“What would you two say to moving?” Laura Hardy asked her sons.

It was a little before seven p.m. on August sixth and the Hardy family was finishing their dessert: chilled lemon meringue pie. Joe, who would usually have been the first one done, was about halfway through his piece. Laura had nothing but piecrumbs left; Frank had just pushed his empty plate away.

Both boys reacted with shock to the question. Joe sat frozen with his fork in midair and his blue eyes were nearly round with surprise, while Frank stopped still and looked at her with a totally taken-aback expression. “Moving where?” Frank asked after a moment. Joe put his fork down, his eyes still wide, but said nothing.

Laura felt a pulse of all-too-familiar apprehension at Joe’s silence. It wasn’t at all like him to be silent; usually he was the first to start talking and the last to stop, but his personality had altered in the last few weeks. He was very quiet and subdued, he seemed to have lost interest in many of the things he used to enjoy, and his appetite was not what it had been. She had tried to encourage him, buoy his spirits up, but she knew she wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Laura had about all she could handle to control her own fluctuating feelings of grief, betrayal, anger, and denial. All she’d managed to do was keep assuring Joe that she wasn’t blaming him for her new designation: widow.

Joe seemed to think she should be blaming him; he had pointed out several times that it was his fault, but Laura held no malice at all towards her boy and made sure he knew it. She’d been telling the absolute truth when she said she’d rather he killed his father than permit Fenton to kill Frank. She had wondered if it might help him to see a counselor, and even suggested it, but he’d declined, wondering aloud how many shrinks in the state would treat him as a patient and respect his confidentiality. After that, she hadn’t mentioned it again. Maybe she should...

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Laura answered her older son’s question. “I have a sort of longing to go back to Milwaukee, but I’m open to just about anything that isn’t on the East Coast. No thanks to the media,” she added crossly. The press were no longer able to camp in the neighborhood like vultures, but they still dogged the Hardys’ footsteps and scrutinized their actions. And called asking for interviews and photo sessions and live TV appearances, if not so frequently now as they had in the first days. One particularly insensitive jerk had tried to suggest that the Hardys meet Derek Lake, who had left a rather formal ‘thank you’ for the family after he reclaimed his wife’s pearls ten days ago.

“The media,” Joe repeated in a growl, pushing his pie-plate away. “I would love to know how they’re getting their grimy paws on some of these ‘scoops’.”

“I imagine some investigative reporter kicked in their ‘freedom of press’ speech to the same people we talked to,” Frank answered quietly. “The police departments, the bank... and Channel Seven actually saw us unloading at the police station, too, so it probably didn’t strain their brains too much to put one and one together.”

Laura smiled tightly at the contempt in Frank’s voice, trying to forget that painful day in July when she’d learned how many of the beautiful and expensive gifts her husband had given her had been stolen from the families he and Ames had murdered. She’d broken down and cried that day, in front of her sons, something she’d been determined not to do. But her shame over her husband’s deceptions and her grief for the tormented dead had been too much to bear.

“Freedom of the press.” Joe snorted. “Freedom to not take no for an answer, you mean.” His resentment of the press was even higher than Laura’s; naturally, since he was the one who was under the most scrutiny. What was worse, to Laura’s mind, was that many of the townsfolk- who had originally been at least nominally in support of the Hardys’ privacy- were now insatiably curious for whatever scraps of information they could get. Laura wasn’t sure what had triggered the change, but now she frequently had strangers or barely-known acquaintances walk up to her in various public places and start asking questions. Her co-workers gave her curious looks and whispered among themselves; neighbors chatted freely with the press about her habits.

Joe had it worse than she did; he was subjected to similar scenes, but the questions people asked him were horrible, invasive and utterly insensitive. His whereabouts were reported to the papers and TV by random people with cell phones- customers and store proprietors alike. Only recently he’d mentioned that he was thinking of going around in disguise until his ‘fame’ died down. Naturally, taking any mysteries was impossible with this sort of surveillance going on, but he didn’t seem to miss them.

“That’s exactly right.” Laura picked up her plate and took it into the kitchen, then came back out. “There’s three more interview requests on the answering machine- from the same person. I think I’m going to contact the phone company and have them block certain phone numbers.”

“Sounds like a great idea.” Frank got up, then paused, eyeing his brother’s remaining portion of pie. Joe caught the look and pulled the plate closer to him.

“I’m working on it!”

