Chapter 16: Brothers

Preston went through the side door behind the stage, and Weston went after him.

Claire followed, with her skirt in her fist and four hundred people shouting questions at her back.

The service corridor was bare and bright, with a cart of dirty glasses against the wall.

Preston had stopped halfway down it with one hand braced on the plaster.

Weston stood ten feet away and did not come closer.

Claire stopped at the corner where the light turned, and neither of them told her to go.

"Say something," Preston said without turning.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Anything. You've had thirty-four years to work out a speech."

"I haven't got one."

Preston turned around.

His eyes were red, and he looked younger than he had on the stage.

"I was the favorite," he said. "That was my whole job. Every Sunday I got the big house and the boat and the talk about what I'd run someday."

"And every Sunday he said there was a man out there I had to watch. A man who takes things. I spent my life watching you, and you were my brother."

"I didn't know you were watching."

"I was the second thing, Weston. He picked me because he couldn't pick you."

"He didn't pick either of us," Weston said. "He picked the name. I was the one he hid, and you were the one he used."

Preston flinched.

It was a small movement, and it was the first honest one she had ever seen him make.

"Did you hate me?"

"I hated that you had a father who showed up at your games."

"He didn't. He sent a driver."

"Then we had that in common," Weston said.

Preston made a sound that might have been a laugh.

He wiped his face with the heel of his hand and pushed off the wall.

He walked toward the exit, and at the corner he stopped in front of Claire.

"Claire," he said.

"No."

"I haven't said anything."

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