Thatcher hones in on his brother. Banks stares directly back. Neither one blinking. Tension pulls uncomfortably, and I look between them, something unsaid gripping them and the air. “You want me to tell her?” Banks asks. I freeze. Thatcher is dead-set on Banks. “She already knows.” “Yeah? She knows that everyone in our family blames each other for his death, but no one thought to point a finger at him?” A chill slips down my spine, and I realize this is about their older brother. “Fuck him,” Banks says with bite. Thatcher’s nose flares. “Don’t.” “I love him, but Mary Mother of God, I hate him
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