alert them.
A thick black pulse in Avery’s gut says he knows Jeremy has not fallen.
“Right.” Mr. De Lainey unbuckles. “Avery, lead the way.”
This is a walk to the gallows. Before today, Avery had never been here in the daylight, and
now everything looks ugly and stretched, the grass yellow and thistly, the wind an iced roar
that slaps their cheeks red. Night had muted the faults, brought a sense of heart-quickening
magic. Now the lighthouse is just a neglected, crumbling tower, too close to the edge of the
eroding cliff.
It was never going to be a home.
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 Mr. De Lainey’s brow furrows as they climb the stairs, maybe recognising his missing wood.
He reaches for the handrail, but Avery itters in front of him.
“It’s not xed yet,” he says. “Don’t lean on it.”
When they stand at the top, both Mr. De Lainey and Jack looking carefully around the empty
room, Avery hovers behind them feeling foolish and pathetic and embarrassed. The ooring
he was so proud of looks warped. His crate furniture is a pile of rubbish.
Mr. De Lainey rubs a hand over his jaw and says nothing.
Jeremy is obviously not here, but still they linger. Avery shivers and rocks on his heels, hating
that he wears only a thin annel instead of a jacket. Because he’s stupid and forgetful and
can’t take care of himself.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Jack breathes out hard and ducks outside. “We need to search over at…” His voice fades as
he clatters downstairs.
Mr. De Lainey picks up the lantern and sets it on Avery’s ridiculous table.
“You can ground me again.” Avery picks at his eyelashes. “Or you can yell if-if-if you want.”
“Let’s focus on nding Jeremy,” Mr. De Lainey says, quiet. “We can talk about this later. Did
you two ght last night? Do you think he stormed away?”
“No.” Avery starts beating at his leg. “It was ne. We were… ne.” He swallows, staring hard
at the oor. “He said, See you at home.”
“Avery.”
Avery’s focused so hard on the oor his whole head hurts, but then he notices Mr. De Lainey
has crooked a nger at him. Avery takes half a step forward, cowering even when he doesn’t
mean to.
Mr. De Lainey speaks, but Avery is underwater now, the oorboards swooping in a storm
beneath him. It’s midday and he hasn’t eaten in hours, he slept badly, and Jeremy’s gone
gone gone—
“—Avery. I said…do you need a hug?”
Avery blinks up, and he knows his face is wrecked. “I’m sorry.”
Mr. De Lainey slowly takes Avery’s shoulder and pulls him into a hug.
He doesn’t deserve comforting, not when he’s done everything wrong. But Mr. De Lainey’s
hug is rm and secure, and Avery thinks, in an empty way, if he could have chosen his father,
he would’ve asked for Mr. De Lainey.
“I’m going to call the police.” Mr. De Lainey lets go. “Can you talk to them, son? We need to
tell them everything. For Jeremy.”
For Jeremy, Avery will do anything.
No matter the cost.
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It’s when they’re driving back to the butter yellow house, Avery curled in the backseat with his
arms over his head, that Jack suddenly yells, “Wait wait wait! Pull over! I see something—”
Mr. De Lainey brakes hard and Jack is out in a ash. It would be easy to miss if they hadn’t
been looking; it’s just a pile of cloth in the gutter, faded blue, blocky text on the front front.
Sportsman.
Jack snatches it before Avery and Mr. De Lainey get there. The cloth has been hacked with
scissors. Or a knife.
“It’s mine.” Jack’s voice is tight. “Jeremy’s been wearing it to bed. Dad, it’s slashed—”
“It’s not slashed.” Avery picks at the corner and stretches the sweatshirt, and they see it then.
The letter V has been cut into the back.
“He’ll be cold,” Jack says. “Was he even wearing a tee shirt under this? He’s going to get
cold. Why the hell did she take him instead of…” He stops.
Avery wants to turn inside out and disappear. This is his fault. This is all his fault.
He should have gone with her. He never should have pretended he could have a home and a
family.
He’s going to get them all killed.
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 Chapter 30
It’s been twelve hours. An agonising wound has been cut into the butter yellow house and it
feels empty despite the strangers lling the doorway.
Avery sits at the kitchen table, his ngernails rimmed with blood because he’s picked his skin
raw. Untouched juice sits in a sweating glass beside him, the cheese sandwich shoved far
away. He’s been told to eat, but he’ll be sick if he does.
It’s 2 p.m. and the cops are here.
Jack leans against the fridge, his arms folded, saying nothing. Moxie slides onto the bench
beside Avery and chews at her thumbnail. She wears jeans and a knit sweater, school
uniform abandoned because none of them went today. Their aunt Rebecca came and picked
up the babies and Dash, but it felt wrong to send them away. Leaving the butter yellow house
is unsafe now. It’s asking to be a target for Vin’s sharp teeth.
Moxie picks at Avery’s ignored food. “Dad called Grady. He’ll be here in a few hours. He
called your social worker too.”
Avery rocks slowly in his seat, his ngertips tapping along the table and leaving crimson
smudges. He watches the police out of the corner of his eye as they talk with Mr. De Lainey.
“I can’t do this,” he whispers. “I— I need Sam.”
Moxie icks an anxious look at the cops and then back at Avery. “Try, okay? Remember what
Dad said. Tell them what you told us. She’s your abusive ex and you got away from her.”
A lie, they’re going to let him lie. But for how long? He can’t walk free of this, not after all the
things he’s seen and done.
The front door’s still open so they see when Evans arrives. Mr. De Lainey motions him inside
and they talk quietly for a moment before Evans gives a curt nod and heads towards the
table.
He sets his briefcase down and gives Avery a shrewd once-over. “Are you alright?”
It takes Avery a solid thirty seconds to understand the words and then recalibrate around the
fact Evans didn’t accuse him of anything.
Moxie eyes Avery and must decide he’s not going to speak because she says, “He isn’t hurt.”
“Not currently, but you’ve been fending off attacks as I’ve just been informed. I wish you’d told
me the truth, Avery.” Evans looks unhappy, but not angry. “I suspected you two boys had
been caught up in…something. But I didn’t want to hear anything incriminating that I’d have
to report.” He takes a seat and settles his clasped hands on the table. “The priority is nding
Jeremy, of course, but if the police push for a certain line of questioning, Reece has already
decided to get a lawyer.”
Avery stares at him. “Don’t you think…” His voice feels rusted out from shouting Jeremy’s
name over and over. “Don’t you think this is all my fault?”
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 Evans’ gaze is steady. “I think children that have been let down by their birth parents and the
state often end up in situations out of their control. But you’ve found a family who want to
give you a second chance. I don’t see that support retracting.”
The cops have come over, Mr. De Lainey hovering behind them. One stands and the others
sits, belt and gun holsters clunking against the bench. They look like copy and pasted
renditions of each other, white men with dark hair, square jaws and squarer shoulders, both
wearing protective vests and thick boots that could break bones. Looking at them from the
corner of his eye has Avery’s stomach pushing up his throat. They are threats dressed in
black and blue, a slowly spreading bruise.
He will be dragged out by the throat at the end of this.
“Avery Lou?” says the seated cop. “I’m Of cer Norton and this is my partner, Wilk. We’ve got
an outline of the situation from your guardian, but we want you to tell us what happened last
night. In your own words.”
Evans puts out his hand for a rm shake from the of cer. “Emery Evans, Avery’s social
worker. If you’re not aware, Avery has autism and will be displaying behaviours of high
anxiety.”
“Right.” The cop gives Avery the kind of look one gives a dog when they learn it isn’t house
trained. “Can he understand me? And talk?” This is directed at Evans.
“Yes.” Evans sounds at.
“Avery, what time did you leave the house last night?” Norton has a notebook out.
Avery does his best with the explanation, but he’s trembling so much that half his words are
incoherent stammers. Mr. De Lainey pulls out an extra chair and sits at the end of the table,
his brow knitted as he leans forward. Twice he explains what Avery’s saying, because he
understands Avery now, he knows him.
“What were you doing in this lighthouse?” Norton says.
“J-just hanging out.” Avery rubs his knuckles back and forth on the table top.
“At two a.m.?” Norton’s tone is neutral. “It’s crucial that we have a clear view of the situation. I
need to know if you boys were drinking, smoking, taking something. You might not want to
get in trouble, but we’re talking about your friend’s safety here. Jeremy’s family is concerned.”