“You’re doing it awful slowly.”

“I’m savoring it,” Joe explained.

“You mean you’re tantalizing me with it,” his brother retorted.

Laura smiled at the boys’ banter, feeling some of her tense sorrow dissipate. She was so grateful for Frank- not just that he was still with them, though she would’ve been thankful enough for that- but that he was able to bring some of the life and laughter out of wherever Joe had hidden it. She knew Frank wasn’t unaffected by the loss of his father, but he wasn’t struggling with guilt, the way his younger brother was. He wasn’t even being vigorously pursued by the media; he had been an unpopular subject with them ever since his calm anti-media speech- which had been caught on live television- the previous month.

“Speaking of messages,” her dark-haired son said suddenly. “Auntie called from Canada. Not only is she enjoying her trip, she’s actually looking into buying a house up there.”

This time Joe nearly dropped his fork; as it was, his present morsel of pie fell right off the utensil. “She wants to live in Canada? And she complains that down here is too wintry for her?”

“It doesn’t get that much colder up in Canada,” Laura began. Gertrude had departed sooner than any of them had expected; she’d admitted to Laura, before she left, that she didn’t feel very comfortable in Bayport anymore. Mrs. Hardy knew exactly how her sister-in-law was feeling, and had not urged her to remain longer. Still, the thought that Gertrude might leave the state completely had not occurred to her.

“No, but winter starts sooner, and ends later,” Joe pointed out, accurately enough. He scooped up the bite of pie and ate it. Then he looked at Laura. “Milwaukee, that’s where you used to live.”

“Yes. I suppose I have an urge to go home.”

“Shouldn’t do that,” Joe murmured. “The reporters here have already gotten whatever information they could on you, remember? Background check? So people in Milwaukee will probably be in curiosity mode, too.”

“You’ve got a good point.” Laura sighed. She really did want to go back home- back to the familiar and comfortable little town where she’d grown up. “But the idea of moving is one you’d be all right with?”

Joe frowned and looked at his brother. Frank was in his ‘thinking’ stance, left fist against chin, left elbow braced on right wrist, right arm across his chest. “Gotta think about that a bit, Mom. It’s a big thought to get used to,” the older teen answered after a moment.

“I’d miss the ocean,” Joe remarked quietly, and scraped up the last of his pie. “And the gang.”

Laura nodded, trying not to let her disappointment show. She had not really expected her sons to pounce on the notion of with enthusiasm- or so she’d told herself. No matter how unpleasant the circumstances were just now, Bayport was their home and the boys would be unhappy to leave it. Even with all the negatives, there were still quite a lot of positive aspects.

‘I knew how they’d feel,’ she reminded herself. ‘No matter how often they leave, and no matter how enthusiastic they are about travelling to a new place, they’re always glad to come home. Going somewhere to solve a mystery isn’t the same as moving. And even if we do move, we’ll only be leaving some of our problems behind. Our feelings will go with us. Grief and guilt and- everything.’

“Well, give it some thought, see if any particular state or town or city appeals to you. We could go up to Michigan and live near the Great Lakes or out to Mississippi and find a spot that’s a comfortable distance from the river.” Laura forced a smile, then stifled a yawn. “In the meantime, I’m going to get ready for bed, I’ve got another early day at work tomorrow.”

That was another thing she was having trouble getting used to- being the sole wage-earner. Fenton had left a considerable bank account and a will leaving everything to her and the boys, but it wouldn’t last forever. Laura hoped she wouldn’t have to ask her sons to take jobs during the school year, or worse, skip college in order to add to their income. It was another, purely practical, reason to move away from the East Coast, where the cost of living was so high. One day soon she was going to have to bring it up with them, but not tonight. Not until they gave her some idea how they felt about moving.

Laura shook off her reverie as Joe got up from the table and came over to hug her. She wrapped her arms tightly around him and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. Then Frank joined them and she released Joe to hug her older son. “Good night,” Joe said quietly.

“And sleep well,” Frank added, letting go. Laura nodded, her throat tight with mixed emotions, and went up the stairs to the bedroom that seemed bigger and emptier with every passing night.

Joe Hardy shut off the television- ‘Pardon the Interruption’ was over and he wasn’t interested in seeing the local news- stood up from the sofa and gave himself a thorough stretch. Clicking off the light that stood beside the sofa, he went up the stairs and paused on the dark landing to check his luminescent watch. Ten thirty-two. ‘Duh...you know when PTI ends, dummy,’ he scolded himself, shaking his head. ‘How long did you think it took you to climb the stairs?’

