Chapter 3 Undertow

Virgil heard the car pulling up in the snow crunched yard. With a yell to Alan that Gordon had arrived, he hopped up on the old chair Grandma kept in the front hall so he could look through the transom at his little brother coming home for Christmas.

"He's still a shortie," he said to himself, preparing the first of many salvoes for the coming days. He watched, grinning, as Gordon swung up the steps with his duffel over his shoulder, hands full of Christmas presents in carrier bags, and half turned away so he could knock on the door with his snow covered foot.

"Ho bloody ho! Open up, Santa's freezing his sack off out here."

Virgil pulled the door open, and stood there, his smile as wide as his arms.

"Today is the only day you can get away with that joke," he said, stepping back in welcome. "And don't let Grandma catch you scuffing up the door like that." He let Gordon get halfway in, then wrapped him in a hug. "Merry Christmas, bro! Good to see you."

"Oof! Hey, Virge, It's good to see you, too. So who's home? How's Grandma? Dad here yet? Wow, how come your hair's so long? Dad seen that yet?"

"Whoa, yeah, still on high speed setting I see." He pulled back to take a good look at his little brother. Gordon looked good, in spite of the closely cropped hair; relaxed, happy to be there, another inch taller than he'd been when he last stepped across the threshold but still shorter than everyone save Alan. Virgil relieved him of the duffel, and gestured with his head towards the sitting room. "Come on through. Al's already got dibs on your old room, so you're in the green room out back."

"Yeah, I know what Alan's done to our room. Kid's space mad. Worse than John." Gordon dropped his keys on the hallstand and worked his shoulders, easing out the long journey's ache.

"Ah – have you seen John lately? The guy's in orbit 24/7. His head's in the stars even when he's on the john." The old joke shimmered there before them before they both decided they were too mature to go rehearsing those old lines.

"Nope. Haven't seen him since – when, March? He good? How's Scott? They're coming, right?"

Virgil laughed. "Scott's already here, he's in town with Grandma, stocking up. And Dad's here, he's on the phone to Vancouver but he's here. And uh – I think Al's out the back, he was getting more firewood last I – "

"Gordo!" Alan appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, arms laden with logs that he promptly dumped on the hearth before running over to leap at his brother. "Woohoo! Look at you, all military and shit."

Dropping the bags and hugging him, Gordon laughed. "Yep, that's it, only WASP is military, air-force is shit. Apart from that, you've got it in one." He pushed Alan back and held his arms out, showing off the WASP uniform that was still new enough to be exciting. "Cool, huh?"

Alan admired it, craning his head to look around Gordon's back, lips pursed, nodding.

"Wow. Impressive. What's the word? You look so… so… constipated."

Alan ducked the automatic swipe Gordon sent at him and danced away, grinning. "I can't believe you're finally here. I can't believe it's almost Christmas. Most of all, I can't believe they actually took you on. What are they, desperate?"

Gordon cupped one hand behind his ear, feigning listening. "Oh, what's that you say? This Tracy guy won a gold medal at the Jakarta Olympics? World record butterflier at 200 meters? And he's got a GPA of 3.0, and he's studying marine agriculture, and he's a handsome devil in a compact package just perfect for submarine work? Well, for god's sake, get him in here."

Virgil made a gagging noise. "No, no, please, keep going. I always like to regurgitate my lunch at least once a week."

"Do they make you wear that cap or did you lose a bet?" Alan's eyes were sparkling for pure joy, and Virgil knew his own were probably the same.

"Lost a bet. We usually wear nothing but our scuba gear and a hunting knife."

"Yep. Naked Gordon." Virgil shuddered. "That'd scare the hell outta me."

"Aw, Virgin, don't be frightened of big boy's balls. One day yours will drop, too."

The three brothers paused, infinitely pleased with themselves. The level of insults had risen to a comfortable standard that spoke more of home than a thousand backslaps or handshakes ever could.

"So what'd you bring me?" Alan had his brat mode set to full-on, and Virgil could see that Gordon, as a connoisseur of the art, approved.

"Six used condoms and a dead jellyfish."

"Coo-ool." Alan threw himself onto the settee as only a teenager could, limbs sprawled, head hanging off the back. "I bet I'll have to fight Grandma for them."

"Ew, gross."

Gordon and Alan crowed in victory, as Virgil raised his hands.