Jeremy’s family.
Not Avery’s.
His knuckles have turned bright red from the rubbing, blood beading on chapped skin. “We
didn’t take anything. We j-just hung out.”
Behind him, he can feel Jack like an unlit fuse, smouldering in the kitchen.
“I’m not feeling the truth in that.” Norton nods towards Mr. De Lainey. “You said Jeremy had a
ght with his brother recently? And you’re quite strict about substance usage? There’s a good
chance your son is with a friend sleeping something off.”
“We didn’t—” Avery starts.
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 “You can’t even look at me,” Norton says. “Try again, kid.”
Avery inches, his head tucking low, but it’s Evans who says, “Avery doesn’t make eye
contact. As I said, he is autistic.” He sounds crisp. “What about the threats of bodily harm
from the woman Avery was previously staying with? I believe Reece showed you the cut up
sweatshirt?”
“Hm.” Norton thumbs through his notebook. “One tear is along a seam, so the V shape is
probably coincidental. We get a lot of calls like this, folks. Teenage boys taking off when
they’ve got something to hide. Have you called around to all his friends?”
“He’s not with friends.” This is Jack, seething in the background. “And the only thing Jeremy
is hiding is that he’s frenching his foster brother.”
A silent pause slides its way through the room. Avery can feel his organs being bloodily
dragged along the oor and then kicked into the street. He can’t look at anyone, especially
not Mr. De Lainey. Beside him, Evans’ eye twitches.
Norton exchanges a laden glance with his partner. “Right…”
“That would explain the two a.m.,” Wilk says.
Mr. De Lainey leans back in his chair, his arms folding over his chest. “Avery was abused by
this woman he lived with before we fostered him. I’m extremely concerned about this,
of cers. She’s tried to take Avery by force before.” He seems dedicated to ignoring what Jack
said and how hot Avery’s face has gotten.
Avery starts to bite at his already raw knuckles, but Moxie takes his hand and pulls it under
the table. She holds onto him, hard.
“You didn’t report these previous altercations?” Norton sounds like he’s losing interest.
“Avery didn’t want to invite more retaliations,” Mr. De Lainey says. “Ignoring it was a mistake,
but my mistake. I’m his legal guardian.”
“Her n-name is Vin.” Avery’s voice is low. “She…she doesn’t make idle threats.”
“Know where she lives?”
Avery nods, even though he’s cutting his own throat giving up information. If he talks about
her, he’ll suffer for it.
If he stays silent, he loses Jeremy.
“Please.” He forces himself to meet the cop’s at gaze, because this is what he has to do to
save Jeremy. It hurts, it physically hurts, but he holds himself statue still. “Please l-look for
him. You don’t understand what she’s like.” He slips his hand free from Moxie and starts
working up his sleeve. “She…she stabbed my little brother. She cut her name into me.”
He puts his bared arm on the table, Vin’s name a scar of fury for all to see.
They have to look. They must be made to understand.
The next words are harder to force out because he’s never told anyone this before. He swore
to himself he never would. Somehow that made it less real.
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There’s a hollow place of horror inside Avery Lou’s heart where a memory sits that he won’t
touch. His hair falls in front of his eyes and his teeth start chattering, because speaking this
feels like a mouthful of blood, broken ribs, eyes swollen shut from crying.
“I saw her shoot someone,” Avery whispers. “I don’t know if they died.”
Mr. De Lainey’s head snaps up and there’s a terrible, protective are of anger in his eyes that
Avery’s never seen before. As if he’d give anything to build another wall between Avery and
everything terrible in the world.
Now the cops are paying attention.
“She’s going to do something terrible to Jeremy,” Avery’s voice cracks, “because she couldn’t
do it to me.”

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 Before
Avery is barely seventeen and he wants all of this to stop.
It feels like a nightmare except he’s awake, he’s so awake, his eyes are open and he will
never sleep again. He’s taken off his shirt because even fabric is pure torment right now, and
all his worst tics are on display; scratching deep furrows in his skin with blood-rimmed
ngernails, icking his arms until welts turn to purpled bruises, shaking his head until his neck
is jarred and the pain leaves him dizzy. He can’t stop. He’s falling.
He needs his brother, needs to nd him, needs to—
you need to run run run—
Darkness pools like spoiled molasses over Vin’s house as Avery slips towards the backdoor.
In his head is the festering spiral of a night terror, dread compounded and anxiety a
screaming hurricane lling up his veins. He doesn’t think to get dressed properly, to nd
shoes. He just wants to be outside. Fresh air. Remember how to breathe.
His hand is on the door, shaking so hard he can’t pull the bolt.
A single light icks on above the stove. Avery goes still.
Vin leans against the fridge, beer in hand, her face shadowed so only the hard line of her
mouth is visible. “Not running are you?”
“No.” Avery rubs at his eyes. “I don’t-don’t feel well.”
“Poor little thing. But remember running won’t work. Go to the cops and you’ll have to
incriminate yourself to confess. Go anywhere else and I’ll nd you.” She takes a long pull at
the beer, and then grabs another from the fridge. “C’mere. You’re spooked. You’re ne.”
He comes obediently, takes the beer and picks at the label.
It plays on repeat behind his eyes — the gunshot, the garbled cry, the man hitting the oor
and thrashing around until
he stopped
moving.
An accident, Vin had said. She meant to re a warning shot, but the witness tried to run. It
should have been a simple robbery, an overstuffed warehouse with a safe in the back of ces.
No security guards, only an intern working late.
His blood smeared black across the linoleum. So much blood.
“He’s not dead.” Vin had looked annoyed, signalling Joley to hurry up with the safe. “We need
to move.”
But Avery couldn’t see the rise and fall of the man’s chest, and he’d stared as hard as he
could.
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 He hadn’t held the gun, but blood ecked his shoes.
He hadn’t held the gun, but he watched.
He hadn’t held the gun, but—
Their escape had been awless, his driving wickedly fast and con dent because he’d learned
to be useful to make up for his faults. How he is stupid and panicky and childish and
annoying.
Now, heavy duf e bags sit in the corner of Vin’s trashed kitchen, lled with blood smeared
cash. A night’s work well done.
Avery wants to cry, but not in front of Vin. He’s going to— he can’t— he’s spinning out—
Vin snaps her ngers in front of his face. “You’re not leaving. I take care of my things, don’t I?
Got you that little job at a new mechanics. You like that.”
“I l-like it.” He scrunches his eyes closed and drinks as much of the beer as he can stomach.
Sometimes it speeds up everything terrible in his head. But sometimes it makes him sleep.
The job at the mechanic’s is a lie, of course. He’s there to keep an eye on the workers so
they don’t screw Vin over when she drops off a stolen car to be overhauled. But they let him
x things, and Sammy thinks Avery’s working a good, honest job. Putting away money for
their house.
He has no idea how little they have because Avery won’t take cash smeared red.
Vin holds out her beer and he clinks theirs together. “I know you’re just a kid.” Her voice is a
soothing croon. “But the world is cruel to kids like you, Avery. Think about it. If you didn’t have
me, where else would you go? You steal, you break into places, you shift stolen shit. You’re
all over crime scenes. You can’t walk away anymore.” She takes another long drink. “No one
else wants you. But I do.”
She could replace him in a heartbeat. What she can’t take is the idea of someone telling her
no.
The word is violence in his mouth, a forbidden taste that rots his teeth the more he holds onto
it.
The next day as he works at the mechanics, he thinks of what it would be to say no, to run, to
never look back. Maybe if he hid well. Maybe if he went far. The world is a big place and
there must be shadowed corners where Vin can’t see and cops won’t nd Sammy. Because
the most important thing is to keep Sammy safe.
Avery’s a mess as he works. The boss yells at him for messing up a simple oil change, and
Avery isn’t allowed to adjust brakes while he’s like this. He stims too much, his skin is too
bruised, everyone is disgusted with him.
Finally the boss throws keys at him. “Drive the Falcon into the workshop and then take a
break. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Avery scoops the keys off the ground, but they double and warp in his hands. On his tongue
is smeared oil and engine grease, on his hands is the ghost of dried blood.
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I saw someone get shot—
Vin scares me—
I want to run but—
Please help me please help me please help—
But there is no one in the entire world who can help him. There is no one who wants to.