Looking down the hall, he could see light glowing on the carpeting beside Frank’s bedroom door. His mother’s door was closed, the cracks around it dark; she must be in bed. Frank was probably on the computer, doing whatever it was that he did when he ‘cruised the internet’.

Joe turned and looked to his left, at the closed door to his father’s study. He hadn’t been in there for a long time. Not since they morning he’d sat beside Frank on the couch and told Fenton everything that he could remember of the Virginia prison official’s warning. That had been the morning after the Reaper had escaped; the day his father had gotten that so-called warning note- which had turned out not to be the Reaper’s handwriting at all. Probably their father had written it left-handed or something.

On an impulse, the blond boy opened the door. He winced slightly as it creaked, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Switching on the light, Joe looked around the familiar room.

The desk, neat and organized: phone, pencils, paper. The swiveling, high-backed office-type chair. The tall filing cabinet in the corner. The bookshelves that took up one whole wall, filled with references and obscure informational texts. The leather sofa where he and Frank had so often sat while their father briefed them on a new case. The picture that covered the wall safe. The closet where Fenton had kept his disguises and make-up and various detecting tools; plaster and fingerprinting kits, spare locks and keys, recording and listening equipment...

‘Wonder why he kept his gun downstairs and everything else in here?’ the teen mused. ‘Weird. But he always did. Maybe he just wanted to be sure it was out of our reach until we were big enough to know better than to mess with it. Or maybe it was so, if someone broke into the house and went for the papers or files in here, he would still be able to get at it. Bet that’s it.’ A new idea struck him and he shivered. ‘If he’d taken it with him when he left...God, I don’t want to think about that!’

Joe looked away from the closet and his eye caught the picture hanging on the wall. Walking over, he took it down from the hook and studied it. It was a family picture, taken by a professional studio when he was a freshman and Frank a sophomore. His mother looked happy, his father was smiling. He and Frank were sitting in the front, their parents standing behind them.

‘What a difference between then and now.’ Joe sighed and let the picture drift downwards until it hung from his hands. Now his father had been exposed for what he really was- and now he was dead as well. His brother harbored a powerful hatred for the man; their mother was disillusioned and unhappy, and Joe himself was caught between feeling guilty for what he’d done and feeling justified in having done it.

‘I think Mom could benefit a lot more from seeing a shrink than I could,’ Joe thought, suddenly remembering Laura’s suggestion. He himself didn’t want to try and talk to anyone professional about it. He knew his own guilt would never leave him, but he also knew it would fade in time. Talking with a psychologist wouldn’t make much difference, wouldn’t speed up the process particularly. Much more to the point, Joe already had a confidant that he could trust, far more than he would have trusted any licensed doctor.

It was to his brother that Joe had finally turned; to Frank that he now vented his feelings. Frank cheered him up when he was blue, distracted him when the memories got to be too much, bolstered his confidence when he started feeling overwhelmed and gave him a dose of unequivocal love whenever he so much as hinted that he needed it. Sometimes it was ‘tough love’- like when Joe went on a guilt trip and Frank asked plainly, ‘Would you prefer it to have turned out the way you originally saw it?’ Sometimes it was lighthearted love, taking the form of teasing or puns or bad jokes that made him laugh. Other times he was a silent, caring presence by Joe’s side, with a gentle touch or embrace that said, ‘I’m here; I’m with you and I won’t let you down.’ And every so often, it was three small words...

Joe smiled rather sadly at the thought. ‘Frank wanted to help me from the very first day, but I kept putting him off. I kept him at a distance.’ He’d foolishly, selfishly assumed that no one could truly help him; that he deserved to be cast out from his friends and family. He was lucky to have a brother who wouldn’t tolerate such self-pity, such a self-deluding attitude; someone who wanted to share the full range of his feelings, not just the good ones.

It was time, high time, to tell that ‘someone’ to share his own troubles and woes, to return that gift of trust, Joe mused. Confidances should work in both directions.

Their mother, though...she needed someone to confide in. She had been trying to be strong for them, but Joe had seen the weariness in her eyes- physical and emotional- and the new lines in her face. He noted that she seldom smiled now; he hadn’t missed the way she so often glanced around as though looking for something. She missed her husband more than she admitted; she was grieving intensely, all the while pretending she wasn’t.

