Jace, my older brother by two years, was the most transparent of the three, which in some ways made him the easiest to hate. He had the kind of handsome that survives poor character for longer than it should. Good jawline. Good teeth. Easy charm. He sold real estate in the slippery, aspirational corner of Harborpoint where glass condos rose faster than actual neighborhood life and everyone talked about square footage the way medieval aristocrats once talked about bloodlines. Jace loved the appearance of success with none of the discipline required to sustain it. Rented cars. Leveraged vacations. Watches financed through money he didn’t have. Deals announced before they closed. Champagne at clubs after commissions that existed mostly in his imagination.
He also had a talent for making other people feel small in ways casual enough to preserve deniability.
When I’d come home late from the night shift and stop in the kitchen for coffee, he’d glance at my uniform and say things like, “You always smell like a high school cafeteria and sadness.”
Or, “Glad someone in this family embraces the service industry so completely.”