Avery slides into the Falcon’s driver seat and grips the sun-warmed wheel. All around him are
the comforting noises of the mechanics, the shout of voices over the thrumming radio, the
rasp of engines and clatter of tools. It’s a normal day, a nice day.
But Avery sits there as the world slowly inverts into a sea of tears,
and he just wishes
that he didn’t
exist.
He can’t keep doing this, hurting people, stealing things. He can’t tell Sammy. He can’t trust
anyone. He can’t—
He wrenches the keys in the ignition and the engine hums to life. He shifts into rst as a
hopeless desperation crashes through his bones in a sickening wave. The other apprentice
turns the radio up louder and rubs grease off a spanner as he turns to smirk at Avery.
Avery’s getting red soon and they both know it.
Then all he’ll have is Vin again. Vin forever. He can’t get away, he can’t escape, he can’t do
this—
He slams his foot on the accelerator hard and the car lurches forward with a blast of power.
Avery is made of agony and burning fever, and he can’t see for the tears. The brick wall of
the workshop rushes to meet him and he doesn’t know what he’s doing he doesn’t
understand why he’s done this he wants everything to stop please help him please come
help him can someone hear can someone just—
hold me.
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 Chapter 31
He’s had this fear for as long as he can remember: everyone he loves dying while he does
nothing, while he drowns in the cruelty of helplessness. Jeremy thinks about it all the time. It
owns him, in a way, how it sits in his chest and presses in on his lungs so sometimes he can’t
breathe around the dread of it. He can’t even scold himself for being paranoid or irrational.
Because it’s already happened once.
He was nine years old when they found his mother had cancer, when he understood the size
of death and how it could t its arms around his whole family. Back then there was remission
and recovery. But the day forever stamped into his memory was when his mother, still
smelling of sickly medicines and the hospital, had pulled him into her arms and whispered,
“Jeremy, you are my happy little sunshine. You make me smile on the worst days. I love you
so, so much.”
He knew then that he had to be that for her. For everyone. This is how he would save them
— he would make them smile and make them happy and make them forget everything
ruining them.
He was sixteen when the cancer came back. When she died. When he failed. He hadn’t
worked hard enough, that was it. He hadn’t loved his family enough, kept their spirits up, kept
them tied tight together so the fractures wouldn’t show. He had to do better. He couldn’t let
his dad die, or Grady or Jack or Moxie or Dash or Toby or the baby. Jeremy couldn’t lose
anyone else, he couldn’t survive it.
But through it all, he forgot someone. He forgot to care if one particular De Lainey lived or
died or was happy or was even ever okay.
Himself.
Jeremy De Lainey is not okay.
Blood crusts his nose, has dried on his upper lip, and it’s hard to breathe through the gag.
The suffocating darkness and the constant stop and go motion of the car beneath him makes
everything a thousand times worse. Every time the car revs forward, his whole body jerks
and his head cracks against the oor. Indistinguishable junk has tangled up around his legs,
and he’s pretty sure the thing that keeps slamming into his ribs is a sharp-edged toolbox.
He squeezes his eyes shut and refuses to think about the fact he is tied up in the boot of
Vin’s car with a box of wrenches and hammers in easy reach — in case they want to escalate
the next beating.
He’s never been hit before. Not like this.
He’s never had a gun in his face.
That was the rst step: Vin unfolding from her car on the shadowy street last night, all long
legs and a cruel smile, a neat little gun raised and pointing straight at Jeremy. In movies, they
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do this clever move to snatch the gun from an attacker’s hand. They run and the bullets
never hit because the main character always gets away. That’s how it works.
Except Jeremy froze and his brain shutdown and all he could think was, Do exactly what she
says or she’s going to kill you.
He has never been the main character. He is the comedic relief, the sidekick, he is the love
interest, the back up dancer; he is the one the camera pans past in order to focus on the epic
antics of the hero. That would be Jack, Jeremy thinks dully. Jack who is cool and badass and
motivated and ambitious.
Jeremy is the one who gets shot.
He thinks he might be in a pity spiral, but at least it’s a change of pace from the nonstop
panic attack that had him shaking so hard he bit into his tongue and blood burst through his
mouth. It still coats his teeth, his chin. He is a wretched mess back here in the dark, a
shivering, sobbing captive who has no brave escape plan because he’s too cold to think.
She took his sweatshirt, his shoes too. He’s left in a grubby white singlet and plaid pyjama
pants, his stupid llama socks so thin they do nothing against the cold. And it is cold. He has
never in his life been this cold before. When the car is in motion, some heat from the engine
manages to curl around him, but sometimes it is motionless and silent for hours, and he can
do nothing but shake and slowly lose feeling in his zip-tied limbs.
Tears run hot and salty down his iced cheeks and he can’t even wipe them, not with his
wrists trussed behind his back.
He needs to escape, to at least try. He needs to think—
But his mind runs slow as icy syrup, his body almost too painful to move. How much cold can
he survive? He tries to remember that time he and Jack googled hypothermia before they
went for their last summer swim — something about shivering or a weak pulse or drowsiness
or confusion…
He is so tired.
He has never been so tired.
He can’t think, he has lost time, he—
he has lost—
This would have been Avery…no, she would have done worse to Avery.
He can’t think, he has lost time, he—
he has lost—
He is so scared. He’s just so scared.
When consciousness slips from him, he’s not sure how long he’s out. The car rocks beneath
him, the engine a thrumming purr in his ears. A cottony, numbed corner of his brain tries to
turn over the facts like wooden pieces of a puzzle box. Where they might be going. What she
could be planning. What she will do to him.
she would have done worse to Avery—
 If nothing else, Jeremy will hold onto this truth as he slowly slips into the cold, lonesome
dark. Rather him than Avery.
*
He’s never been hit before. Not like this.
It’s stupid to recycle the words, pathetic to cling to them. Reality is here, Jeremy, and there is
no story you can tell yourself to make this less true. They beat him once and they’re going to
do it again.
They drag him from the boot and dump him onto the ground like a sack of rotten potatoes.
There’s a man next to Vin, a tall, shapeless creature with piercings and a military style jacket.
Details are impossible to make out because they keep shoving a torch in Jeremy’s face.
Agonising stripes of white light leave his eyes watering.
It’s night still — or again? Surely he’s been in the back of that car for hours…or the whole
day. He claws at his brain to restart, to kick into action and help him here.
But he’s so cold—
The faces in front of him don’t even make sense, and his shivering is nonstop now. They take
out the gag and he dry wretches, his mouth bone dry, making it impossible to croak let alone
shout for help.
All he registers is the rutted ground beneath him, dirt and tufts of scratchy dead grass. Then
he’s hauled towards a wall and propped against it. His head slumps forward, too heavy to
hold, but ngers dig into his hair and force him back upright. The guy puts a water bottle to
Jeremy’s mouth, but half of it splashes his singlet in a glacial torrent. If his legs were free
he’d try to run.
But he’s so cold—
Voices blur in front of him; a terse argument between the guy and Vin. She has the torch,
though she’s focused on her phone now, expression bored as she texts.
Jeremy starts to mumble something, a plea maybe, but a boot slams into his gut. He doubles
over, his cry a rasp.
This doesn’t happen to someone like him. This can’t happen.
He thinks of Avery, bruised cheekbones and swollen eyes and that scar in the corner of his
mouth. A lifetime of violence written on his skin, but Avery still knows how to kiss with the
softest reverence.
He never understood what Avery had been through until now. He had no idea.
“— nish this and then you can piss off and whine to your mates,” Vin is saying.
Jeremy’s stomach feels bloated with pain, exploding with it. Cut him open and agony will fall
out, black and festering and terrible.
“I’m not whining.” The other guy spits it through clenched teeth. “I’m asking valid questions,
Vin. We don’t kidnap people. You gonna kill him when this is over? Because a kid like this
has a nice little family and they’ll put the entire goddamn police force on our asses.”
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 “Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
Someone hauls Jeremy upright again and then a warm palm rests against his frozen cheek.
His vision still feels wrong, sideways somehow, tinged with black ice. He blinks hard and tries
to recoil from Vin’s touch.
“What’s your boyfriend’s number?” Vin waits a second as Jeremy stares blankly, then she
slaps his cheek. “Avery’s number. He’s got a phone, right? If you want him to come pick you
up, I need a number.”