Several times Joe had been tempted to ask her if she wanted to talk about how she felt, but had held back. He didn’t think he was the one she’d want to talk to. By the same token, he couldn’t really confide in her, though he wanted to. There was too much guilt between them. He felt a little bad about it- they’d always had a good open relationship, been able to talk about practically anything. But not anymore. Now they still talked of most things, but there were secrets between them, things it was wiser to leave unsaid. Like the vision; sometimes he felt he should at least her about that. But she’d pointedly said that she’d rather he killed Dad and saved Frank than vice versa; since the vision had encompassed exactly that ‘vice versa’, there wasn’t much point to bringing it up. It would only disturb her even more. Or worse, make her think that if things had just gone differently, both Frank and Dad would still be alive.

‘I do wish I could tell her that it’s her...’ Joe sighed, placing the picture on his father’s desk and running a hand over his hair in mild frustration. ‘No. I know she’s worried about me being all quiet and down, but I can’t tell her I’m blue because she’s so unhappy. When she’s not around, I’m okay, even with the media. They make me mad, not depressed. But when she gets home and looks so tired and miserable...and it’s my fault... And she’d just be more unhappy if she knew how much her sadness affects me.’ Joe swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘She doesn’t blame or condemn me for causing her sorrow; the least I can do is not heave any blame on her for causing mine. Just deal with it, like she deals with hers. And at least I have Frank to help me, and Vanessa, and the rest of the gang...’

Frank. Joe opened his eyes and gazed at the reproduction of his brother’s smiling face, shutting out the other three faces in the picture. Slowly he pulled his gaze away and lifted his left arm, staring at the smooth, tan, unmarred skin of his wrist and forearm. “It was worth it,” he whispered softly, running his fingers over the place where Frank’s name had been scrawled in red marker. No scars, no stitches, no blood...no grave for his brother. “It was worth it, Dad. I hope you realize, wherever you are, that I’d trade you for him any day- if I had to. I wish I hadn’t had to...but you should’ve known I would.”

Setting the picture back on the hook over the small safe door, Joe turned and left the study, shutting off the light and closing the door firmly behind him.

“Hey.”

Frank Hardy looked up from where he was lying on his bed, head propped in his hand, and smiled at his brother. “Hey yourself,” he answered, closing his book. “I wondered what you were up to, I heard the TV go off and then all this silence.”

“At this time of night, that shouldn’t be too surprising,” Joe pointed out as he leaned casually against the doorframe.

Frank glanced at the clock; nearly eleven. “Well, no. Holding the wall up again, bro?”

“Oh, sure. Can’t have the roof collapsing on us,” the younger boy said ironically. Frank chuckled as Joe walked in and sat down on the floor beside the bed, close enough that Frank could reach down and tousle the blond head. Yielding to temptation, he did exactly that and promptly got his hand captured.

“So what were you up to?” he inquired.

“Thinking.” Joe glanced up and back with a serious expression, so Frank squelched his immediate impulse to tease.

“About?”

“Mom. And Dad.”

Frank nodded in acknowledgment. “Specifically?” he invited, reclaiming his hand.

“And you.”

The older boy blinked, then smiled. “Me?”

Joe turned around so that he was facing Frank, instead of having his back against the bedframe. “Seems to me I’m the one doing most of the talking, lately. I want to know what’s on your mind for a change.”

Frank felt a blush rise into his cheeks as he leaned over to put the book on the night-table. Joe had been confiding in him a lot since his last vision, but even more since their intense talk the night of the Robinson twins’ party. Frank welcomed Joe’s confidances, but he was even more pleased that his brother had apparently decided it ought to be a team effort, so to speak. “Um, okay,” he replied a little shyly. “Where should I start?”

“Wherever you want.” Joe shrugged. “Dad. We haven’t really done much in the way of figuring it all out since we took the stolen stuff to the cops.”

“Yeah...well, there really isn’t much more to do,” Frank admitted wryly. “Aunt G gave us a lot more information than any research could have, and I do think that explained his reasons why. I can just see him playing it both ways- being a respected detective on the outside, but getting back at his father and the NYPD both by committing crimes that no one could solve.”

“Both? Oh, you mean the police firing Ames and Dad thinking it was unjust,” Joe recollected.

