A conduct disorder with callous and unemotional traits. That was what the psychiatrists eventually diagnosed him with. Because no mental health professional wanted to use the term recognized by so many. Psychopath.
No one tells you how hard it is. How it will tear you apart from the inside out. Loving a psychopath. You can’t turn off the soul-deep knowledge that the person is your family. It was in my DNA to care about Michael. And even after everything that had happened, I still couldn’t turn it off. I often wished it was possible. That I could kill the part of me that loved him. But I’d never had much luck.
My heart both bled and broke for Michael. It was a death sentence for a child. Not because the diagnosis would kill them, but because there were so few treatment options out there. And often, the ones that did exist were found too late. They had been for my brother.
I tried not to let myself feel the anger about it all. To sink into the frustration at my parents for not doing more. To disappear into the rage I felt because of everything my brother had stolen from me. I refused to live there, scared that it would make me too much like him.
The treatment center he’d been transferred to not long after his conviction had promised rehabilitation for children and teens with Michael’s diagnosis. For the first time in years, I’d had hope. Thought maybe I wouldn’t lose the last person I had left. The center had a lot of wonderful success. But Michael wouldn’t be a story of triumph.
The treatment center’s staff was hopeful, clearly taken in by whatever show Michael put on. The district attorney or the parole board were ready to give him another chance. The only person who’d ever seemed to know I might be right was the aunt I’d lived with after my parents were gone. She’d wanted me to take every precaution I needed to.
Sometimes, I doubted myself. I’d sat across from Michael in the visitors’ room at times and thought I saw a change in my brother. Healing. But then I’d get a glimpse of who I knew he would always be. Someone who got joy from pain. Someone whose currency was my tears. Someone whose thrill came from my breaking.
I returned my gaze to the water. Michael couldn’t change. It was how his brain was wired. By some luck of DNA and neurons, I could empathize, care…feel. My brother would never be able to do that. My only hope was that he’d violate parole, and quickly. And that the break wouldn’t come at the expense of someone’s life—or mine.
6
Brody
I dropped the can of spray paint to the floor. It wasn’t right. Somehow, I’d lost the ability to translate the things in my head to the canvas. Whether the loss was from doubt or fear, I didn’t know. And it really didn’t matter. The only thing that counted was whether I could get it back. So far, that endeavor didn’t look promising.
My gaze traveled around the sunporch that I’d turned into a temporary studio. There were at least a dozen canvases at various beginning stages. Even a few pieces started on scrap metal or wood. Nothing that had any hope of turning into something worthwhile, though.
I pulled off my gloves and ran a hand through my hair. I had the sudden desire to throw everything into a pile in the yard and start a bonfire. At least then, I could roast marshmallows.
A notification trilled from my laptop, and I crossed to my makeshift desk. I sighed but hit accept on the video call. I’d ignored at least a dozen texts and calls. If I kept this up, she’d show up at my door. “Hey, Lara.”
Her face appeared on the screen, makeup impeccably done, black hair in some sort of updo. “Brody, what the hell? I’ve been calling for days.”
“Sorry. I’ve been busy. Getting unpacked and all of that.”
She took in the space behind me, and her expression grew excited. “You’re working. That’s wonderful. I knew you’d get it back. Let me see.”
I grimaced. “Not now.”
Her lips thinned. “You’re still blocked.”
It wasn’t a question, but I somehow felt put on the spot. Pressured to come up with something to say that would placate the friend before me, who’d turned into some sort of boss along the way. “I’m still settling in.”
Lara sighed. “I knew this was a mistake. I think you should come back to New York. I found a therapist who specializes in this kind of thing. He usually works with athletes under a tremendous amount of pressure, but I told him about your situation—”
“What the hell? You don’t spread my business around. That’s rule number one.” Over the past couple of years, I’d started to wonder whose back Lara truly had.
Her expression hardened. “I didn’t share anything that wasn’t public knowledge.”
“I don’t care. Look, you need to back off. I need a break. I’m not planning on showing anytime soon. Maybe ever. Focus on other clients. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
Anger lit her features. “Brody—”
I hit end before she could say anything else. A moment later, my computer rang again. “What?” I barked.
Carson’s face filled the screen. “Geez, who pissed in your Cheerios?”
I blew out a long breath. “Who do you think?”
He made a clucking sound as he pulled a cigarette out of his pack. “I told you that you should’ve fired her years ago. You know she has to be the one who outed you to the media.”
I picked up a pencil from my desk and spun it between my fingers. I’d always thought Carson was being dramatic with his accusations, but I was beginning to wonder if they had merit. For years, I’d prided myself on keeping my anonymity. So many street artists did. When there was a chance you could get arrested for your art, it was better if no one knew your face or name. But somehow, a handful of years back, I’d been exposed. It could’ve been any number of people, but Lara was certainly one of the suspects.
I leaned back in my chair. “She’s one of my oldest friends. And, honestly, what would she have to gain?”
“She wanted you to go public. Magazine spreads. Interviews. Gallery openings.”
I snorted. “Well, that didn’t work out too well for her because I never do interviews, and I rarely go to openings. Even my own.”
Carson blew out a stream of smoke. “Doesn’t mean she ever stops trying.”
I was quiet for a moment. “I told her I might not show again.”
“I knew your head was in a bad place, but your work is your life.”
It had been since that first fateful trip to New York when I was barely fourteen. But I’d lost myself somewhere along the way. “I have to find a way to make it mine again. It’s not just what happened this past year. It was long before that. The minute my face was out there, things changed. I lost some of the…rawness. The bravery. I played it safe.”
Carson studied me through the screen as if he were trying to find the right words. Ones that would help me out of this bizarre identity crisis. “Brody. I think you’re being too hard on yourself. Your pieces have always been some of the most authentic I’ve ever seen. And the most terrifying. I don’t know if it’s possible for you to pull punches. But if you have recently, it’s understandable. You’ll get back there.”