Page 6 of Second Story

“We’ll see her soon.” I hope to hell I’ll get to keep that promise. It’s the same one Joe made once, and he’s still there in my wing mirror until I take a sharp corner. Then he’s gone, and I tell myself to stop wondering what the hell he’s doing here in Cornwall.

A book slides along the bench seat as a good reminder.

Every Scar Tells a Story.

It’s way too late to believe any told by Joe da Silva.

2

JOE

I didn’t come to Cornwall expecting to meet Isaac Webber. The heat of his final comment is still on my mind the next morning, even after I shower and then pat dry the ugly ropes and ridges left by a different kind of burning. It lingers when I check out, and the manager of a harbourside pub asks if I’ll need my room for another evening.

“Potentially.” I adjust my hold on a laptop where court reports wait for me to fill them. “Depends on my client. I might be heading home this evening.”

“No problem,” he promises. “But if you aren’t back tonight, do visit us again soon. You’ll be welcome.”

Not by Isaac.

That certainty follows me along a harbour and up a narrow alley leading to a village car park, and Isaac is still on my mind when I drive the coast road high above the beach where he told me to fuck off and mind my own business.

That kind of reception is nothing new. I got used to having doors slammed shut in my face in my last school support role.Plus, I’ve had plenty of practice at not being welcome—in my family, my brother Josh is the only white sheep.

Guess what that makes me.

I don’t bear any ill will for our dad having a clear preference. Josh made that easy by not being a teen lawbreaker who went off the rails like me. Not that Dad ever said so—he’s old-school strong and silent—but he’s got to be proud of my brother for following in his police-adjacent footsteps. Besides, it’s hard to hold grudges when Josh and I are essentially the same person.

All that time squashed together in Mum’s womb means he is the version of me who makes good decisions. I’m the version of him who pushed each and every boundary. Keeping it plain and simple—when it comes to rules, Josh lives by them. I did the opposite until acid ended my black sheep era. That was years ago, which doesn’t stop Josh from keeping tabs as if he expects a repeat. My phone ringing now is a good example.

This call starts the same as always, and his voice on speaker is like hearing myself during the dark years when we weren’t in contact. Josh sounds hollow.

“I need the car.”

He’s abrupt, all business from the get-go, and I’ll take it as long as it means we’re still talking.

I never want to go through life without him in it again.

Perhaps that’s why what Isaac shouted last night punched me right in the heart. Not the part where he said I wasn’t welcome. I’m used to that. Isaac also yelled, “Someone’s gonna miss you,” and missing my own brother during my wilderness years is as fresh now as ever. I’m relieved to hear him, even if he’s blunt.

“I said I need the car.”

“Good morning to you too, Joshua. I’m very well, thanks so much for asking.” Sure, he absorbed all the law-abiding genetics that made it through Mum’s placenta, God rest her, but my latestline of work relies on relationships, so I mention someone we both love.

“How’s Meera doing?”

My brother’s wife deserves a medal, and not only because her marrying Josh helped to bring us back together. I know what it’s like to live with someone who needs reminders of how to function outside of data analysis and computer programs. Fuck knows how she ever convinced him to do anything as chaotic as make a baby with her. A medal isn’t a big enough reward. She deserves a trophy for loving the kind of person who now rattles off pregnancy facts like they’re crime statistics.

“She’s on track for thirty-two weeks. The baby measured forty-two centimetres at the last scan and most likely weighs around four pounds. If that sonographer knew what he was doing.” He’s suspicious. He’s also annoyed about pregnancy behaviour that doesn’t fit any of his black-and-white metrics. “I came home last night and found her trying to repaint the nursery.”

“Again?” My grin flashes in the rearview mirror. “What colour this time?” The mirror also reflects a van driving way too close behind me. Whoever is behind the wheel must have a death wish; they’ve already tried to overtake my car twice, and another glance back shows the driver craning his neck as if looking for another opportunity to pass me.

Fat chance on this coast road. It’s too narrow for easy overtaking, so I refocus on what Josh tells me.

“She was up a stepladder slapping on another shade of grey. The third one, Joe. They all look the same to me. I don’t get it.”

I snort. Josh doesn’t get much if it isn’t work-related. Give him data to track back to the cash made via crime and he’s in his forensic-consultant element. Dealing with shades of grey isn’t his skill set. Neither is caring that, without my kind of early intervention, a whole new generation of kids will feed intothe criminality he chases via computer and phone records. That kind of chicken-and-egg thinking makes his brain short-circuit, the same way paint shades seem to. “How about I come over at the weekend to paint the nursery with you?”

“First tell me why you’ve got the car. You never use it.”

---