"Okay, yes, I broke first. God, it's been so long since I've had conversation of this quality. I've grown too used to intelligence and taste." He sighed. "I guess there's a lesson in that for us all."

"Speaking of intelligence and taste, and knowing how much I try to avoid both – you didn't say if John was coming?" Picking up the bags he'd dropped to absorb Alan's assault, Gordon stepped across the room to deposit them by the Christmas tree, already decorated and glowing with colour in the late afternoon gloom of a Kansas winter's day.

"Tomorrow morning. He's got a lift with a friend of his as far as Pittwater, and then Kyle McKenzie's dropping him off here after his round."

Gordon nodded. "So when will Scotty and Grandma get back?" Alan shrugged, then flung himself backwards even more dramatically.

"Soon, I guess. So what'd you bring me?"

"Virge, you streaming the new Miku series?"

"C'mon, Gordy, tell me. You know you want to." Alan rolled onto his stomach and lowered his voice to a husky purr, his eyelashes fluttering. "You know you want to."

Gordon couldn't help it. He cracked up, and Virgil felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the fire. Life had taken the Tracy boys to many far flung places – John to MIT, Scott to the air force, Gordon to WASP and Virgil himself to Denver to study engineering. But wherever they were the ties still held, and the call to come together at Christmas still resonated and was answered, by each of them, when and how they could.

Virgil knew he was a sap. His brothers told him often enough, and he was big enough to admit to more than his fair share of sentimentality. He was the one who planned birthday surprises – Gordon only ever remembered Alan's, Grandma's, Dad's and his own, John regularly delegated ("If you've got something, can I pay half?"), Scott always remembered and never had a clue as to what to get. It was Virgil who organised and arranged and reminded, and the only reason he ever gave even himself was that someone had to do it. But the truth was beginning to dawn on him, as he spent time away from this old Kansas farm and the people it once held tightly in its embrace. For Virgil, home meant happiness. Some part of him was always incomplete when everyone wasn't at their place around the table, when they weren't kidding around and bringing havoc to the notion of fine dining. He was a sap, and on one level it worried him. At some point he was going to have to find his own happiness, away from his brothers and his dad, Grandma. They'd all begun their own careers, with the exception of Alan, just in his senior year of high school. It just made sense that they were all going to start their own families. It bothered him that the thought of gathering less and less frequently – of holidays bringing only 'Wish you were here' cards as the large old kitchen table grew more and more redundant in its size and favourite dishes were forgotten, favourite places surrendered to dust – gave him so much grief.

Well, not today. Not this Christmas. This Christmas they would all be home, and he would revel in every crazy, noisy, silly moment of it.

Now he watched as Gordon doubled over, laughing. He knew his little brother so well. He knew that this was what Gordon missed when he was gone, when swimming training and then field training for WASP stole his time. Just this, the ability to be a clown amongst clowns with nothing at stake and no one to keep score.

Gordon slowed his laughter then straightened up in faux military style, complete with a British accent from some long-forgotten movie.

"Dear god. You know what? You need a demned good thrashing, young scoundrel, a demned good thrashing. Now, where's my good old thrashing stick when I need it?"

"Here, colonel," said Virgil, tossing him an umbrella from behind the armchair. Alan gave a shriek and tried to scramble up from the sofa, but Gordon leapt over the back of it to land in a tangle on Alan, pinning him in a helpless, giggling mass. Virgil took one look and cried "Bazunga!" as he launched himself, ass first, on top of them both. The angle was too much. With more shrieks from all concerned they tumbled onto the floor, Gordon waving the umbrella about, Alan breathless with laughter, and Virgil laughing helplessly on top of all.

Determinedly, Gordon fought his way out until his chest was free. He twisted to look accusingly at Virgil.

"'Bazunga"? What the hell, dude?"

Virgil spread out his hands, wheezing for breath. "Bazunga. That's a thing, isn't it?"

"No, it is not. It is not a thing. It will never be a thing. There is no thingness with bazunga."

Alan shoved purposefully from below, and Gordon tipped off onto the floor.

"I like it. I'm gonna use it from now on. Bazunga will live, Virge."

"Ohh, what do I have here?" Virgil reached into the tangle of limbs and picked up something small and shiny from the floor. He lifted it up and peered at it. "Why, Lieutenant Tracy, ah do declare! Is this a proposal?"

