Page 3 of The True Garza

I move with caution through the boxy, glassy house. It’s all clean lines, polished marble, stainless steel, hardwood floors, black-and-gold classiness.

Staying with Brook wasn’t a good idea when she suggested it. Wasn’t a good idea when I agreed to it. And, now that I’m here, it still isn’t a good idea. It didn’t work when we were kids, and it didn’t work when we were teens, so I’m not sure why we thought it might work now that we’re adults and set in our ways. The only thing we have in common is obstinacy.

Brook is OCD neat. Everything is perpetually spotless and carefully placed. While I’m not exactly a slob in comparison, I don’t care to make the bed the second I roll out of it or to wash every utensil immediately after using it. No, I don’t mind a few dirty dishes in the sink and allowing my laundry to pile up. But those things drive Brook mad, so whenever I’m in her space, I’m overly gentle and hyperconscious of everything I do—which drivesmemad.

However, getting a decent place in LA that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg takes time and luck. Moving back to LA wasn’t planned; it was an abrupt and unexpected decision—and seeing as my big sister is the only one in my family that I get along with and can tolerate for extended periods, this is where I am in the meantime.

I find her in the kitchen, brewing tea. Sleek, honey-blonde, bob-cut hair, flawless brown skin, lithe and slender figure.

“Zero-nine-seven-eight,” she says without looking up. “It’s four numbers, Lonny, not an algebraic equation.”

“Thanks, I’ll get it tattooed on my palm.”

“You want tea?”

“Nope.” I hold up my paper bag. “I’ve got Johnnie Walker.”

At that, she looks up and levels me with her hazel-green gaze. “Do you think maybe you drink too much?”

“You think maybe you should mind your own business?”

“Can’t. It’s not in my nature.”

Brook and I are two years apart. She’s the middle child. Our older brother Charles is the firstborn, and I’m the last. Out of all of us, Brook was always smarter, more driven, destined for more. So, naturally, she became a lawyer.

An extremely successful one.

I get fleeting moments of jealousy sometimes, but I love my sister too much to feed that monster. AlthoughI’mthe rebellious one, it would’ve never been me who did something different from the rest of the family. I detested school, had been a C-student all the way through, and only managed to graduate college by the scrape of my teeth.

What Iamis street smart, foolhardy, physical, temperamental, and a bit of an alcoholic.

“You’re lucky I like you,” I mumble as I shuffle off.

“Love you, too, sis,” she calls after me.

I amble to the guest bedroom and knee the door open. Two large, unpacked suitcases stare back at me.Right. The reason I went out for whiskey in the first place.

I only arrived in LA this morning—back for the first time since I left eight years ago, right behind my father.

One day the Bridges were a perfectly happy family, and the next we weren’t. Our lives imploded when my mom and uncle decided to come forward about their affair. It almost did my father’s head in.

After giving Mom the divorce she wanted, he gave up his job as an Army Officer Cadet and moved to Denver to teach at a martial-arts academy. Six months later, I followed him. My father was my world and my hero; wherever he was, that’s where I wanted to be.

While Brook and Charles chose to remain neutral through it all, I had no qualms about choosing sides. I wanted nothing to do with Mom or Uncle Walter—especially after they got married.

Leaving everyone behind and starting a new life was easy. Dad found love again and was happy. I did, too. Got engaged. Kept getting contracts.

But the last two years, things took a turn for the worse.

I’d gotten a private contract. A serial killer had gone wild, brutally hacking up teenage girls, including severing their heads and leaving them on spikes in public places. The attacks were vicious; the most heinous I’ve ever encountered.

Desperate to catch this killer, the state Bureau of Investigation gave the case tome. Whenever someone like me is brought in on a case, it pretty much means all protocol is about to be thrown out the window, because a private agent’s actions never fall back on the Bureau.

In other words, I’m allowed to break the rules—to an extent. So in no time, I was closing in on the killer. But, somehow, he found out about me and became obsessed. Instead of beheading the girls, he started carving words into their flesh.

For you, Lonny Bridge.

You were so close, Lonny Bridge.