One of the lower steps creaked. Grant returned to the foyer as Paige appeared around the corner, now dressed in something far warmer and modest—a plaid pajama top and bottom. She had let her hair down, and it fell a few inches past her shoulders. At thirty-six, those once pure and shimmering platinum locks were showing streaks of dishwater.

She’d definitely aged in the five years since their last disastrous rendezvous—a botched intervention attempt in a Motel 6 on the outskirts of Phoenix, last in a fifteen-year string of attempts to save her life. Seemed like ever since Paige had turned sixteen and dropped out of high school, she’d been on a mission to kill herself. Frankly, he was shocked that she hadn’t finished the job by now. Despite their estrangement, the threat of that next-of-kin notification phone call was a fear that never left him.

Paige had been so scantily-clad when she first answered the door that Grant hadn’t allowed himself to really look at her. Some things, a brother shouldn’t see. But now, as she cruised toward him in wool-lined slippers into the firelight, it struck him how thin she was. Borderline emaciation. The long-sleeved pajama top seemed to swallow her, and her face tapered from her cheekbones down toward her chin at angles so sharp they didn’t seem natural—the shape of her skull shining through.

Using for sure.

“Place is incredible,” Grant said.

“The rent certainly is.”

It occurred to him that he’d missed his chance to inspect her arms for needle-marks when she’d been wearing the short-sleeved kimono.

Bad detective.

“How long you been in town?” he asked.

“A year.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“But I’ve only been in this place two months.”

Grant stepped toward the small fireplace and held his hands to the heat.

“Want a drink?” she asked.

“Love one.”

She padded over to the wet bar, moving like someone with barely the strength to stand—a nursing home shuffle.

“Still a scotch man?”

“For life.”

He watched her reach for a bottle of Macallan. The lowlight stopped him from determining the age.

“Neat? Rocks?” she asked.

“What year?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Jesus. Then neat.”

She made a generous pour. Brought it over. Out of habit, he lifted the glass and inhaled. It was a gorgeous nose but flattened by the occasion.

“Seriously,” she said. “How’d you find me?”

“Dumb luck.”

“Facebook?”

“Yep.”

“My profile is only a pair of eyes.”

“But they’re your eyes.”

Grant sipped the whiskey.

Miles Davis was blistering through a trumpet solo.

The fire popping.

He looked down at his sister, a good six inches shorter than he was.

No idea what to say.

He raised his glass. “Some of the best I’ve had.”

Paige just stared at him and nodded.

Grant looked around the room as if it were his first time seeing it.

“No tree?”

She shook her head. “Think I waited too long. You have to do that kind of stuff early in the season. Before you lose the motivation.”

It was Grant’s turn to nod.

“This is weird,” she said

“I know.”

Another sip. His cheeks flushing.

“Do you visit Dad?” she asked.

“Not enough. Every few weeks.”

“I went once when I first moved back from Phoenix. That’s all I could bear. You think I’d be used to seeing him like that by now.”

“I was just there this afternoon. They had Christmas ornaments up. Slit your wrists depressing.”

He flinched inside. Shouldn’t have put it that way.

Grant could feel the scotch already beginning to soften his knees. He moved toward the couch. A mattress and blanket had been shoved underneath it. Did she fuck her clients down here by the fireside? Right on this floor where he was standing? He pushed the thought away.

“I want you to know that I thought about contacting you,” Paige said as he lowered himself onto the cushion.

“Wish you had.”

Grant sipped his drink and watched the fire.

Through the window at his back, he could hear the rain falling on the hedges.

“I do have one favor to ask,” Grant said.

She grimaced.

“Relax, it’s not a big deal. I just haven’t eaten since lunch and this whiskey is going to my head in a hurry.”

“You want me to make you something?”

“How about I make us something. Are you hungry?”

She smiled, and for a split second, it was like a window into the Paige of old. A break in the armor. “You mean like your world famous grilled cheese?”

“I have a confession to make. It’s not actually world famous.”

Chapter 7

The square of butter sizzled as Grant guided it around the pan with a wooden spatula. Paige sat on a barstool at the kitchen island, skillets and copper sauce pans of every size dangling above her head from a hanging pot rack.

“Mild cheddar or Jack?” Grant asked.

“You don’t remember?”

“American cheese it is.”

Grant opened the door to the fridge. Not exactly a wellspring of food—just a half-empty jug of skim milk two weeks past expiration, the usual condiments, three cardboard pizza boxes, a colony of leftover Chinese cartons, and yes, a stack of plastic-wrapped slices.

He returned to the stove with the mayo and Kraft Singles, trying but failing to remember the last time he’d made a grilled cheese sandwich, even for himself. Wondered if that had been a subconscious thing. This had once been their meal of choice, if not necessity. Just the smell of browning butter conjured up that year they’d fled foster care and lived on their own in a drafty single-wide on the outskirts of Tacoma. Grant fifteen, Paige thirteen. They’d lasted nine months before Social Services caught up with them.

Cold, broke, always hungry, yet it surpassed, in every way, living with strangers.

Grant eased the sandwiches onto the skillet and left them to sizzle.

Sat across from Paige at the island.

Under the brighter recessed lighting in the kitchen, she looked even worse. What he’d mistaken for her good complexion was foundation. Her skin was sallow, eyes bloodshot and underscored with black bags that the concealer couldn’t quite conceal. The way she sat on her hands made him wonder if it was to hide their trembling.

“I’m sorry I just showed up,” Grant said.

“You mean that?”

“Yeah.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand.

“I just didn’t know if you’d see me again,” Grant said. “Considering how we left it last time.”

He pulled away and slid off the stool, headed back to the stove.

“I could never make them taste the way yours did,” Paige said as he moved the sandwiches onto plates.

“You probably missed the most important step.”

“Which one’s that?”

“You have to add a new pat of butter to the skillet when you’re halfway done. So each side gets the love.”

“Equal opportunity buttering—I like it.”

Grant watched the new square melt. He lifted the skillet, let the butter skate across the surface for a few seconds before flipping the cold sides of the sandwiches onto the heat.

“So what do you think, big bro? Your sister, the whore. That’s a new one, right?”

Grant stared down into the skillet.

She’d always liked to fuck with him, but this wasn’t even fair.

“You’re talking about someone I love,” he said, pressing the spatula into the sandwiches.

They sizzled.

Grant finally lifted the sandwiches onto the plates and carried them over to the island.

“Bon appétit.”

He was hungrier than he’d realized, and drunker too. In between bites, he caught bursts of electric clarity—he was actually sitting in Paige’s kitchen, sharing a meal with her.

As she lifted the sandwich to her mouth, the sleeves tugged back from her wrists. He glimpsed the scars from a past suicide attempt, but thankfully, no needle sores.