"What?" Gordon saw what Virgil had and belatedly clutched at his neck, then laughed. "Give them back, asshole. Those I can not lose."

"Hmmm. It says here you are Gordon Cooper Tracy, no religion – whatever will the reverend say, young man? And – " Virgil stopped, his eyes focusing on the information imprinted into Gordon's holographic dog-tags. "Whoa. Gordon. They've made a mistake on here."

"Give me those." All laughter dropped from Gordon's voice as he struggled to get upright. "Give them to me, Virgil."

"Sure." Virgil swung them over to where Gordon could snatch them. "But you better get that fixed, Gordon. That's really not good."

"What was on it? Did it say Gordo was an alien? I'd like that."

"No, but Scott's gonna have a field day when he finds out WASP have made a mistake." Virgil rolled onto his knees, then sat back. "They put the wrong blood type on there. Didn't you notice this? We're all O positives, like Mum and Dad. They've got you down as AB."

"It's fine," Gordon said shortly, all levity gone. He shoved the tags into his top pocket. In the hallway, the door to their father's office opened, and Jeff Tracy came out into the living room, his face lighting up when he saw Gordon.

"Yes, that's right, I'll have the specs sent over in the morning. Well, it's not Christmas in China, they'll be working." One finger was raised in the well-known signal that Jeff was still talking into the tiny phone jack in his ear. "Good to hear. What's that? Oh, er, yes, Merry Christmas to you too. Out." His eyes flicked up, and his grin widened. "Gordon! Come and give your old man a hug."

Gordon freed himself from Alan's last minute grab and came over to his father. They reached into a hug, and Jeff patted him hard on the back.

"Well, it doesn't feel like you've lost much muscle since they started sending you down into those subs, son."

"They keep us too busy. How are you, Dad?"

"Oh, you know. Good enough for an old astronaut."

"Uh-huh. So what's your time in the marathon this year?"

Jeff grinned, obviously pleased. ""Thirty one minutes 15 seconds."

Gordon whistled. "Not too shabby."

Virgil rolled his eyes at Alan. He knew that Gordon was the one who most closely worked with his father when it came to fitness. Scott would race against him, but Gordon would run with him. Gordon would do his father's workout alongside him, readily conceding defeat when it looked like Jeff was about to throw in the towel. They'd spend hours some days, tackling the obstacle courses they devised at night by the fire, daring each other to crazier efforts. Of course, there was another way of looking at it. It could be said by those of a less generous bent that Gordon was the son most ready to flatter the old man's ego when he needed it. But Virgil found no fault with it. It did them both good, so where was the harm?

"It's good to see you, son." Jeff clapped him on the shoulder and stepped away, noticing the fire. "Alan, have you got enough logs in for tonight?"

"Think so, Dad."

Jeff looked at the wood stack on the hearth and frowned.

"Are you sure?"

Alan, Virgil could tell, was obviously anxious not to go back outside, and he didn't blame him. The snow last night had been covered with this morning's frost, and the air was absolutely frigid. Alan's face was still pink from his last excursion. He'd lay money that Alan was about to attempt a top level diversion.

"Hey Dad, guess what?"

Jeff moved over to the drinks cabinet, gesturing to Virgil and Gordon in invitation. Virgil nodded, Gordon shook his head. "What will you have, Virgil?"

"Bourbon, sir, if that's okay."

"Of course. Christmas after all." He poured it and passed it to his middle son.

"Daaad."

"Hmm? Oh, right. Well, Alan, I don't know. What have I failed to guess?""

"Scotty's gonna freak."

Jeff poured himself a bourbon then picked it up, sighing.

"Fire away, son. Astonish me."

But Virgil was surprised as Gordon said, sharply, "No. Forget it."

Both Jeff and Alan turned to Gordon, frowning. Virgil watched as Gordon obviously realised his abruptness was a mistake and tried to recover by fixing a grin on his face, shrugging.

"It's nothing. You don't need to bother him with that, Al."

Just why are you hiding this? Virgil wondered. Whatever it was, it had Gordon well and truly spooked. In the space of thirty seconds they had gone from clowning about to Gordon looking as though he was going to be sick.

"Go ahead," Jeff said, gesturing with his drink. "Bother me."

"Don't!" And Gordon, so often the instigator in mischief, looked desperate in his attempt to avert it. "Just forget it, Allie. Please."