“Yeah.” Frank turned from his side to his stomach and rested his chin in his hands. “And his own father, for forcing him to be a detective in the first place. Probably got a real thrill out of wiping out the ‘stain’ on the family honor, but at the same time, staining it even worse. Sort of...getting revenge, secretly.”

Joe sighed and nodded. “And now we know when he started, too. How he did it is a little cloudy, but Dad was always resourceful. And he had so many contacts who would pass along information at the drop of a hat.”

Frank looked at his brother regretfully; Joe hadn’t wanted to know ‘when’ it had all started. Now, thanks to Gertrude, they both knew, and Joe’s faint hope that Fenton hadn’t been deceiving them all their lives was ruined.

“The only ‘how’ we don’t have is how he could’ve stood himself, knowing how hypocritical he was being,” Joe went on.

“I somehow don’t think that was a problem. He probably felt justified.”

“But innocent people...he was always going on about keeping innocent people from getting hurt, and then he turned around and killed- helped kill- forty-two completely innocent, random people,” the seventeen-year-old protested. “How could he live with that?”

Frank shrugged. “He didn’t kill them. He got information on them for Ames. We went through the dates and times, you remember,” he reminded his brother, who looked startled. “Dad wasn’t in the area when the killings were done. He was there beforehand. You could say he was still an accomplice, but he was mainly providing information to Ames, who did the killing himself.”

“Except that while the people were being murdered, Dad was also away from home, Frank. He wasn’t seen by the victims, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. He might not have been assisting, but he might have been watching, or listening in- maybe standing guard in case someone showed up. Or, he might have been working on genuine investigations, as alibis. We just don’t know,” Joe pointed out softly. “And we probably never will. He covered his tracks too well.”

Frank lay still, his eyes widening. This was a possibility he had not even considered. “I didn’t think of that,” he said quietly, and sighed. “Joe- I think I really hate him. I’ve been trying not to, telling myself that he was less responsible, he was the follower, that Ames warped him. And I felt kind of sorry for him, when Aunt G was telling us about his upbringing. But his upbringing is no excuse, no reason for what he did. People with far worse parents have turned out as wonderful, caring people.” Frank paused, getting a grip on his feelings. “It would be hard enough not to hate him for what he did, but when I remember how I heard him talking to Ames about dropping some clues so you’d come after me...so they could kill us both... And then when he- ” Frank lifted his head and rubbed his throat, swallowing as a tingle of remembered fear went through him.

“You didn’t tell me that part,” Joe remarked, reaching up to touch Frank’s arm.

Frank shook off the memory and looked down, letting his hand drop to his brother’s in silent gratitude. He tried hard not to think about that terrible foggy night, but it haunted his dreams, reviving his terror. “I didn’t? Thought I did.” As his brother shook his head, Frank repeated the conversation he’d heard between Ames and their father. “I’d swear I told you...I thought I recognized Dad’s voice-”

“That, you mentioned,” Joe agreed. “And how he said we knew too much, but that’s all I recalled. Though- I dunno, maybe you did mention the rest of it and I just blanked on it.”

Silence fell over the room for a moment, each teen lost in his own thoughts. “I know you don’t hate him,” Frank remarked at last. “And neither does Mom.”

“Not...really,” Joe agreed, sounding reluctant to admit it. “I mean, in a way I do, but in a way I miss him, too, and I don’t think you do at all.” His hand withdrew from Frank’s.

Frank shook his head, then brushed back his hair. “I- well, I do sorta wish you felt the same way. But if you don’t, you don’t, and I don’t feel....betrayed by that.”

Joe relaxed visibly. “It’s harder for Mom,” he pointed out. “He betrayed her worse than he did us. He lied to her for longer, and...” Color was cruising into his face. “Think about it,” he said earnestly. “They were married. They...had us, and now she has to face the fact that it was all a lie.”

Frank felt his own face heat up again, and he suddenly felt very sorry for their mother. To marry- and have children by- a man who proved to be using her to further his disguise... “Maybe in his way, he did love her. Maybe that’s why he brought her those gifts. He always seemed so pleased when she thanked him.”

“I guess I’m feeling pessimistic,” his brother murmured. “You might be right, but I can think of other reasons why he’d bring her stolen objects from dead peoples’ homes.” He looked up, his expression quizzical. “You sure you hate him, Frank? You keep trying to look on the bright side, the less-unpleasant possibilities to explain his actions.”

