I almost peed my pants. I did drop the mozzarella cheese I was holding, but it was in a wrapper. I knew who it was from the knock but I checked the camera screen anyway and then went back into the living room and knelt by the couch. 

"Reed," I said, in an urgent whisper. His eyes opened again, alert regardless. "Your sister's here."

His eyes widened as he sat up. "Really," he said, shaking his head to clear it of sleep. "That's not good." He looked up at me with hazel eyes containing about a thousand different colors.

"Yeah, no kidding." My anxiety was stealing my breath in small increments. I was terrified of his sister, and rightly so. Not that he even knew it.

The previous year he had been gone for three months, and halfway through she'd shown up at my house. I knew who she was because I'd met her twice before, with him, briefly. She was ten months his senior. They did not get along.

I'd always known she was mentally ill, whether genetically or because of the abuse she'd suffered or a combination. Reed had told me more stories than I'd wanted to really know about, those nights he was "in his cups" as he put it.

So when she'd shown up that day and pounded on the door, hollering that she knew I was inside, I opened the door out of fear of what she would do if I didn't. It was a very stupid move.

"Where's my brother?" she asked, pushing past me into the little house. Her hair was cut unevenly at the shoulders, and dirty. She had four inches and a hundred pounds on me.

"I don't know," I answered honestly, my heart pounding, and she punched me in the face under my right eye. I was no stranger to getting hit but the shock after five years without it happening was great.

She followed it up with a fist to my stomach, and when I doubled over, she pushed me to the floor and kicked me in the ribs. "Where," she said dispassionately, taking a handful of my hair, her face inches from mine. "Where, meltface?"

She looked like Reed, although they had different fathers. Her eyes were dark brown, and lacked the smallest bit of feeling other than contempt and malicious glee. She was having fun. I, on the other hand, was trying not to puke. "I swear, I don't know. I never know," I managed to get out.

"Wrong answer," she said conversationally, the corner of her mouth lifting a little as she continued to hold my hair so she could punch me again with her free hand.

This one was in the jaw and sent starbursts of light through me head. "He can't tell me," I said, crying now and hating it, but I was afraid she was going to really hurt me. She had that look. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand because I felt the blood trickling from my lip. The bright red smear scared me further.

She regarded me. "I need money, so tell me where it is."

She drew her fist back again menacingly but I put both of my hands up to block it, relieved more than anything because there was something I could give her. "In the closet," I said, my side on fire now. There was two thousand in cash in a shoebox in there. "On the shelf." There was two hundred thousand in the floor safe but thank God she didn't know about that.

She let go of my hair and pushed me back so my head hit the floor, which luckily was carpeted. Not that it helped cushion the blow much. "It'd better be enough," she warned. She disappeared into the bedroom and I lay there and tried to exist through the pain in my side and face.

"This'll do," she said, returning. "For now." She kicked me again, in the lower back, and I missed her leaving in the agony.

When Reed returned three weeks later, I was just able to stand straight again. I didn't tell him what she'd done, only that she came by and was a complete bitch and I gave her money to get rid of her.

Now I watched as he got to his feet and, stumbling a little, made his way to the door. It was only about fifteen steps but I moved to offer support and he leaned on me gratefully. "Let's see what this little folle wants now," he said with a sigh. Crazy girl. He glanced at me and my obvious anxiety and his eyebrows went up. "Relax, chérie; you don't have to fear her."

Not with him there, I didn't.

He threw the bolt and opened the door, regarding the girl he'd suffered with for many years. The shared trauma had not brought them together, which their mother had made sure of as she pitted them against each other constantly. One of her games was only to feed one of them a day, and the one who earned her favor that day got to eat. She'd had no more children, as she already had "something for everyone" with one boy and one girl; one of her favorite sayings.

Now Remy stood there leering, at me, though I unashamedly half hid behind Reed. Her hair had grown out some and it was a lot cleaner than the previous visit. She looked much more put together than last time I'd seen her, with makeup on and clean clothes that fit. It was incredibly disconcerting to have someone so sadistic appear not only normal but even somewhat pleasing to the eye. "I see your face healed up. As much as it ever will, that is."

Fear thrilled up my spine as I recalled her kicking me and I tightened my grip on his arm and had to make myself stop.

He looked at her with a frown, annoyed already. "Don't speak to her. Qu'est-ce que tu veux?" What do you want?

She turned her attention to him, her smile widening. "Brother!" she said, opening her arms as if to hug him. "I heard you returned. I need money."

"That is not my problem," he said defiantly, crossing his arms. He was half a foot taller than she, and where she had bulk he had wiry muscle. I knew how strong he was from climbing. "I told you never to come here." His voice was even as he tried to stay calm.

She snorted. "Fuck that. I know you have money. Give me some." She looked at me again and grinned and it was nasty. "C'mon, meltface, talk some sense into him. 'Less you want me to come back when you're alone again."

My fingers deepened in his arm again and I was almost completely behind him now. I could hear myself breathing as he took a step toward her, away from me, in her face now. "You do not dare speak to her," he breathed, intimidating as hell, but she wasn't cowed.

"Do more than that," she said flippantly, stepping back herself but not much. Her chin rose, merriment in her eyes. "I'll beat her ass again. It was lots of fun. Sorry you missed it."

