The Home-wrecker (The Goode Brothers)

I love Mondays. The only people who can’t stand Mondays are people who toil away at jobs they hate. Lucky for me, I love my job. So I love Mondays. What I can’t stand is a tired Thursday or a lazy Friday, but on Mondays, the work is fulfilling. The email inbox is full, and there’s always something that requires my attention. And I love to feel needed.

There’s an open case file on my computer and a to-do list three miles long.

“Jules, any word from the medical examiner on that Hawkins case?” I call through the open door toward my secretary.

“Not yet,” she replies.

Just then, my cell phone rings and I glance down expectantly. I nearly pick it up in a rush of anticipation, but I pause when I notice my brother Adam’s name on the caller ID.

I stifle a groan as it rings again.

“Is that them?” Jules calls.

“No,” I mutter lowly. “Shut the door, would you, Jules?”

“Yep,” she says with a forced smirk as she pulls my office door closed between us.

Lately, it feels like one fire after another with my family—especially Adam. Ever since he discovered our father owned a sex club and was harboring some pretty dark secrets, it feels like our family’s drama has turned into a never-ending charade. It’s like the most dramatic season of television, and I’m this close to unsubscribing altogether.

The world-famous preacher wasn’t just exposed as a swindling cheater and a liar. No. On top of that, he was arrested for attacking Adam’s girlfriend, Sage, at a party last year. He put her in the hospital and practically shattered her trachea into pieces.

Naturally, my father posted bail and is on house arrest until the DA’s office decides on his charges and brings him to trial.

I love working in law, but God, I hate how slow the process is. Put him behind bars, or don’t. At this point, I don’t care. I just want this limbo we’re in to be over. Just when it feels like things are starting to calm down, the next shoe drops.

“You’re on speaker,” I say after hitting the button on my phone. My older brother’s voice echoes through my office as he replies in a somber greeting.

“Hey.”

“Please tell me you’re calling to invite me to a birthday party or tell me that you’ve won a million dollars,” I respond with a chuckle.

“Is it ever good news anymore?” he replies.

I let out a despondent sigh while rubbing my brow. “I wish. What’s up?”

“Do you remember Dean Sheridan?” he asks.

The bounce in my knee stops immediately, and my head pops up as I stare in confusion at my phone. That’s nowhere near what I expected to hear.

Dean Sheridan.

That’s a name I haven’t thought of in a long time.

Dean was my brother’s best friend growing up. Or maybe they were more? But while I was going through college, the kid practically lived at our house.

Clearing my throat, I respond, “Uh, yeah. Why?”

There’s a twinge of concern in the back of my mind, wondering if something might have happened to him. Or that maybe he has some news about Isaac.

“Well, he’s been working at Sage’s club for the past few months.”

My brows pinch inward as I stare at my phone on the desk. “Working how?”

Technically, it’s none of my business, and probably not why my brother is calling, but I can’t help my curiosity. Adam’s girlfriend owns a sex club. So unless Dean is a bartender or bouncer, there’s really only one type of work he could be doing there.

“What do you think, Caleb?” my brother snaps defensively. “Does it really matter?”

“I’m not judging,” I argue.

“Yes, you are— Listen, this isn’t why I’m calling.”

“Then why are you calling?” I ask with annoyance. Ever since my brother had his little mental breakdown, sexual awakening, or whatever it was last year, his high horse has gotten even fucking higher.

“Dean had a fire at his house last night. He’s okay, but the place looks like it’ll be demolished. Which means he needs a place to stay for a while.”

I let the line go silent as I wait for him to elaborate. I’m not exactly sure what any of this has to do with me. Or why he thinks I should be the one to help Dean.

I hardly know the guy. The last time I saw him, he was only fourteen. He’s gotta be, like…twenty-six now. And we didn’t exactly part ways on good terms.

“Okay…” I say, letting my voice trail.

Adam continues, “I know you and Briar have that extra room above the garage you guys have considered renting out.”

Everything inside me tenses.

While it’s true that Briar and I do have an extra room above the garage—equipped with its own bathroom and kitchenette—and it is true that we have considered putting it up for rent for extra income, letting a sex worker from my brother’s girlfriend’s sex club live there doesn’t sound exactly like a great idea.

Okay, so maybe I am being judgmental.

Growing up in a religious family, there were two constant themes in our upbringing. One was compassion and charity toward others. Loving thy neighbor and all that shit.

The other was righteousness. Be good. Follow the rules. Don’t stray from the path. Essentially, don’t be like them.

The former was really my mother’s work. And the latter was my father’s.

My mother is a fucking saint. My father is a judgmental prick.

Guess which way I lean?

“I don’t know, Adam,” I grumble. I don’t say it out loud, but I immediately think of Abby, my six-year-old. I’ve got a little girl to protect. I can’t just be inviting strangers onto our property, even if it’s not in our home. I barely know this guy.

Immediately picking up on my hesitation, Adam says, “I get it, Caleb. I understand you have a family to protect, but Sage and I can vouch for this guy. He’s a hard worker. He’s honest. And it’s not like he’d be living in your house.”

I don’t respond, letting the line go quiet again as I consider what he’s requesting.

He probably should have known that had he gone to Briar with this request, she would have accepted without an ounce of distrust. Like my mother, my wife is a fucking saint.

But I’m not.

And that’s when Adam hits me with the real gut wrencher.

The unspoken thing.

The grief-shaped elephant in the room.

“Besides,” he starts quietly. “This is Isaac’s friend.”

“Low blow,” I reply.

“I know, I know,” he mumbles.