Frank sighed. “It’s just that there’s still plenty we’ll never know; I’m just speculating. I guess I am trying to look on the positive side, it’s easier.” He turned over onto his side again and gave Joe a sheepish smile. “My version of denial, maybe? I don’t enjoy hating him, I’d like to find one thing about this mess that isn’t negative.”

“At least you pick something that’s open to interpretation, instead of arguing with plain facts,” his brother muttered. Then he changed the subject quickly. “I’m kinda worried about Mom.”

“She’s kinda worried about you,” Frank pointed out.

Joe paused, nodded, then frowned. “I don’t think it would do any good to tell her that I’m depressed around her and not at other times. She’d just feel worse.”

That was probably true, Frank reflected. The renewed affection of Vanessa and the support of their close friends had helped his younger brother considerably. The whole gang protected Joe now, telling off reporters and rebuking anyone who asked insolent or invasive questions of him. They helped him hide when the cameras were turned in his direction, and distracted him when he started to feel depressed or guilty. But they couldn’t do anything about the way Joe’s mood plunged whenever he saw their mother’s sorrowful face.

“I think we should encourage her to see a counselor.”

Frank blinked in surprise. Not because of the novelty of the idea, but because it was the same notion he’d been musing over for a few days. “I’ve been thinking that myself, and especially tonight.”

“Because of the moving.”

“Yeah. I know she wants a change, and you can’t blame her for that, but I don’t think moving will do much. Getting away from Bayport might make things a little easier-”

“Less press,” Joe inserted. “But also a whole unfamiliar situation to get used to.”

“Well, but not if we go to Milwaukee.”

“In which case she’d get the familiar area but keep the press interference, too. It’s like she thinks going home means everything will be fine and happy again.”

Frank nodded emphatically. “And it won’t be- once we get settled in, she’ll be just as sad and...”

“Alone.”

“Yeah. Alone. You can’t leave bad feelings behind that easily,” the older boy sighed. “I guess I’m a little selfish, too- I’m not happy with some aspects of Bayport right now, but it won’t last forever. And I’d miss this city a lot.”

“So would I,” his brother agreed. “And I think Aunt G will, too, when she thinks about it.”

“That did take me by surprise,” Frank muttered.

“Odd,” Joe said suddenly. “My vision...”

“Hm?”

“She’s thinking of moving- in my vision, she did move away. For good.”

“I’ll miss her if she does,” the older boy admitted. He sat up, looked down; Joe was looking up at him, serious and unsmiling. “You said, a little while ago, that you miss Dad.”

“In ways, yeah.”

Frank waited, but Joe didn’t elaborate. “I think...” He paused, unwilling to say what he was feeling. Joe stood up from the floor, then sat down beside him, his hand resting on Frank’s shoulder. “I think that’s why I’m so mad at him,” Frank finally confessed, hearing his voice shake. “It’s how I keep from missing him.” Joe’s arm went around him; Frank leaned against his younger brother and struggled with his feelings, feelings he thought he’d buried too deep to have to fight with. But of course that was wrong. Mom couldn’t move away from her feelings; he couldn’t bury his forever.

“I understand,” Joe whispered sadly. “It’s easier to be angry than to try and feel a lot of different things at once.”

Frank nodded, his mind filling with memories that he’d tried to block off. The laughing and teasing that Fenton had indulged in with his sons. The patient, careful training, the praise when they achieved something, the encouragement when they were struggling or downcast. Whether in detective work or everyday life, Fenton had been a strong, dependable presence. ‘When he was home,’ the eighteen-year-old reminded himself. ‘Sometimes he wasn’t home when we needed him. Sometimes I really resented that, too. Maybe some of those times, he was with Ames. But I resented it then because we needed him. Now we don’t need him; now I just want to hurt him.’

Or did he? If his father walked in the room now, would Frank really get up off the bed and slug him? Or would he hug him?

After a few minutes Frank regained his control, sat up and wiped embarrassedly at the wetness on his cheeks. “Can someone do horrible, evil things and still be a good person?” he asked hopelessly.

“Well...” Joe’s voice was very quiet. “Remember Snattman? He nearly starved Dad, and he was going to have us taken out to sea and dropped overboard. But he had the house on the cliff turned into a home for disadvantaged kids. To keep ‘em off the streets and out of juvenile detention centers.”

“He was envious of Dad,” Frank remembered. “And us, for having someone like Dad. Man, I bet he’d get a kick out of this!” He sighed. “I see what you mean, though. There’s good in bad people and bad in good people.”