It was the wrong play. Virgil knew it, instinctively. He knew, even before he saw it, how his father's jaw would jut forward, how Alan's brow would lower. The two most stubborn Tracys were in accord, and Gordon usually knew so much better. He was out of practice, off his game, and the family patriarch and his youngest son would make him pay.

Jeff raised an ironic eyebrow towards Gordon, and then said, "Well, Alan, this sounds good. What is it that I will never guess?"

"Please, Dad, no. It's stupid." Gordon forced a laugh, and Virgil was almost embarrassed for him. "It's nothing. They made a mistake on my dog tags, that's all."

"They did?" Frowning, Jeff motioned towards Gordon, asking to see. Gordon turned away.

"Yeah, minor glitch. I'm getting it fixed first thing."

"Did they spell your name wrong? What?" Jeff persisted, a faint, polite, and completely shark like smile on his face. Virgil knew all too well how much his father hated to be kept in the dark about anything.

He glanced at Gordon, and was immediately shocked. If anything, Gordon looked worse than before, his face completely white.

"Dad, it really is nothing. A little snafu."

Jeff shook his head. "There's no such thing," he growled. "Little mistakes can have big consequences."

"I'll say, "Alan said, quickly. "They got his blood type wrong."

For no good reason, Virgil caught his breath. Perhaps it was the way that Gordon gave a short, sharp gasp, or the way his father went completely still. Utterly, utterly still. After a heartbeat, two, Virgil spoke up, suddenly desperate to fill what he realised was a dangerous void in the conversation.

"It doesn't matter. He'll get it seen to. First thing. So hey, anyone want some Christmas cake?"

As a diversion it was inept, and treated with the contempt it deserved. Even Alan had stopped swinging his legs on the sofa, bemused.

"The – " his father cleared his throat, tried again. "The blood type?"

"Dad, it's nothing." Gordon's voice was so low Virgil could barely hear it. "Don't worry about it."

"The blood type." Jeff's jaw worked, his whole body rigid as he stood there beneath the Christmas decorations, catching red and blue, yellow and white in his hair, his frozen face.

"Yeah, Virgil noticed it." Alan's voice was subdued, belatedly aware that something was wrong here.

"Virgil?"

He closed his eyes. He didn't know what was at stake in this moment, one so cosily redolent with cinnamon and pine cones and the smell of burnt sugar from the kitchen. But something was clearly and badly wrong. With nothing to guide him except gut instinct, he went with the one who was most glaringly in need.

Gordon's in trouble. I don't know why, or how, but he needs me badly right now.

"I was pulling your leg, kiddo." And Christ, was that his voice? Croaking and high pitched and so obviously false? Be damned if he ever called himself a big brother ever again, because he was doing a horrible job here and for some stupid, awful, deadly reason, it mattered.

Jeff Tracy raised his hand, towards Gordon.

"Show me."

At that, Gordon's face broke. He shook his head. And Virgil had to look again, because the light was catching on something there, and for a moment he couldn't quite believe it. Tears - there were tears in his eyes. Tears! Gordon was crying, here, in the living room, and Virgil couldn't remember the last time he'd seen tears on Gordon's face.

"No, Dad. Don't."

Jeff swayed a little, a giant oak in a sudden storm, and grabbed for the back of the armchair.

"Oh, my god."

"Dad?" Alan sounded scared, as well he might be. His father's face bore an expression Virgil had never seen before- something overwhelmed, and broken.

Haunted.

"Gordon?" His hand released the glass and it tumbled to the wooden floor, rolled in a semi-circle, spilling a blessing of bourbon in an arc. His eyes never left Gordon's. "My god."

Gordon was rigid, his eyes huge and full of tears, his mouth in a grim line. Jeff stared at him as if he'd never seen him before.

"What- "

"I don't get it," Alan said, a little breathlessly, spooked by the tableau in front of him. "What's wrong with a little mistake?"

And it was Alan's simple question that brought everything together for Virgil. In one terrible instant, he understood. It wasn't the dog tag, the blood type per se; it was the way his brother and his father were standing there, frozen in some dreadful moment of discovery that neither one wanted that told him the truth. It shocked him so much he cried out.

"No! No this is – bullshit. What is - stop it. Both of you, stop it. This is a mistake."

"No." His dad sounded hoarse but sure. "No. This..."

"What?" Alan's voice quavered. "What's happening?"

The front door banged open, and a gust of happy chatter preceded a blast of cold air into the room.