The line grows quiet once again and thick with tension. There’s a moment in our silence when I wonder if Adam is thinking the exact same thing I’m thinking—a tie to Isaac’s past is a tie to Isaac.

My brother has no idea that I see Isaac’s face on a phone screen every single day. But I have my suspicions that Adam is looking for him, too, although we’ve never really spoken about it.

And yet, here we are, eating up crumbs our brother left behind.

Renting that room to Dean Sheridan is not going to bring Isaac back into my life. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel like, in some small way, I’d have a piece of him.

Then I remember the last night I saw Dean Sheridan. It’s possible he’s grown out of his teenage resentment toward me, but not likely. If it’s anything like it was twelve years ago, he hates my fucking guts. I doubt he would even accept a room for rent on my property. Even if I let him stay there for free.

But I decide not to tell Adam that part. He doesn’t need to know all the dirty details of what went down before Isaac left.

The phone line has been quiet for a few minutes when Adam tries one more tactic.

“Listen, if you don’t want to help the guy, then don’t help him,” he says condescendingly.

I quickly cut him off. “Oh, don’t play that holier-than-thou shit with me, Adam. I picked you up from the county jail last year, remember?”

He doesn’t respond, and I let him hear my throaty chuckle. He should know better than to try and manipulate a lawyer.

But without another response from him, I know the ball is now in my court.

“Let me talk to Briar about it, okay?” I say to at least appease him for now.

“Of course,” Adam replies.

“And you’re sure this guy doesn’t have any other place to go?” I ask.

“I’m sure.”

If I remember correctly, Dean didn’t have a lot of family. Just a very old dad who, I assumed by this point, has probably passed away. So, I don’t find it hard to believe that he doesn’t have a lot of family to fall back on.

And I know that if my brother could take him in, he definitely would. But he and his girlfriend live in an apartment with an annoying three-legged dog.

“I’ll get back to you later, okay?” I add to end the conversation.

“Sounds good,” he replies with a sigh.

It’s like ever since he brought up Isaac, the tone of our conversation has gotten a little more melancholy.

“Thanks, Caleb,” he says.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

The line goes dead, but I don’t move for a moment. I just sit in my chair and stare straight ahead, caught somewhere between the past and the present.

The day Isaac left nine years ago feels so far away, but the pain of that year hangs over us like a dark cloud. One of these days, I wish it would just rain down on us and disappear, but it doesn’t. It just hovers there, blocking the sun, threatening us with a downpour that we might not recover from.

We can’t let go. There is no letting go of someone who just runs away. There is no grief process, no funeral, no goodbye, no see you later.

There’s just me sitting on the porch of my parents’ house one night after Sunday dinner, listening to my seventeen-year-old brother spill his heart out to our parents, only for my father to wave a Bible in his face, threaten him with an eternity in hell, and throw him out the door.

Most days, it feels like I’m still sitting on those porch steps, and part of me worries that I always will be.

I don’t know how long I sit here in silence, staring at nothing at all. But it’s my secretary, Jules, who knocks on the door and finally steals my attention.

I glance up at her expectantly as she opens it.

“What’s up?” I ask, trying to shake off the mood.

“I just heard an update on your father’s case,” she says carefully.

That piques my interest.

I sit up tall in my chair and stare at her as I wait for more. “And?”

“The DA is charging him with attempted murder.”

My mouth goes dry as I gape at her.

We’ve been waiting weeks for this call. And it could have gone either way. Attempted murder obviously being the more severe of the charges.

But I gotta admit, I’m a little surprised.

I’m astounded that my father didn’t have one single good connection in the DA’s office to get him a lesser charge. If I know anything about the man, it’s that he knows exactly how and who to manipulate in his favor. He’s been churching up blackmail since I was a kid.

So, for him to get the highest sentence possible nearly knocks me out of my seat.

I must stare at Jules for far too long because she finally asks, “Are you okay?”

Stammering, I reply, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Not what you expected, huh?”

“Not at all,” I reply.

“You think he’s gonna fight it?” she asks, her arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.

“Oh, abso-fucking-lutely, he’s gonna fight it. My father taking responsibility for his actions? Not likely.” I lean back in my office chair, steepling my fingers in front of me as I try to imagine what the man must be thinking right now. I bet he’s fuming.

“Do you think that lawyer of his can pull it off?” she asks, pressing the question.

Immediately, I tense.

My father has had the same lawyer for as long as I can remember. He’s a grease stain of a human named Wilford Carmichael. I’ve despised the man since I was a teenager.

Why a good Christian pastor needed a slimy defense attorney was beyond me. What did my father have to defend?

Obviously, now it makes a lot more sense.

But with the news of these charges, it’s obvious Carmichael has about as much skill in a courtroom as he does merit as a human being.

Which is to say none at all.

“You know what I’m thinking, right?” Jules asks.

I let out a groan of frustration. “That he’s going to ask me to help him get a lesser charge.”

“I’m amazed he hasn’t already,” she replies.

At this point, I’m sure my father wishes that it was his good son, Adam—you know, before their big falling out last year—who was the skilled defense attorney and not me.

The last person in our family, aside from Isaac, who would be expected to defend my father’s good nature, would be me.

We don’t exactly get along, and we honestly never have.

I have never looked up to Truett Goode the way my older brother did. I just didn’t see the appeal. He never came across as impressive or powerful to me. He’s always just seemed like a selfish old man who loved power, attention, and fandom. The man who taught us not to worship false idols and yet proceeded to parade around as if he were one.

“So what are you going to say if he does?” she continues.

“Fuck, I don’t know, Jules. Am I really the best man for the job?”

This makes her laugh as she leaves my office with her eyebrows raised and her head shaking.

“Not even close.”