“I’ve done some bad things in my life. I like to think I’m a pretty good person, though,” Joe agreed somberly.

“You are a good person,” Frank told him quietly. “You have done things that turned out not to be for the best, but you’ve always been trying to do the right thing-”

“Right up until I lose my temper, run out of patience, leap to a conclusion or get too stubborn for my own good. Or anyone’s good.” Joe shrugged, sounding more than a little deprecatory.

“Doesn’t make you any less a good person. You may do all that, but you also listen to people when they try and reason with you, too. And when you do end up making a mistake or doing something you shouldn’t, you feel pretty bad about it. You have a conscience,” his brother pointed out, troubled. “Don’t go beating up your self-esteem, Joe. You’ll only make yourself feel worse.” Frank looked at his brother with concern. “What brought that on, anyway?”

“Well, it’s true,” Joe muttered, his eyes averted. “We were talking about bad things people do...”

“You really feel like getting impatient, being stubborn, losing your temper, fall into the same category as torturing people to death?” Frank asked bluntly. “Or are you going on another guilt trip because I admitted I miss Dad and wish he hadn’t been such a monster?”

Joe sighed and leaned against his shoulder. “I don’t think I’m ever going to stop feeling guilty,” he murmured. “But you’re right, character flaws aren’t the same as not having a conscience.”

“I hope you do stop feeling guilty.” Frank found himself wishing he hadn’t mentioned Dad at all, much less admitted that he missed the man. “Wouldn’t’ve brought it up if I’d known it was going to send you into a low mood.”

“I wanted to know, though.”

Frank nodded. “So you think Mom should see a counselor,” he mused, getting the conversation back to where it had been.

“Yeah.” Joe sat up straight again. “And then, if she still feels like moving afterwards... then maybe it’ll be time to think about it.”

“She asked you if you might want to see someone, too,” Frank recalled suddenly. “Do you think you’d want to, now that you’ve had some time to think it over?”

“I don’t need a shrink. I’ve got you,” his brother answered simply, his voice soft and affectionate. Frank stared at him, feeling yet another blush rise into his cheeks and feeling deeply touched.

“I’m not exactly a professional...”

“No, but you’ve got plenty of good old common sense, that works well enough. And I definitely don’t have to worry about confidentiality with you, Frank. I couldn’t talk to someone else about any of this; even if they didn’t leak it to the papers or something, it would just be too hard to do. Now, if you get tired of telling me to quit feeling guilty or whatever, that’s another matter-”

“Not gonna happen.”

Joe looked over and smiled, a very nice smile. His cheeks were slightly flushed, too, but he didn’t seem very embarrassed.

Another brief silence fell; this one was broken by Frank. “Still want to be a detective?”

“Do you?” Joe countered, turning to him with a quizzical expression.

“Yes,” Frank answered firmly. “I don’t quite know how to explain it, but I really want to take what Dad taught us and- and make genuine use of it. He only used his as a cover; I want to put it to real use.” He met Joe’s gaze, and relaxed a little at the look in the blue eyes. “What about you?”

“It might not be too easy to solve mysteries in Bayport for a while, but we never let that stop us from going other places. And we have enough reputation of our own that we’ll get cooperation- most of the time. Of course we won’t have Dad or Sam to back us up, we’ll have to make some new alliances-”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?” Frank grinned and Joe smiled back.

“Yeah, I have. But I wanted to make sure you were still interested, first.”

“Definitely.” Frank gave him a gentle pat on the back. “I’m glad you are, too. I wouldn’t want to try and work it on my own.”

“Me either.” Joe smiled again, sitting up straight. “So we’ll keep doing our work the way we do it best. Together.” He offered his hand and Frank caught it; not in a handshake, but in a clasp that sealed the pact.

“You got it, partner.”

Joe smiled, giving him a look that was somewhere between shy and slightly mischievous. “Y’know what I’m thinking...?”

“I bet it’s exactly what I’m thinking,” the dark-haired youth hedged, feeling his gaze wander away from Joe’s.

“I-” Joe paused, suddenly frowning. “I don’t wanna say, ‘I do’ to you...”

Frank laughed softly, put his arm around his brother and pulled him so close that their foreheads nearly touched. “So we’re still in synch, kid brother?” he asked gently. Joe’s eyes glowed as he nodded.

“Half my soul.”

~End~