"Hellooo. Anyone home? Gordon here yet?"

Scott. Dear god, no, bad timing, the worst. Virgil found himself moving into the hall, holding his hands up to stop his big brother where he stood.

"Hey, Scott, Scott, listen – "

"Virge, hey, get out of the way, we're freezing and we've got six bags of groceries to unpack. You could get the other two from the – hey, Gordo! You've made it!"

Scott breezed past, arms laden, with Grandma similarly occupied behind him.

"Virgil, dear, could you get – "

"What's going on?"

Shit, Scott, no. The man was always quick to sum up a situation, but this one hadn't even resolved itself into what it had to be, yet.

"Scott, wait." Futile. Great, Virgil. Stellar performance so far.

He hurried into the living room to see Dad holding onto the armchair, gray faced, and Gordon standing with his arms wrapped around his middle, looking ill, tear streaked. The whiskey glass had come to a stop facing the hallway, and the last drop of liquid dripped slowly onto the floor as Virgil caught sight of it.

"What the hell's going on?" Scott demanded. Virgil wondered briefly if he could hear the fear in his voice, too.

"I don't know," Alan said. He had stood up and was backed against the far wall, by the tree. Virgil ached for the smallness of his voice, the way he was looking from his brother to his father as if to divine meaning from their faces. "Gordon…"

"What?" Scott strode over to his younger brother, grasped him by the arms. "Gordon, what did you do?"

Gordon raised stricken eyes to him, and shook his head, a negation and a plea.

"I'm sorry," he said, barely a whisper.

"You're sorry? For what?" Virgil could see how badly Scott wanted to take charge of this moment, but he was clearly frustrated by the lack of information and the fact that neither Gordon nor Jeff was capable of telling him. With growing anger he turned to Virgil.

"You mind telling me what's going on?"

"Scott, calm down." Raising his hands in appeasement, Virgil deliberately brought his voice down and, at last, found firmness. "Everyone just needs to stop and take a deep breath. Something's happened, and we need, everybody needs, to just stop and just think for a moment."

"Alright. Okay." Scott did as instructed, taking a large breath, in and slowly out, and then looked around him. "Alright. Alright. Alan, help Grandma with the groceries. Dad, you look like you could sit for a minute. Virgil, grab him some water."

It felt so good to have someone take charge that for precious seconds Virgil could push aside the trauma at the heart of it all just to obey that firm command.

In some cowardly way he'd been waiting for the silt of the moment to settle, but as he hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a glass, brought it to the tap, the sediment cleared almost against his will and the facts of the matter were clear.

Gordon's blood type was incompatible with him being the offspring of Jeff and Lucy Tracy. Unless his parents had played some elaborate trick on them all, Lucy had given birth to Gordon. He remembered visiting the hospital, hours after the event. Therefore, Gordon's father was someone other than Jeff.

Therefore Virgil's mother had become pregnant to another man other than their father.

Therefore Gordon was his half-brother.

Gordon's reaction suggested – no, Virgil, clarity now – demonstrated that he knew this well before tonight. Dad's reaction demonstrated that he didn't.

So. There it was. Nothing else to say - except everything.

He finished filling the glass and brought it back to his father who had taken a seat in the old armchair by the fire. When Virgil handed the glass to him, his father's hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold it. He took a sip, then nodded his instruction to take it away again.

Jeff looked at the boy in military uniform, standing in front of him. He grimaced at the tears. Virgil wondered if he was embarrassed or angry, or perhaps working to stop his own.

"How long have you known?"

Gordon shook his head. Virgil felt Scott's frustration simmering as he stood beside him. Scott needed input so he could repair the rent that had suddenly appeared in his family, and anyone denying him that was in his crosshairs.

"Come on, Gordon, just tell us. What is going on?"

Wrong question, wrong person. Couldn't Scott see that every atom of Gordon's being was straining towards burying this conversation right now? And Virgil knew - dammit, he knew them both so well, he knew Scott would see mulishness rather than desperation, deliberate obstruction rather than fear. Somehow Scott had always struggled to see past the sideshows that Gordon was forever fronting, and right now that inability to see the boy behind them all meant he was not reading what was plain to Virgil's eyes.

Gordon shook his head again.

"It's just a stupid mistake," he rasped, his voice sounding like it was being strained through razor wire. "Dad? Dad, please."

