"Thatcher, pick up the damn phone.” I yell into his voicemail as I barrel down the highway toward his studio. “Fuck!” When he doesn’t answer I keep driving. To hell with him if he has some woman squirreled away in his studio today. I knew something was wrong when I didn’t hear from Tim or Juniper on Monday after their meeting, and then she called me this morning with the news. I screech to a halt in the gravel lot outside Stag Glass and throw open the door.

My brother ...