I shudder. That much I knew. The upstanding cop, who rose through the ranks. Who had moved to Las Vegas and already made a name for himself. The next police commissioner. That’s what people were saying. How honorable he was, how tough on crime. And meanwhile he was arranging deals in backrooms, setting up busts and taking the credit—and the true criminals were making bank.
And I was engaged to him. Fucking him. The brother of my sister. Not my brother.
“And Clara?”
He looks pensive. “For a long time I hated her. Only when I got older did I really question them leaving her behind. But I knew she had money and a family. I figured what did she need a bastard half-brother for?”
I flinch at his assessment of himself. “Kip.”
He waves away my attempt at sympathy. “But then I got word she’d run, that Byron was looking for her. And you too. I knew I had to do something. I wasn’t even sure what I’d do when I found her.”
I remember our time in the VIP room, on the roof. In the alley. I remember every time we’ve been together. He started out almost sweet. Conflicted. And then he’d turned hard. He fucked me with his boot and pushed me against a brick wall. And even though it had felt good, it hadn’t been kind.
“If you came for Clara, to protect her, why didn’t you tell me who you were? Why did you…?”
I can’t finish my question. I regret even starting it.
His expression is as grave as I’ve ever seen it. It feels like an apology. It feels like goodbye. “When I found you in the Grand, I realized you might have the clues to find the jewelry. That’s what Byron’s been looking for all this time.”
My eyes fill with tears. “And you wanted to find it first.”
“Maybe. Yes. Call it sibling rivalry. Call it stupidity.”
“Sibling rivalry.” I can’t see him now. There’s only tears. The dark ruddy colors of him in a wavy abstract painting. “Is that why you fucked me too? Because you knew he already had?”
Silence. That’s my answer.
I close my eyes tight, squeezing a tear onto my cheek. And then another. I didn’t want to cry in front of him, but it’s too late. I already am. I didn’t want to fall for him.
I already did. “You must have thought I was so stupid,” I whisper.
“Never,” he says roughly. “Brave. Strong. Beautiful. That’s what you are to me.”
“But you didn’t help me, when you found me. Even knowing who was after me. Even knowing I didn’t have a choice.”
“I thought I could use you to get close to Clara but keep you at a distance. I thought I could fuck you and not care about you.” His eyes are a dark sea, his anguish like waves. They batter me. They break me. “I was wrong.”
It’s everything I’d known and feared, that Clara is the only one worth saving.
Not me.
I don’t even hate Kip in that moment. I hate myself. “I’d like to be alone,” I whisper.
There is a long second where I think he might not go. Might ignore my request, like he ignored so many before. Then I hear his booted footsteps on the hardwood.
Then the quiet click of the door.
* * *
I don’t know how much time passes. A few minutes. A few hours.
The door opens again, and my heart lurches. I don’t want to see him again. But I do. I’m torn.
But it isn’t Kip who walks through the door. “Clara!”
She runs to me, crying, and I cling to her, ignoring the pain of it, sobbing for everything—for our broken family, for Kip. For every goddamn dollar I’d picked up off the stage. We hold each other for hours, two sisters, safe together, adrift in a sea of cold men and colder women.
Clara will always be my sister.
I don’t care if we have different fathers. I don’t care about the color of her eyes or the alleles that would sway a DNA test. She’s my sister because I kissed her fat cheeks as a baby. She would blink up at me with those blue eyes, and I think she knew who I was to her then. I was the one holding her. I was the one changing her diaper when our mother was gone.
I blame her for that—but I also know how it feels to need love.
Clara is more than my sister. I took care of her after our mother left. I never wanted her to be alone or afraid. I never wanted her to have to take care of me.
That changes today. Once I cry and hug her until my side aches, she turns the tables. “Get back in bed. You’ll tear your stitches like that.”
I give her my best stern look. “I’m fine.”
The effect is possibly ruined by the gasp that escapes me. An arc of pain is like fire through my body.
“Bed,” she repeats, her voice hard but her hands soft as she guides me under the covers.