Virgil held his breath, turning to his father. What he saw there made his stomach sink.

The man seated before him had had his one moment of human weakness. Even as he watched, Virgil saw him gather himself up, sit straighter, lift his chin up, harden his eyes. It was Jefferson Tracy who commanded the room, and that momentary loss of control was gone in favour of an iron grip on himself and everyone in his charge.

"Mother, would you please take Alan and Virgil upstairs." It wasn't a request, however it was framed. "Gordon and I are going to have a discussion, and I want Scott here as well."

For once, he had stirred a rebellion.

"No!" Alan sounded scared, and Virgil didn't blame him. "Please, Dad."

"I am not going anywhere, Jefferson." Grandma stood with her hands on her hips, scowling. "I do not know what has happened to this family in the two hours since I left, but I will not be leaving here until I do."

Jeff stood up.

"Mother, this is not negotiable. This is a private conversation that I need to have with my – " Clearing his throat, Jeff finished, "With Gordon."

Oh god, Dad, you didn't.

Gordon gave a horrible, high pitched little laugh. It hurt to hear it.

"No, you know what, I think we can save ourselves the bother."

"Cut that out! How long have you known?"

"God, don't even – what difference does it make?"

Jeff's mouth twisted, fury in his eyes.

"Do not take that tone with me, young man. While you are in this house you will have some respect."

"Fine, yeah, good call." Gordon grabbed his duffel, still by the door. "Easy fixed."

"Don't you dare walk out!"

"Wow, three clichés in a row, you're killing it, Dad." The duffel swung across his shoulders, Gordon turned to go.

"Just hold it right there, Gordon!" Scott moved to stand in his path. "You're not leaving. This is not the time for your dramatics. We are going to sit down and talk this out, calmly." He paused, then added, with an attempt at wry defusal, "And if someone, at some point, would care to fill me in with what is actually going on, I'd really appreciate it."

"Really? You really want to know? Fine." Gordon dropped the duffel heavily. His jaw trembled, but his head was up. "Fine. I'll go ahead and say it, shall I?"

As an opening gesture it was highly effective, but that insight that never let him settle for safe certainties told Virgil a different truth. Gordon had buried this secret so deeply in his soul it had become part of his very bones. He was never going to willingly let it go. His brother's mouth worked, but nothing came out, and suddenly the brief sputter of anger was gone.

It left something terrible in its wake.

Virgil had seen heartbreak before, and it was carving up his brother as they all watched. The Tracy family was standing by, uselessly, as one of their own was gutted in front of them. Useless with pride and humiliation, in his father's case; with ignorance for the rest.

Jeff fixed Gordon with his glare, daring him to speak, his lip curling slightly. After a moment he snorted.

"Mother, take Alan and –"

"I will not be ordered about in my own home!" Grandma Tracy rarely raised her voice, but when she did, all other voices stopped. "Jeff, you're scaring your own sons, and I can't think of one possible reason, good, bad or indifferent, for you to do that."

Virgil watched as his father opened his mouth to reply and then stopped. He drew in a long breath and then lifted his chest up, visibly reining his anger in without letting go of it for a second.

"You're – you're right, of course." He looked at Alan, and then across to Virgil. "I'm sorry, boys. But this doesn't concern you. I'd appreciate some time with Gordon."

"You're wrong. It does concern us, Dad," Virgil said, with as much force as he could. He was throwing the best lifeline he had to his brother, his father be damned. "This concerns all of us. We need to discuss this as a family, together."

"Virgil, you will do as I ask. Now!"

"Listen to your son, Jefferson," Grandma said. "This is not time for your military nonsense."

"Mother!" Jeff's voice rose, a bellow of pain and frustration. "For god's sake, I have just lost a son!"

Everyone froze. It was almost comic to see Alan's mouth gaping, Grandma's hand at her mouth like an old screen actress conveying horror.

And from Gordon a silence so cold it howled.

Virgil heard Scott hitch a horrified breath beside him, but he couldn't spare him a glance. All he had eyes for was Gordon, who looked as though he'd been physically slapped and was caught forever in that moment of pain.

"Gordy –"

But he couldn't hear, Virgil knew. Gordon was staring at their father, nodding almost unconsciously. And Virgil knew before it happened what he'd do next. Without another word or look to anyone, Gordon turned on his heel and left.

The clatter of keys from the hall, the wrench of the door, and their brother was gone.