“I don’t…know.” His mouth tastes of sick, his cheek stinging. “It’s saved to my phone. I
didn’t….memorise…” His words feel slurred and he doesn’t know if he’s about to start crying
or vomit.
“Think.” Vin digs ngernails into his jaw. “Don’t you want him to save you?”
Jeremy’s eyes close. This is a trap, and he is bait. He doesn’t want Avery to come, but
maybe if Dad or Jack…
Memory of the ght spreads like mould in Jeremy’s gut. He’s such an asshole, all those
things he said, the way he acted. He’s left a stinging stain for Jack to remember him by.
Jeremy wishes he had two seconds to put his head on his brother’s shoulder and say sorry.
The next slap barely hurts. Jeremy forces his eyes open, forces his thick tongue to come up
with some semblance of a phone number.
Vin hums to herself as she types it into her phone. “Hm, this better work. You don’t look too
good there, buddy. Let’s send Avery a little video, okay? Tell him to come get his toy.” She
stands, easy and careless, as if tonight is business as usual. As if she’s enjoying this.
Her partner looms from the shadows then, rolling his shoulders as he wraps cloth around his
knuckles.
Jeremy twists his hands, but he has no balance with them bound this tight behind his back.
All he can do is sag against this wall out here in the middle of nowhere. There are no voices,
no cars, no streetlights. He’s too sick and dizzy to gure out where they are.
“You know he can’t love you, right?” Vin says it in a conversational way, her attention still on
her phone. “People with that…brain thing he’s got don’t know love. He gets obsessed
because he wants stuff. But, I mean,” she looks up then, her smile a sliver of malice, “I’m
sure you’re getting things too. Just whisper lovely nothings in his ear, and he’s a puppy you
can peel apart for fun. He’ll try and save you though. Attachment issues. He’s such a child.”
The idea of this person with her hands on Avery makes hate bloom bloody and black in
Jeremy’s chest. He isn’t used to anger this intense.
He hates her.
Vin raises her phone, and it takes Jeremy a second to understand she’s recording.
“Go for it, Joley,” she says. “Smile for the camera, sweetie.”
The rst punch hits Jeremy in the jaw. The next is a boot to his chest with enough force that
he loses the ability to breathe.
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His face hits the dirt, his mouth full of blood from biting into his tongue. The ground swirls
beneath him, a thick, languid blackness already crawling at the edge of his vision. With the
next kick, he chokes on a cry.
In that moment, the only thing he can think is that he misses his mother. He failed her, he
failed them all. He has lost what it is to make people happy, and he lost himself so long ago
he didn’t even notice the absence.
And Vin is going to send this video to Avery.
“Please—” Jeremy whispers as blood slips down his chin. “Please, leave him alone. Don’t
hurt him. Please—”
 Chapter 32
It should be a crime to sleep, it should be a sin met with a sharp slap of fury. Because how
dare he rest when Jeremy is gone.
This is all Avery can think when he jerks awake, his neck jarred and a blunt headache
throbbing behind his eyes. He only dozed for two or three hours, but it’s still too much. They
pledged to stay awake, Avery and the De Laineys, they wouldn’t close their eyes and end the
vigil because somehow that feels like giving up.
Jeremy has been lost for over twenty-four hours.
Not lost. Stolen. Lost sounds like an accident. This is a theft done by a master of locks and
keys and valuables who waited until Avery was careless and showed off the treasure he
tucked closest to his heart.
This is all his fault.
Avery still sits on the sofa because everyone agreed, silent and unanimous, not to go to bed
last night. Jack is at the far end, his brow furrowed and sts clenched even in sleep. He didn’t
even take off his shoes. Grady is beside him, reinstalled into the family since yesterday
afternoon after he dropped everything at university to come home. He sleeps with glasses
askew, his head tilted back against the cushions and mouth open. Moxie is unapologetic
about using Grady as a pillow and has tucked her cold feet behind Avery. Her frown is softer
than Jack’s, worried instead of furious. She saw what Sam looked like when Vin had nished
with him. The memory must haunt her with the same ferocity as it’s terrorising Avery.
Sleeping like this, limbs touching and breathing steady and everyone within reach, brings a
wretched sort of comfort that Avery doesn’t deserve. A lump forms in his throat as he watches
the others, as he maps out the anguish holding them even in sleep. Staying awake, the
searches, the worry and fear and fury — none of it’s helping.
They spent all of yesterday and most of the night driving around to search. Avery made them
drive past Vin’s place, but a cop car was already there and the entire block felt empty. But
what else can they do? They have to keep looking.
They have to nd him before—
Moxie grumbles in her sleep and worms her feet deeper into the pocket of warmth beside
Avery. Vin could target her next. She could go after any of them. Avery presses thumbs hard
into his eyes, but even the pain doesn’t ground him. If Sam was here—
But it’s only Thursday and Sam won’t call no matter how badly Avery needs him.
Think like Sam. But Avery can’t. He’s too exhausted and confused and chewed up with fear.
His insides crawl with acidic anxiety and he can’t swallow it down, can’t centre himself and
move through this with logic.
Jeremy is gone and it’s all Avery’s fault.
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Noises come from the kitchen; the kettle boiling, a teaspoon clinking in a mug, the fridge
humming in time to the dishwasher starting a cycle. Because apparently life goes on in
callous ambivalence to pain.
Mr. De Lainey comes into the lounge room with a huge mug of coffee. He taps Grady’s
shoulder until he wakes and then motions him to move down.
Grady fumbles to scoot out of the way and he wakes Jack and Moxie in the process. The L-
shaped sofa has always been overly large, but they are pushing the limits as Mr. De Lainey
settles in between Moxie and Grady. Moxie sleepily curls into her father, but when Avery
starts to get up, she puts both her legs on top of him. He is effectively pinned.
“I had a long call with the police this morning.” Mr. De Lainey’s voice sounds rough with
fatigue. “But we’ve already led the report and they’ve interviewed us, so now it’s a waiting
game.” He says this with a hint of frustration. “But they also repeated the line that Jeremy is
likely hiding out to sleep off drugs or alcohol. They won’t get the Missing Person’s Unit
involved yet, but I’m pushing them to realise Vin is a signi cant threat right now.”
“This is bullshit.” Jack sounds groggy and angry all at once.
“It is,” Mr. De Lainey says, and Avery does a double-take because this is the rst time Jack
hasn’t been pulled up for swearing.
Things like that have ceased to matter.
“What time is it?” Grady readjusts his glasses but his eyes aren’t even open yet.
“Nearly nine.”
Jack struggles upright. “We need to go then. We’ve wasted too much time. We should
look…” He slumps back down. “I don’t even know.”
Mr. De Lainey takes a long drink of his coffee. “I’m going to call in to the hospitals. Dash and
the babies will stay with your aunt and the cousins, but Rob has been out searching since six
a.m.”
“But where is he even looking that we haven’t?” Grady says. “Jack’s called all their friends
and we’ve gone over every bit of the beach and our neighbourhood.”
“He’s not in our neighbourhood,” Jack snaps. “That psychopath will have him somewhere we
don’t know. Unless—” He twists suddenly, his eyes dark and desperate and pinned on Avery.
“You’d know.”
Avery twists his ngers in jerky little stims. “I know where she hides small things.” Cash, he
means, but he won’t say it. “But she-she-she didn’t take me everywhere. Or if she did, I’d
drive and wait in the car while she went down alleys alone. I don’t remember everything,” he
adds, his voice thin and desperate. “I don’t know where she really lives or her real name or
her contacts or—”
“It’s okay,” Moxie says gently.
“There’s a mechanic I used to work at. We could check there?” Avery sounds miserable. “We
shifted stolen cars.”
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It’s the most he’s confessed, but they must have realised by now that he did more than cower
in a corner for Vin. They have to know he’s a thief too.
“Tell me the address and I’ll visit them,” Mr. De Lainey says. “You can’t go anywhere alone.
Understand?”
“Okay—”
“Promise me.” There’s a hardness to Mr. De Lainey’s voice.
Avery wraps his arms around his ribs and squeezes, forcing the cracked pieces of himself to
hold together, just for a little longer. “I promise.” But the words are too faint, no conviction in
his tone.
They don’t understand what this is leading to, where he’s being pushed. It’s inevitable, really,
what Vin will ask for.
The search is fruitless — what they’re doing is waiting until she makes her demands.
