Chapter 2

Tyler stood in the doorway and pointed at me. "This room! I want this one!"

[Here we go, the classic room-stealing scene!]

[Told you, now that's more like it!]

I looked up and gave him a calm glance. This was the best suite in the entire mansion, the master bedroom. He certainly knew how to pick.

"Fine." I closed my book and stood up. "Though I should warn you, this room gets the western sun, so it's hot in the afternoons. The soundproofing isn't great either. When the home theater downstairs is running, you can hear what sounds like shells going off right next to your ear."

Tyler hadn't expected me to agree so readily, and the speech he'd prepared stuck in his throat. He froze for a couple of seconds before forcing out, stiffly, "I don't care!"

"All right." I nodded. "Suit yourself."

I picked up my book, intending to make do in the study next door for the night. Tyler stood rooted to the spot, half the triumphant excitement already draining from his face.

At dinner, Tyler finally got the family reunion he'd been dreaming of. My father, Cody Wade, and my mother, Isabel Stevens, were rarely home to eat together, but tonight they both were.

At the long dining table, Tyler sat across from me. He worked himself up for a while, and his eyes finally went red.

"Dad, Mom..." His voice cracked, thick with grievance. "You have no idea what kind of life I've had all these years..."

He launched into a tearful account of growing up cold and hungry, of the contempt he'd suffered in his adoptive parents' house, and of how he'd fought his way to an acceptance letter from Kingsley University. At the most emotional part, he even squeezed out a few tears.

The comments were moved.

[Aww, our poor Tyler's been through so much!]

[Wades, take a look at your good son already!]

But at the head of the table, the two people this was aimed at showed no reaction at all. My father had his Bluetooth earpiece in, murmuring through a transatlantic conference call in a foreign language. My mother held a special pen and marked up a thick art auction catalogue.

"This Monet water lily is still priced too conservatively..." she said.

In the enormous dining room, Tyler's crying was the only sound, echoing through the space, and it felt increasingly out of place and awkward.

I was the only one calmly cutting my steak, and I even offered him a kind reminder. "Your soup's getting cold."

Tyler's crying cut off instantly.

Finally, my father's call ended. He rubbed his temples, looked up at Tyler, and spoke with a frown.

"You," he said, pointing at Tyler, his tone thoroughly impatient, "are loud."

My mother looked up from her catalogue too, sweeping him with a cool glance. "Andy, teach him some table manners. No talking while eating."

With that, the two of them set down their utensils and left the table, one heading back to the study, the other to the art studio. From beginning to end, neither of them had asked Tyler a single question about how he'd spent all those years.

Tyler's mouth hung open, and he forgot to even keep crying.

[Wrong , right?]

[How are these rich parents so immune to sentiment? Weren't they supposed to hug their real son and cry their eyes out?]

[Why do I feel like... everyone in this house is a little abnormal, except the new guy?]

I wiped my mouth with my napkin and stood. Passing Tyler, I paused, looked at him looking so lost, and finally said quietly, "Welcome home."

He jerked his head up to look at me, his eyes full of confusion.

The next afternoon, I got a call from Chelsea Leverett.