Page 104 of Second Alarm

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He sits down across from me. His good hand, on his knee, is shaking a little. He pulls himself together — not dramatically, just by taking a breath and letting his hand calm down. I've watched Cal do this my whole life. At our father's funeral. The time he broke his arm in high school. The specific, unflashy pulling-it-together Cal does.

He looks up.

"Did everyone know?"

"Mom knew."

"Of course, Mom knew. Did — did Derek know?"

"I think Derek had a bet running."

"Of course he did. Gemma?"

"Gemma knew."

"Micah?"

"Micah knew, Cal. Micah has known probably for weeks. Micah knew before some of the — "

"Everyone in town knew."

"I mean — "

"Hanna."

"Yeah."

"Did Big Jim know?"

"Cal."

"Did Big Jim know, Hanna?"

"Cal, I don't — "

"Big Jim knew."

"I think Big Jim has always known everything about everyone in this town. I don't think it's personal."

"Big Jim knew before me."

"Cal."

"Rodriguez?"

"Chief Rodriguez figured it out at the BBQ."

"Rodriguez has known for days and I've known for fourteen hours." He stares at me. "This is so embarrassing."

I start to laugh.

I don't mean to. It comes out of me the way something comes out of you when you've been holding your breath for weeks — a half-cry-half-laugh, ugly, the kind I've never made before. Cal looks at me, and his face does the Cal thing where the anger is fighting with the brother, and the brother is winning for the first time, and his jaw loosens, and he lets out a breath.

"Don't laugh. I'm still mad."

"I know."

"I'm not done being mad."

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