And she will demand Avery.
“Everyone get some breakfast and we’ll get ready to go,” Mr. De Lainey says.
Avery pulls his knees up to his chin and watches the others peel off the sofa. For a while
they’d all leant subconsciously towards their father, their rock and protector, but as they
leave, a shadow falls over Mr. De Lainey’s face. He looks utterly haggard, his skin greyed
and new stress lines written around his mouth. A slight tremor rules his ngers as he lifts his
coffee mug.
It feels like a gangrenous chasm sits between them on the sofa, all of Avery’s mistakes on
display and festering.
If he’d hid Jeremy from Vin—
If he’d left the lighthouse with Jeremy—
If he hadn’t broken the rules and kissed Jeremy in the rst place—
“Avery,” Mr. De Lainey says slowly. “I need you to eat. You didn’t eat a thing yesterday, did
you? Punishing yourself won’t get Jeremy back faster.”
Avery presses his face against his knees and says nothing.
Mr. De Lainey rubs his stubbled jaw and stares into his coffee mug. It’s as empty as his
expression. “I’m not angry about the lighthouse.”
Even the mention of it rips bloody lines down Avery’s chest and shame colours his cheeks.
“I’m not surprised, son. Evans mentioned this might happen,” Mr. De Lainey goes on quietly.
“He wanted to check in frequently, but he’s a busy man, so we’ve kept up regular emails. I
think we both enjoy our talks. He has a lot of insights about neglected children and very
much wants to see his placements settled and happy.”
Avery narrows his eyes. This does not sound like Evans who looks vexed every time the Lou
brothers breathe.
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 “Some children who’ve had a life like yours have this compulsion to make an escape route.
To hide or hoard or steal. I noticed you spend all your money very fast after paydays, and I
couldn’t work out on what—”
Sleeping bags. Tinned food. Camping lanterns. Screws and nails and hinges.
“—but I see now. I thought you might make an escape bag instead of, well, rebuilding a
lighthouse.” Mr. De Lainey’s smile is small and sad. “I understand it’s always going to be hard
for you to trust me, and while I’m not thrilled about you and Jeremy sneaking around, I am
glad you feel safe with him.”
Avery picks at loose threads on his patchwork hoodie. “I’m sorry.”
“Jeremy is always performing.” Mr. De Lainey twists his empty mug. “I never know how to tell
him it’s alright to just be. But when he’s with you, he calms down. You see the real Jeremy
and he sees the real you. Don’t apologise for that.” He pushes off the sofa with a groan and
rests a hand on Avery’s head as he moves past. “We’re going to nd him.”
*
Time crawls with excruciating slowness. Every second of failure is agony, every spark of
hope that’s quickly doused feels like a st punched through their lungs.
They search everywhere they looked yesterday, and then they add in hospitals, the
mechanic, the streets around Vin’s house. Avery could break through her door, but staring
through the grubby windows shows an odd emptiness to the place. Electronics have been
cleared out and every car is gone. Besides, she wouldn’t leave Jeremy somewhere so
obvious.
When they reconvene back at the butter yellow house, Evans’ car is in the driveway. Avery
pulls up short on the front steps and stares at the man waiting on the verandah. It’s Evans,
but…Evans in jeans and a polo shirt instead of his normal spidery black suit with severe
briefcase nearby. It short-circuits Avery’s already overstimulated brain so much that he gets
back into the van to calm down.
“I’m not here in an of cial capacity,” Evans says to Mr. De Lainey. “It happens to be my day
off.”
Mr. De Lainey shakes Evans’ hand with a grim rmness. “I appreciate it, Emery.”
Avery nally exits the van and gives Evans a wide berth. If he’s going to screw up the order
of the universe, Avery will have none of it. “You don’t have days off. Go put your right clothes
back on.”
“Oddly enough, Mr. Lou,” Evans says, cool, “I have a life outside of work and a family and, on
occasion, I do wear jeans.”
“No.” Avery slams the front door behind him and Mr. De Lainey has to reopen it and invite
Evans in for coffee before they head out again.
Even with the extra help, they nd nothing. At this point their search is to soothe their own
nerves because wherever Vin has taken Jeremy, she has left no trace to follow. Mr. De
Lainey takes Moxie and Avery, while Grady goes with Evans, and Jack packs himself into
Rob’s car. By nightfall they’re all riddled with exhaustion and curt words, patience gone, and
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 any attempt to cling to calm has turned to dust. Rob heads home to eat, and Mr. De Lainey,
Grady, and Evans drive out to the police precinct for updates.
Two days. Two useless days.
Avery drops onto his bed as dusk ts itself between the curtains and takes over his room.
Even the idea of turning the light on feels like a lash against his skin; he wants the dark and
the cold and to be wholly alone.
The last one is a lie. He wishes he could roll over and press himself against the curve of
Jeremy’s back, t against him skin to skin and send his pulse skittering faster than the speed
of light. They never even had the chance to try.
Avery stares at the slats of the upper bunk and blinks hard against the threat of furious,
hopeless tears.
Vin won’t kill Jeremy. She won’t she won’t she won’t she can’t—
Footsteps shuf e outside his bedroom door, voices whispering a hushed but heated
argument. The knob turns and the outline of Moxie’s pointy face can be seen. Then she
stumbles fully into the room, shoved from behind by Jack. He storms in without a word, looks
around the room as if even the walls have offended him, and then he drags the mattress off
the top bunk and dumps it on the oor.
Avery shoves up on his elbows. “What are you doing?”
“Dad took the jeep keys.” Jack drops down on the mattress like he’s made of cement. “He’s
in the van with Grady but he took the goddamn jeep keys too. I can’t even sneak out to keep
looking.” He doesn’t protest when Moxie ops down beside him and uses his stomach as a
pillow, propping her legs on Avery’s bed frame.
They are refusing to let him be alone.
“He must be so freaked out,” she whispers.
“But why hold him hostage without making demands?” Jack says. “What does she want?”
Avery starts to say, “I’m sor—” but Jack snaps ngers at him.
“Don’t say you’re sorry again. You didn’t do this.”
“I did.” Avery’s voice stretches, the tears so close he can taste them. “I drove her car into the
sea and-and-and everything since then is r-r-revenge.”
“I knew that was you,” Jack mutters.
“Oh right. Because sinking a car is de nitely equal to having you beaten,” Moxie ticks it off on
her ngers. “Then she hit you in the head with a rock and cut her name in your arm. Oh, and
she physically and verbally abused you for years, stabbed your brother, groomed you—”
Avery pulls his pillow over his head. “Stop.”
“She’s escalated this to a deranged level and it’s not your fault.”
They all lie in silence. Avery thumbs his scar and refuses to let his eyes drift shut. He’s never
been tired like this before, a candle guttered, a river run dry.
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 “He’s not dead,” Jack says, but his voice sounds empty. “When we get him back, I won’t
move away. I’ll stay with him.”
They must fall asleep, all of them, because when Avery next opens his eyes, a lonely
coldness has glided through the open window and the only sound is the others’ slow, even
breathing. Something woke him. With numbed ngers, Avery fumbles for his phone. It thrums
again with an incoming text.
Which makes no sense because no one but the De Laineys have this number.
His eyes feel sticky with sleep, his brain fogged. A strange number glows on the screen and
there’s a video le attached. He hesitates, and then taps play.
The lighting is terrible and there’s an odd rushing background noise. Grainy people shift in
the frame. Someone slumps on the ground. There’s the static hiss of a voice—
Smile for the camera, sweetie.
The person on the ground looks up and there is a horrible moment when Avery’s heartbeat
soars up his throat, when a hand takes hold of his stomach and twists. It’s Jeremy. It’s
Jeremy with blood crusted on his nose, his cheekbone swollen, his shoulders shivering so
hard it looks like a seizure.
Then they hit him.
Avery surges upright, his body on re, his nerves a screaming ash of severed electricity.
They keep hitting him and it consumes Avery, the sound of st against esh, the muf ed
cries, the tinny whisper that sounds like, Please…please, leave him alone. Don’t hurt him.
Please—
This is Avery’s beating.
This is Avery’s retribution.
A st catches Jeremy in the stomach and this time his cry is a broken sob.
The video cuts off.
Avery’s phone vibrates again, one last text.
come get him
And Avery’s universe
shatters
into a million pieces.
