The next morning, Marcus didn’t confront Rachel at her luxury apartment. Instead, he drove straight to his mother’s old brick house.
As he pulled up, his chest tightened. The beautiful garden his mother used to tend was overgrown and dead. Standing on the porch, smoking a cigarette, was Thomas. And right next to him, leaning against the doorframe in a silk robe, was Rachel.
When Rachel saw Marcus’s car, her face drained of all color. Thomas merely smirked, crossing his arms.
“Marcus,” Rachel stammered, stepping forward. “You’re… you’re early. I can explain—”
“Explain what, Rachel?” Marcus’s voice was dangerously calm, though his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Explain why my mother has been sleeping on cardboard under an overpass while you’ve been living in the house I bought for her with my brother?”
Thomas spat his cigarette onto the porch. “It’s my house too, little brother. Or did dear old Mom forget to tell you about the inheritance?”