He was slow from the meds but turned to look at me incredulously for a split second and then focused on her. "You will regret that," he said, slowly. "You will regret that!" I could feel him shaking and knew his rage was close, so close. I squeezed his arm but he probably didn't even feel it.

"What're ya gonna do, Etienne?" she taunted.

"Do not call me that!" he shouted, and his face was turning red. It was his birth name, which he despised. He had gotten the name Reed from frequently hiding from their mother in the scummy pond behind their shack, breathing through a reed.

She said something in French with a smirk at me, and he slapped her open-palmed across the face so hard she fell back. It was the least she deserved and I wished wholeheartedly I'd had the nerve to do it myself. It was something he would never have dreamed of doing to a woman under any other circumstances.

She had expected it; had in fact intentionally goaded him into it, obviously. She held one hand to her cheek, said something else in French, and turned around. The look on her face said she'd won, though she was walking away with nothing to show but a red print on her face.

Reed slammed the door, locked it, put both palms flat on it, and rested his forehead between them for a moment. He was trembling from head to toe. I put a hand flat on his back and he turned toward me and allowed me to embrace him. 

"Come on," I said, drawing him limping back to the couch.

He lay down and turned to face the back of the couch, his back to me. I sat on the edge anyway, my hand on his shoulder. 

"I ought not to have done that," he said flatly, feeling around for his cigarettes without consciously realizing it. I put the pack into his hand and he drew one out, along with a red lighter. "How can I still let her get to me." He rolled onto his back with a groan and produced a flame on the third try. He drew in a shaky breath of nicotine. The trembling began to calm immediately.

"How could you not?" I asked, giving him a look that said Seriously?

He looked at me and I knew what was coming. "Addy. Why didn't you tell me what she did? What did she do?" His expression said he hoped to hell it wasn't much. "No," he added. "I can see you thinking about what to leave out. No. Just tell me, ma ciel etoile; just, please." My starry sky. "All of it."

"Okay, well, then, yes, I mean . . . " I put my hands up. What did he expect? Oh, but he was mad. I wouldn't want to be in her shoes. "She didn't exactly beat my ass, okay? She hit me. A few times," I allowed. He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, and she kicked me. Twice." I winced at the thought, my hand going to my ribs, which were fine now.

He saw the gesture and his face began to redden again. He muttered something in French that I didn't get and took a hard drag of his cigarette so the cherry glowed brightly.

"Breathe," I reminded him, adjusting my position as much as I could with the little room available. "Probably less nicotine and more oxygen. What did she say about me?"

He shook his head with a harsh laugh. "I would not ever, ever tell you, chérie. Ever. She is fortunate I did not rip her tongue out there on the porch in front of, of God and everyone!"

We didn't believe in God. "Who cares what she says?" I shifted again.

He noticed and moved over so there was room. "I should have drown her as a child and done us both a service," he said darkly, and I knew he meant it. Competing with another person for food every day forced people to become enemies or at least adversaries, and that wasn't even including the additional abuse tossed in.

"Yes, you should have," I said simply, because I agreed.

"I'm sorry, chérie; I never thought she would do such a thing. You got hurt because I underestimated her, and I know better." He laughed bitterly. "I so know better."

"Enough," I said. I gave him a stern look and he averted his eyes and smoked, blowing it away from me though it didn't bother me.

"It's not too late," he murmured, as though to himself.

"No killing," I admonished, though the idea had its merits. "I'm fine. She tries that shit again and I'll shoot her. Something tells me you know where to hide a body."

He looked at me, his eyes crinkling in amusement, and it made me happy to amuse him. "You are silly," he said.

"Seriously, I was just glad she didn't know about the safe or the actual money." I was worried about her coming back when he was gone, though. "But, um, what should I really do when she comes back?"

"Whatever you do, don't open the door this time," he said darkly. "Not that it was your fault at all," he added hastily.

I knew he didn't think that. "I won't." I hesitated. "Should we, I mean, do you think we should have . . . ?"

"Given her money?" He considered. "No. I do not want to encourage her. She won't return, but should she do so, you will be safe in the house."

I hoped so.

"Hmm," he said, unhappy. He brooded well, if rarely. "I suppose I am fortunate she got all of the psychotic genes," he mused, and the corner of his mouth lifted much as hers had. "Or most of them."

I pushed the comparison out of my head and returned his smile. "You can go back to sleep."

"No, I am too riled up now," he protested, sitting up again. "Not that I am giving her the power over me, you understand. Only that I feel such strong regret over the many times I've let her live."

I laughed out loud. "You're crazy," I said, half hugging him. We sat side by side now. "The good kind."

"You are the same kind," he said agreeably, the meds kicking in. "We are two of a kind."

"That's for sure." I was ready to make pizza but didn't want to kill the mood.

"I'm sorry," he said again, holding my hand for a moment.

I concentrated on sounding normal, and not like his gesture gave me goosebumps. "Hey, enough, remember? It happened like forever ago, anyway. How about making the food with me if you're not going to pass out again?"

"I'm entering a drug induced haze of some sort," he said agreeably. "So, sounds good."

"The pizza or the drug induced haze?"

"Across the board," he said, grinning now, his anger forgotten. He didn't get mad often, and when he did he was quick to recover. His usual state was pure sweetheart. Though chances were I was biased.