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 Chapter 33
The phone slips from Avery’s hand and hits the oorboards with a crack. There is a knife in
his chest, slowly twisting, blood on his lips to match Jeremy’s. A scream rips through his
body, but when he opens his mouth, there is no sound. The world has turned inside-out and
his chest is being crushed until splinters of silver bone puncture his lungs.
He can’t—
this isn’t happening—
Someone’s talking. Hands on his face. Moxie’s frightened eyes swim before him as if they
are both underwater, but only he is drowning.
Jack grabs the phone from the oor, his voice rising with excited questions before cutting off
as he presses play.
They shouldn’t watch it. They can’t take this. But neither can Jeremy.
People like the De Laineys aren’t meant for this. This is a window to Avery’s world, where
people are born between broken glass and sts, who grow up bruised to the bone with all
their corners sharp and unforgiving. People like him know how to bleed in ugly, mangled
ways and still stand at the end of it because they’ve known nothing else. Someone who
doesn’t know what it is to be safe never misses the loss of it.
The De Laineys have always been ercely, wholly loved. They can’t recover from something
like this, and Avery let it happen. He wanted to escape Vin, not bring her to them.
Jack swears, his knuckles gone white around the phone. He keeps swearing, but his voice
cracks.
“Let me see.” Moxie reaches.
Jack twists away. “You don’t need—”
“I will scream at you, Jack De Lainey!” Moxie shoves him hard. “He’s my brother too!” She
gets hold of the phone and colour slowly drains from her face as she watches.
“We have to call Dad.” Jack’s voice is hoarse.
But Avery has already slipped from the room, snatching his patchwork hoodie on the way out.
He struggles into it and takes the stairs fast. Shoes, he needs shoes. There’s a box cutter in
the kitchen drawer, meant for opening packages, and he takes that too. No time for anything
else. He can’t think. The echo of Jeremy’s cry lls him up and spills out the sides.
But Avery is focused on one thing.
The background noise in the video.
It was hard to distinguish at rst, he almost thought it was traf c, but he’d woken to that
sound only a few days ago. It’s the lulling rush of the ocean.
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This is Vin’s style; taking one last place of Avery’s and nding a way to destroy it. All she had
to do was wait until they’d searched there, then go back. Vin is nothing if not a master of
petty vengeance and perfect timing.
Jeremy is at the lighthouse.
Jack and Moxie catapult downstairs after Avery, both talking at once, loud in the still empty
house. It’s eleven p.m., and Mr. De Lainey and Grady aren’t back. Jack already has his
phone out to call them.
“I-I have to go now.” Avery wants to spin, to ap, to dig ngers into his skin and tear.
come get him
When Vin snaps her ngers, you go now.
“Where? We have no idea where—” Jack breaks off. “Wait, you know?”
“The lighthouse.”
“But we checked it.”
“He’s at the goddamn lighthouse!” Avery whirls on them, his nerves raw and bloody. “If you
bring the c-co-cops, it’ll go wrong. She wants me, and she’ll do worse to-to-to him if we wait.”
Moxie has already shoved into boots and grabbed a puffer jacket. “Let’s go.”
Jack whirls on her. “NO.”
“Stop yelling!” Moxie shouts at him. “We don’t have a choice.”
“Then what’s the plan?” Jack grabs Avery as he rips open the front door. “You’re going to
trade yourself for him? Because that’s real goddamn smart.”
“I have to—”
“No, you don’t!” Jack’s face is mottled red, his eyes far too bright. “We aren’t trading you for
my brother— no, shut the hell up, Avery. We’re not offering you up like a sacri cial lamb.”
Avery backs up and stares.
“Jeremy would literally,” Jack takes a threatening step forward, “strangle me if I lost you. So,
no. Come up with a better plan.”
But there is nothing else. Avery has always been the one meant to fall.
“I know what to do,” he says. “But we have to leave now.”
And because they think too much of him, they believe it.
*
Blood pounds in Avery’s ears as he runs toward the lighthouse. They’re taking too long, going
too slow, but Jack and Moxie don’t know their way in the dark and Avery’s too scared to leave
them alone.
Nothing bad can happen to any other De Lainey, that’s the promise Avery makes tonight. He
swears it on every star that bites the night sky like a bitter diamond.
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But as they climb the narrow track to the bluffs, a sel sh sorrow grows in Avery’s gut. He’s
too fuelled with panic and adrenaline to collapse into the truth of it, but it’s there anyway.
He tried so hard for so long to get back to Sam. Now he
never will.
At least Sam will have the De Laineys. It was always meant to be that way. Avery was just
the complication no one wanted and had to do their best to tolerate these last months while
they waited for the Lou brother they really wanted.
Avery pulls up short at the top of the path up the cliffs and hunkers low until Jack and Moxie
collapse on either side of him. Ahead is a sea of ratty grass and then the lighthouse, hunched
on the far edge of the bluff and weighed down by weary secrets. The dark outline of a car sits
in front of it, headlights shining out to sea. The Viper is a shark, a fresh wound, a beacon,
and it’s waiting to light their way to execution.
“We go around,” Avery whispers. “Stick to the dark. We can come up behind the lighthouse
where she won’t see.”
“Then what?” Jack sounds out of breath, but still angry.
“We get Jeremy,” Avery says.
“If he’s in the lighthouse,” Moxie says, “how do we get him down without—”
But Avery takes off, wishing they’d stay there, safe, and knowing they won’t. He doesn’t have
time to argue, so he leaves them scrabbling to keep up as he runs bent over and half holding
his breath along the far edge of the bluff.
They have to run past the lighthouse and then curve around to come up behind it. The
warning fences have all but fallen over here, so it’s easy to scale them and then drop in a
heap at the lighthouse’s base. Unseen by Vin.
All three of them crush together, kneeling in the weeds and dirt, Moxie’s ngers in Avery’s
hoodie, Jack covering them both. When they peer around the lighthouse they see Vin
arguing with someone. The wind cuts off most of her words, so Avery edges forward to hear
better.
“—losing everything for this, and for what?” That’s Joley, pacing angrily and jabbing an
accusatory nger at Vin. “We can’t go back to the house now. I had shit stored there, Vin.”
“Let things cool off and go back later.” Vin sounds unimpressed with his tantrum. “I have
plenty of places to be.”
“What? After you nish torturing some kid with mental problems? Like, who the hell cares?
He was more trouble than he was worth the entire time.”
“It’s not about—”
“You’re obsessed, Vin. Just forget about him.”
Vin takes a warning step towards Joley and they both move out of view. Avery’s ngers dig
into the grass, his heartbeat thrumming in his throat.
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“—he doesn’t get to walk away.” Her voice rises, acid and rage. There’s too much hate there
that will never diffuse.
“…didn’t sign up to murder kids…not going to jail because of you! I’m done with—”
Jack grabs the back of Avery’s hoodie and drags him backwards. Vin and Joley’s voices are
lost as the wind picks up over the bluff.
“We have to call Dad,” Jack hisses.
Moxie clutches her phone in shaking hands. “Now?”
Avery twists to face them. “Wait ten minutes. Then call for help.”
Jack sees what Avery’s about to do too late. Jack lunges forward, but Avery springs to his
feet and dashes around the lighthouse. He is made of wisps of wind and paper shadows, too
fast to hold and too slight to catch.
Vin and Joley are too focused on their argument to notice the boy slip behind them and dart
up the lighthouse stairs. He stays low and soundless, on hands and knees when he can. Any
second they could look up. But all he hears is Joley yell, “I’m out. Finish this yourself,” and
then Avery is at the top and through the cracked open door.
The whole place has been trashed. His things lie strewn about, containers busted open, tins
dented, crates kicked apart, and his tools thrown across the room. Only his camping lantern
remains upright, the glow doing little against the gloom.
The rest of the windows have been smashed and glass litters the oor like a glittering layer of
ice. It crunches beneath his shoes. Too loud, he’s too loud. His heart punches against his
ribcage and he forgets to breathe — because there is Jeremy.
Jeremy lies motionless on the slashed sleeping bag. Legs zip tied, hands trussed behind his
back. He wears only pyjama pants and a grubby white singlet splattered in dark stains.
Blood.
His eyes stay closed.
For a second, Avery is frozen with a sea of glass between them. The pressure of too late sits
on his chest, the enormity of it crushing him.
