18

I never thought I’d see this day. Honestly, I’m worried you brought me here to tell me I’m dying or something.” Quin looked between Rowan and his sister.

He said it lightly, but the glance that passed between them, the one they didn’t quite manage to hide, created a lump in his throat. Rowan and Lena, sharing some kind of secret he couldn’t fathom. It made him itchy. He wanted to reach inside and pull the irritant from under his skin.

“Not dying, honey, but you did give us quite a scare.” Rowan covered Quin’s hand with his own, each finger weighted by a ring with a gem almost as big as an eyeball, flashing in the light.

Quin had been sick. Some weird bug he’d picked up in the Bastion while investigating a case. The fever had laid him low for days, which he thankfully didn’t remember. It was unsettling, though, having only Lena and Rowan’s account of his illness, how they had taken turns looking after him.

It wasn’t just the illness, either – even the days preceding it felt blurry, gaps in his thoughts and recollections. Things he should know, but didn’t.

He’d solved the case he’d been working on, the credits in his account told him that much. Part of him wished he could remember more, but any time he probed the memory, it was like touching a wound that hadn’t fully healed. Maybe some things were better left untouched.

A waiter circled past, depositing a second pitcher of mimosas. He’d never been to Cirque during the day, but Rowan promised they did a killer brunch. The plates scattered between them were evidence that he’d been right.

“Seriously, though, since when did you two get chummy?” Quin lifted his glass, held it without sipping, and looked between Lena and Rowan again.

He should let it go, but he’d never been capable of doing that. He had to peer into the dark corners, look under the rocks, pick at the scab even though he knew it would leave a scar. If he kept pushing, eventually one of them would crack. His bet was on Rowan.

He just wanted one of them to explain the tense silence, why they kept looking at him like any minute, he might shatter.

“We’re family,” Lena said, but her gaze slid away, and the words seemed to stick in her throat. “I want us to spend more time together. I figure that includes getting to know your friends and perhaps accepting that I may have judged them too harshly in the past.”

“Why, Ms. Vasquez, did you just come close to saying a nice thing about me?” Rowan put a hand to his chest, affecting shock, batting his eyes.

Even off stage, he was dressed with impeccable, glorious style. No wings or shimmering gown, but his lilac wig and makeup were utter perfection. His flowy blouse and loose, wide-legged pant combo shifted with the iridescence of a soap bubble. He’d at least opted for sensible, flat open-toed sandals instead of platforms or stilettoes, but brunch – as he’d told Quin – was still an Occasion with a capital O, for which one dressed seriously and with intention.

“Don’t get cocky.” Lena raised an eyebrow and sipped from her drink.

Rowan snorted, a most unladylike sound. Quin couldn’t help a chuckle.

“I’ll take it, for now, but don’t think I’m going to let my guard down. I still half-suspect you’re planning to team up to steal my kidney and sell it on the black market or something,” Quin said.

“Honey, no one wants your busted-ass old kidneys. Now be a good boy, drink up, and stop worrying.”

Rowan refilled Quin’s glass while Lena snagged a last piece of cooling bacon from one of the plates.

Don’t pick it, or it’ll bleed. It’ll scar.

The voice in his head was eminently sensible. There was something – maybe the lingering effects of the fever leaving his system – that made him feel like he was balanced on a tightrope, suspended over a very long fall. Ahead of him was a wide-open vista. If he kept his head up and made himself walk across, a myriad of possibilities awaited him. He could go anywhere, do anything. But if he looked down, looked back, the only possibility would be to fall.

His best friend and his sister watched him expectantly, trying to pretend they weren’t doing exactly that.

“To fresh starts, and letting go, I suppose.” Quin tapped his glass against his sister’s and Rowan’s in turn.

Even over the susurrus filling the bar, the sound of glass on glass rang in Quin’s ears. Not the chime it should be – for no reason at all that he could explain, it reminded him of birds taking flight, the stuttering clap of a thousand wings.