Filthy Rage (Second Chance With My Brother's Best Friend, Book Five) by Paige North Page B

But it’s my responsibility to take care of him, and life is about more than just work. My brother needs me.
    I gather my stuff, toss on my coat, and knock on Dane’s door, my excuse right on the tip of my tongue.
    No answer to my knock.
    Did he leave already? The light is still on, but maybe he forgot to shut it off. Or maybe he left when I was in the bathroom.
    Dane’s usually good about telling me good-bye when he goes, but it’s possible our paths didn’t cross. Perhaps he’s gone already and I can just leave. Before I can talk myself out of it, I head to the elevators and press the button, sliding into my coat. After a moment, the doors ding open, and I step in, wrap my scarf around my neck.
    I’ll send him an email as soon as I get home, explaining I had to go. And if Dane gives me any shit about taking off, well, I’ll just tell him I thought he’s already left, since I knocked on his door and he didn’t answer. Let him argue with me about that. I ignore the sick swirl in my stomach and tell myself it will be fine. He’s a reasonable man, and I had nothing left to do, anyway. Why would he want to pay me for sitting around?
    I stroll through the empty parking lot, bathed in a golden glow of overhead lights, hop in my small sedan, and shiver. The air’s getting that October bite in it that warns a cold New England winter is on its way. My breath puffs out in front of my face as I crank the engine on and turn up the heat.
    Then I pull out of the parking lot and head home.

    * * *
    “ I saw online what happens at the end of the episode. Just you wait,” my brother says with a smug smile as he digs himself deeper into the corner of our worn gray couch. With his right hand, he folds another slice of pizza and chows down.
    I flip through the DVR menu options and select the show. The screen changes as a commercial about bathroom cleaner comes on.
    “Don’t you dare spoil this for me,” I say with narrowed eyes and mock consternation, taking a massive bite of cheesy pizza. “You’re the worst for that.” Still, I’m glad to see his funk didn’t last long and seems to be ebbing fast. Maybe it was just a mild, temporary flare-up. It makes me feel better about following my gut and coming home, though.
    Before I can forget, I grab my phone and send Dane a quick email explaining what time I left. I use the excuse that I thought he might have left for the day too, and then apologize profusely just to cover my backside. I tell him I’ll be in extra early tomorrow and will make up any time he feels I need to, then sign off and send.
    I drop my phone on the end table and curl my feet up in our big comfy chair, which has to be a good ten years old now. Our apartment isn’t filled with expensive things, but it’s warm and it’s home. Our mom made the quilted green-and-blue blanket on my lap before she died a few years ago. A real family heirloom, one I treasure. It’s soft and worn, the last project she did to distract her during a brutal round of chemo.
    My brother cringes and puts his pizza slice on his plate, rubbing the stump of his left arm, which was removed just below the elbow.
    “You okay?” I toss the blanket aside and jump up. “Need some pain meds? I can grab—”
    “It’s fine,” he says with a groan as he rubs the knotted, scarred flesh. “I took some ibuprofen before you got home. It just takes a little more time to kick in.”
    I frown, but settle down into the chair.
    The show comes back on after another minute, and my mind wanders as I think about all the things I need to do tomorrow. I should make a list—I gotta start my paper, plus go to the grocery store and pick up stuff for dinner for the rest of the week. Plus there are the bills I haven’t paid yet, and the tires on the car seem to be a bit low…
    I reach for my purse by the side of the chair to get out a pen and paper. Then I pause, hand stuck in the middle part of the purse.
    Where is my journal?
    I open the large handbag