Go to him.
He crosses the lighthouse oor, slowly slowly, to Jeremy who has been broken and left like a
rag doll, seams ripped and stuf ng spilt. He lies on his side, one eye swollen shut, his lips
split, the side of his face a mass of purple and black bruises. Broken glass dusts his hair.
When Avery puts ngertips to Jeremy’s shoulder, his skin burns.
He doesn’t move.
“Jeremy.” It’s not a plea but a prayer. “Jeremy.” Avery’s on his knees then, not caring about
the glass ripping open his jeans. He snatches the box cutter from his pocket and hacks off
the zip-ties, shaking so hard he cuts his ngers.
Jeremy slumps onto his back, boneless. He should be freezing, not this, not this. A furnace
glows beneath his skin, a heat so unforgiving it sends bolts of agony through Avery’s chest.
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He taps Jeremy’s cheek, shakes him. Nothing. Panic lls Avery’s mouth. He runs ngers over
Jeremy to check for broken bones, and he nds bruise after bruise, each more horrible than
the last.
“Jeremy.” Don’t cry, don’t cry. But the rst tear spills hot down Avery’s cheek. “Jeremy, wake
up. I found you. I found you. If you were lost, I’d come nd you.” He’s crying now, these
words Jeremy’s, not his own. “I’d always come nd you.”
Glass cracks under a foot.
Avery spins on his knees, his body tense as a hunted rabbit, but he already knows who it is.
Vin leans in the doorframe, posture casual and effortless, a wicked smile curving her lips.
She looks utterly delighted, a tiger before a bowl of bloody treats.
Avery backhands his cheeks fast because he refuses to cry in front of her. He is ravaged by
fear, he is dread compounded, but he can’t break.
Avery has always been the one who needed saving, who had to be scraped off the oor and
coaxed out of corners and soothed to prevent another meltdown. No one expects anything of
him. He has always been as fragile and worthless as a handful of stardust and feathers. But
he can do this one thing.
Save Jeremy.
“Found your sleeping princess in the tower?” Vin puffs hair out of her face. She’s not
threatened, proven by how she’s left her hair in styled waves and wears tight jeans and
heeled boots. Joley was here to dirty his hands for her.
And she brought a gun to nish her sentences.
She holds the gun easily, dangling it from ngertips as if it’s a toy. “Oh, stop looking like a
kicked puppy, Avery.” She mimics a pout. “It’s so sad. Let’s not drag this out, hm? I have
been following your degenerate ass around for months and I’ve got to say—” The smile
suddenly drops from her face and her eyes are glacial “—I’m getting real pissed off.”
Avery curls his ngers into tight sts to stop them apping. “Joley left, didn’t he?”
“I don’t need him.” Vin waves the gun. “And make no mistake, I don’t need you either. I want
you to remember who rescued you from the street, who gave you clothes and food and a
home. Who gave you work and a future. And you trash my car? You sabotage my jobs? You
owe me, you little fuckwit.”
“You s-s-stabbed Sam—”
Vin rolls her eyes. “I’m not listening to your pathetic stammer. Here are your options. You get
into my car and we leave right now, or I make you jump out of this lighthouse.” Her smile
returns, slow and lazy. “Your choice.”
Avery looks back at Jeremy. His breathing is shallow, his cracked lips glossed with bloody
drool.
“And he goes free?” Avery whispers.
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“I couldn’t care less.” Vin shrugs. “He can whine all he wants to the cops, but we’re out of
here. The city maybe. I have contacts. Things I want to try. You can earn back the money
you’ve lost me, and then…” She tilts her head, studying him. “We’ll see how I feel after that.”
Then she’ll kill him, that’s what it means.
“Cute little patchwork jumper by the way. You know it was all fake, right?” Vin gestures
vaguely at him. “Your ‘family’. They’re not going to miss you. Nobody wants you, Avery Lou,
not when you’re just as much a criminal as me.” She takes a step forward, her smile vicious.
“Now get up.”
If he could, he’d kiss Jeremy goodbye. But all he can do is touch Jeremy’s cheek with tender,
aching adoration while his heart splits in his chest.
Avery starts to stand.
A hand closes around his wrist.
His sob is half surprise, half joy, and he spins back fast. Jeremy’s good eye is open a sliver,
and his grip around Avery’s wrist is tight as an iron vice.
“No.” Jeremy’s voice is gravel and pain.
“Move it, kid,” Vin says. “We’re leaving.”
“I have to go.” Avery smooths hair from Jeremy’s eyes. It’s grown so much since they met, all
these chocolate curls he’ll never have the chance to run his ngers through. “B-b-but Jack’s
here okay.” His voice is a ragged whisper. “He’s coming. Your dad’s coming too. You’ll be
okay b-but you have to let go of me.”
Jeremy’s grip tightens as his eyes drift shut. “No.”
“Jeremy.” Avery’s voice breaks. “Let go. Let go.”
“I’ve already said,” Jeremy’s words are little more than a breath, “I’m…keeping you.”
Shaking, Avery tries to pry Jeremy’s ngers loose, but he can’t. He has no strength left.
He doesn’t want to go.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Vin groans to the ceiling and starts toward them. “Let him go, or I’ll—”
“Or you’ll what?”
Vin spins.
Jack stands in the doorway gripping a broken plank. Moxie appears at his elbow, her arms
folded, expression stony and thoroughly unimpressed.
“You forgot,” Jack growls, all fury and venom, “that when you fuck with one De Lainey, the
rest of us will line up to end you.”
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 Chapter 34
A strange feeling spreads through Avery’s chest, a slow, honeyed warmth he can’t ignore. It
seeps over the fear, the sorrow, the bitter wretched dread that has always lived inside him,
and it clings like a stain against his ribcage.
This feeling that is somehow terrible and holy and beautiful all at once.
He is not alone.
Jeremy’s ngers tighten around Avery’s wrist, pinning him down when he was about to fall off
the edge of the world. But his good eye is open again and xed on Jack.
Jack, who squares up in the doorway like he could ght the entire universe right now.
“Great.” Vin rolls her eyes. “The rest of Cheaper By The Dozen is here, woo. I’m terri ed. You
do realise I have a gun, right?”
Jack grunts, like this is an inconsequential fact. “So what? You’re going to shoot all of us?
Really?”
Moxie peers around Jack’s elbow. “Maybe don’t suggest that.”
“I’m tempted.” Vin looks annoyed and then casually raises the gun. She twirls it once and
then spins to point it at Jeremy. “I’m not dragging this out. Put the wood down and make your
doppelgänger let go of Avery or I’ll shoot.”
Jack hesitates, his scowl icking from Vin to Jeremy. Then he slowly lays his plank down and
raises both hands.
“Get behind me,” he says to Moxie, and she stays at his back as they walk slowly across the
lighthouse oor. They have to pass Vin and her delight is razor sharp as she wriggles the gun
in an incentive to move faster.
When Jack gets to Jeremy, hesitation is forgotten and he kneels quickly and unzips his
jacket. He pulls Jeremy upright and tucks the jacket around his shoulders, then he just grips
his brother so tight a sob of relief escapes Jeremy.
Jack’s eyes meet Avery then, and he’s all fury and fear. He mouths, Help. Coming.
Jeremy’s eyes utter closed and his ngers slip from Avery’s wrist.
“Now get here, Avery. I can see that box cutter. Throw it outside.” Vin icks the safety off and
uses both hands to steady the gun. “Change of plans. I can’t deal with this, so they can all go
free if you jump.”
“You’re out of your goddamn mind—” Jack starts.
But Avery tosses the box cutter out one of the broken windows and stands slowly, his
heartbeat thundering. Think, think. He needs time for the cops to get here. He takes one step
into the sea of glass. Another. Toward Vin, toward the gun.
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“Keep going.” Vin puts her nger on the trigger.
It would take nothing — a breath, a blink, a shudder — and she could set it off.
Jack and Moxie loop Jeremy’s arms about their shoulders and pull him to his feet, but he’s
barely conscious.
Avery stops beside the camping lantern and he very deliberately steps around it. He points at
the light and then cuts a glance over his shoulder to see if Jack saw.
Jack’s jaw is tight and his eyes bore into Avery.
He saw.
Then Avery is at the door. He walks onto the rst step and then there’s nothing but night sky
and the winter wind playing in his hair. It invites him closer, it almost begs, and it feels natural
to rise on tiptoes with his hands on the rickety railing.
This was always going to happen. The edge of a precipice, a decision to be made.
He could jump and fall.
Or stay and hold on with desperate ngers and wild eyes and sharp teeth.
He glances back again. Vin still has the gun on the others, but she watches him. The
mocking smiles are gone and her eyes are as cold and uninterested as the last time she shot
someone. This will mean nothing to her.
“Jump,” Vin says. “Or I shoot.”
Avery leans carefully against the rail and settles his whole weight onto it.
He never xed it. Never replaced the corroded screws or checked if the iron was rusted
through.
He leans hard, harder.
And then he gives Jack the tiniest nod.
They’re standing together now, all three of them, Jack and Jeremy and Moxie. At Avery’s
signal, Jack shoves Jeremy and Moxie to the side and lunges for the lantern. He kicks it hard
and it clatters to the oor, the back popping off and batteries coming loose.
Darkness falls like a slap.
Vin jerks the gun this way and that, but her targets have all moved. She snarls. “Think I can’t
hit something in the dark? Because I can still see you.”
But only the outlines of them.
Avery leans harder against the rail. Something shifts, breaks.
Everything inside him races fast, faster, and he can barely breathe for the stampede in his
chest. Come on, come on—
“Don’t. Move.” Vin’s teeth are clenched. “Avery has ve seconds to jump and then I shoot.
One…two…”
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 Avery closes his eyes, leaning harder into the rail and wishing, for once, that he was taller,
bigger, stronger than this.
nearly there—
“…three.” A manic glee crawls into Vin’s voice. “I mean, who should I even choose rst?” She
swivels the gun between the three shadows.
They’re all trembling, frozen in place, Moxie shorter, but the twins indistinguishable in the
dark. Jack’s coat is on the oor so both he and Jeremy have bare arms, identical heights.
How Jeremy is standing, Avery has no idea, but he’s clearly struggling.
“Four.” Vin is all dangerous angles, her boots planted far apart. Gun raised. Finger on the
trigger.
Avery shoves at the rail one last time, slamming his hip into it with a shocking clang.
“I said jump,” Vin says, low and velvety and terrible.
“Don’t do it, Avery.” Moxie’s voice doesn’t even waver. “Don’t you dare.”
Beneath Avery’s ngers the railing starts to bend, the last of the screws pulling from their
sockets. Triumph lights his chest and he gathers himself.
This will work. It has to.
Vin is in the doorway, her back to him now.
All he has to do is grab her and drag her backwards. This railing won’t take her weight and
she won’t be able to stop the momentum.
This will work. It has to.
“Even if I jumped,” Avery says, erce, “I wouldn’t fall. I learned how to y.”
“Five.” Vin points the gun pointed at the shadow ghting to keep upright. “Which one are
you?”
And without hesitation, Jack’s voice cuts through the dark. “I’m Jeremy.”
Vin tilts her head. “Perfect.”
Avery’s heart explodes out of his chest. All he can think is wait wait wait no—
He lunges forward, his arms outstretched, and he is just about to grab her.
He is so close—
Vin res the gun.
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 Before
Avery is seventeen and he wants to steal his brother.
A sharp weight presses against his chest as he climbs into the backyard of the house Sam is
stealing. It feels like he’s put a thousand shattered stars in his mouth and swallowed, the
pieces cutting his insides to ribbons every time he takes a breath. He’s still shaky from the
accident at the mechanic’s yesterday, bruised from the airbag and tired, so tired. When he
walks, he leaves a comet trail of sadness glittering in his wake, but no one would notice that.
He moves with the silent grace of a cat, a thief, a shadow. He knows his mark well, but this
will be a dif cult theft.
Sammy Lou is such a small thing, but too quick, too stubborn. He has always been
immoveable, a fact Avery loves when he needs to be held or caught or protected, but right
now the prospect of tucking Sam into his pocket and running away seems impossible.
He can’t tell Sam why. He needs to act like everything is ne. Don’t tell him about Vin, the
mistake at the mechanic’s, the gun, the blood, the tears. Because Sam will lose his mind and
charge off to defend Avery.
And Vin will kill him.
Protect Sam, that’s all that matters. Lie, Avery, you just need to lie.
The night air feels heavy with summer heat as Avery watches Sam stand on tiptoes atop a
woodpile, his clever ngers working at the locks. His hair is getting long, a tousled golden
mess, and he still hasn’t grown much since he was thirteen. His oversized backpack of keys
sags in the grass. Sam moves stif y though. Another ght? He is forever hitting things even
when Avery begs him to stop.
Avery slips out of the shadows and the word lie lie lie cuts lines into his skin.
If he goes back to Vin, she’ll convince him everything is ne. She’ll be gentle with him, buy
him something, toss him the keys to a sweet old car that he can x. And if he resists the
bribes, she’ll hit him until he agrees to do the next job. He will always agree. He will always
say yes.
Unless he steals
Sammy
and runs.
“You could always break it,” Avery says.
Sam startles with such violent fear that he tumbles off the wood pile. He hits the ground on
his back, his lock picks ung from his grasp. Avery’s heart skips a beat and he runs over.
Sometimes he moves too quietly. Sometimes he forgets his little brother isn’t always pleased
to see him.
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Avery peers down at Sam who lies in the dewy glass with a smudge of starlight re ected in
his blue eyes.
“Dammit, Avery.” He sounds cross.
“I didn’t bring a hammer.” Avery tugs out his phone and struggles with the torch app,
accidentally ashing it in Sam’s eyes. “But we could use a rock or, like, your head since it’s
hard and ugly enough.” His laugh is thin and hollowed out, and as Sam’s scowl deepens,
Avery adds, “That was a joke. I was joking. You can tell it’s a joke, right?”
He’s scared he’s already annoyed Sam when what he needs most is for Sam to listen.
Sam spreads his ngers in front of his eyes against the torchlight. “Is something wrong? Are
you hurt or in trouble or…you’re okay?”
Avery pulls lies out of his chest like bloody, broken owers. “What? Yeah, I’m ne.”
They argue as Sam nds another way to break into the house. Sam snaps and Avery wilts
and it feels like this is all they ever do. It’s Avery’s fault though; he pushes Sam away all the
time these days to keep him from Vin. But it hurts how obvious it is that Sam doesn’t want
him here tonight. His routine is messed up, his plans thrown, and that always catapults Sam
into an anxious, terrible mood.
Everything inside this house is worn and comfortable, but emptiness leaks through all the
walls. It’s a house, not a home. Avery imagines their ght leaving cracks in the ceiling, a mark
that they were here and they were hurting and nobody cared.
“You said you’d stop hitting,” Avery says, “and I’d promise to keep my job at the mechanic’s.
Those are the rules.”
“I guess we both broke the rules.” Sam’s voice is quiet.
“But I—” Avery starts, but Sam folds his arms.
“Save it. I know you drove a car into the wall at the mechanic’s shop.”
“I didn’t—”
“Where you drunk?” Sam’s scowl is all int, but Avery can’t look at his face, can’t do anything
but snap his ngers by his ears and wish this wasn’t going so wrong.
Some things are easy to steal, wallets and credit cards and cars and keys. But the most
priceless thing in Avery’s world stands here with skinny arms and a bruised face scrunched
into a frown with feet planted solid as if he will never be moved.
It’s easier to let Sam think Avery was drunk than explain that for a second there he slipped
and he wanted it all to stop.
He can’t worry Sam.
“I’m probably going to get red,” Avery says. “But I had this genius idea. See, there’s this
super sweet sedan in the shop right now. We’ll have hours before anyone knows we took it.”
“Took it where?”
And Avery says, “We could leave town,” even though he knows it will be the hardest thing in
the world.
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You. And me. We.
They are the kings between nowhere and the end of the world, both of them made of broken
edges so sharp that anyone who touches them will be cut. They are all each other has. And
it’s not enough.
The only thing on Sam’s face is betrayal, and he is all clenched sts with unshed tears hot
and bright in his eyes as he tells Avery this is a stupid plan.
Avery can only stand there while hurricanes rip him from inside out and his mouth lls with
the memory of blood and grief and ruin. He can’t keep doing this, he can’t survive, Sam.
Please please let’s go please let’s run please save me I need you to save me I need—
“No,” Sam snaps. “No.”