My plan is not complicated, or sophisticated, or particularly clever.

It consists of provoking Dylan into saying a bunch of damning shit, recording it on my phone, and then playing it back for Belle and her family. The budget version of wearing a wire.

Step one is to get Dylan by himself and get him talking, which proves surprisingly easy.

When I return to the living room, he's nowhere in sight, but Belle notices me frowning at his empty chair.

"He stepped out to take a call," she tells me.

Almost as soon as she finishes speaking, he comes in from the patio, pocketing his phone and looking decidedly less self-satisfied than he had a few minutes earlier.

His eyes land on me and he frowns.

"Felix. A word?" he asks.

"Sure." I move past him, thinking to step outside, but he catches my sleeve.

"Upstairs," he says.

I shrug and lead the way up to my room.

On the way, I surreptitiously look at my phone and tap the red button on my voice memo app, praying that I have plenty of room for a long recording and that the phone's mic will be strong enough to pick up his words. Then I slip it back in the front pocket of my sweatpants as if I'd just been checking the time.

In my room, Dylan shuts the door.

"Do you know who I just talked to?" he asks.

I go to the window and look out. "You want me to guess?"

"Don't be a fucking smart-ass."

"So, who was it?"

"Neil. He wants to know why the FBI is sniffing around his business—more than usual, that is. More importantly, he wants to know why it's sniffing around mine. Any idea why that might be?"

Wow. For one thing, I had no idea the FBI moved so fast.

"Probably because I called them," I say. "I didn't have much on Neil—I don't even know his last name—but you? I got plenty."

His face goes through an almost comical gallery of expressions—shock, fear, fury—and finally lands back on something close to his usual self-assured arrogance and disgust.

"You stupid little shit." He shakes his head, half-smiling, though the light in his eyes is cruel. "You have no idea, do you? Neil isn't an amateur. He's big time. He's got friends in high places, and unless the Feds have something rock-solid on him, they can't do a thing. He's untouchable. Your feeble little tip-off did nothing but alert him to the presence of a weak link."

I don't doubt what he says is true—for once—but while I'm sure Neil deserves to be left in a pit somewhere and fed to hyenas, he's not the one whose misdeeds I want to bring to light.

"Yeah, and that link is you," I say. "Maybe Neil's untouchable, but you're not."

His eyes flash with anger and he steps closer. I hold my ground, hoping my phone is still actively recording.

"I told you nothing I do is illegal," he snaps. "Everyone's of age—despite appearances—and they sign a million consent forms before the cameras roll. I'm clean."

"No, you're not," I retort, a reckless laugh in my voice. "Maybe you're telling the truth, and you're all above-board. But you told me yourself that illegal stuff goes on. Just the fact that you know about it makes you complicit. I may not know much about that world, but I'd bet you've turned a blind eye on a missing form or two, or a lack of proper ID."

Dylan makes a snarling sound and grabs the front of my shirt, hauling me close to his face, ugly with anger, and grates out words through his teeth.

"You self-righteous little fuck. You have no idea what you're messing with. If Neil finds out you tried to rat on me, he will make you disappear. Fuck, I will make you disappear if you try anything like that again. And guess what, Felix? No one will blink an eye if one more little cocksucker turns up dead. Happens all the time to you freaks, doesn't it?"

I think I've heard enough of his bullshit at this point, and push him away from me, breaking his grip on my shirt.

"Are you done?" I ask. My voice is surprisingly calm, but I feel sick inside, and his words cling to me like bloody grease. It makes me want a shower.

"I'm done if you are," he says, scowling. "I'm serious, Felix—don't make me break Dad's heart."

I can only shake my head at him. Whatever happened to the brother I once loved, he's gone now. I'd let the man he'd become hurt me for too long, holding out hope that he'd change back, that deep down he still loved me somehow—the more fool I. There's no point hoping now. I'll be damned if I let him hurt anyone else, though, and staying silent out of fear isn't the way to stop that from happening.

"Fine," I say, doing my best to sound adequately cowed. "You win. Just promise to leave me and Dad alone, and I don't care what else you do."

He begins to nod when my phone starts to buzz and play the tinkling alarm tone that tells me it's time to remind Dad to take his medicine.

If I was James Bond, or Jason Bourne, or someone like that, I'd pull it out casually, silence the alarm, somehow keep Dylan from noticing the open voice memo app, and go back to acting suitably put in my place.

Instead, I startle with fright and misplaced guilt and freeze. Something in my hesitation tips him off, and I see suspicion come to life in his eyes.

In that moment, I'm absolutely certain of one thing: I will not get a second chance.

Shoving Dylan as hard and as suddenly as I can, I rush past him and into the hall, barely manage to evade his grasp, and sprint for the stairs.

I hear him swear and his rapid footsteps at my back.

My fear gives me speed, but desperation and rage do the same for him, and he catches me at the end of the hall, swinging me around and slamming me against the wall.

"Give me that! Give me the fucking phone, you little shit!" he hisses, hands grabbing for my pocket.

I fight hard to keep him off, but he manages to work it loose. He sees the memo app still running, and his eyes widen with horror as his peril makes itself clear. Holding me against the wall with one hand, he taps the button to stop the recording. Fortunately, his one-handed grip makes it difficult for his thumb to reach the little trash-can icon beside the file, and as he fumbles, desperation makes me wild.

I kick him in the shin as hard as I can, rip the phone from his hand, and make another dash for the stairs and the safety of the crowd below.

"Fuck!" I hear him gasp at my back, but this time I'm just far enough ahead that he can't quite catch me.

I reach the top of the stairs and triumph ignites in my chest as I see Isaac and Belle standing below, no doubt attracted by the noise of commotion. They look up at me with expressions of alarm—probably wondering if I've snapped or something, given whatever Dylan's been telling them about me—but I don't care. They'll know the truth soon enough.

"Felix, don't you dare!" Dylan snarls, catching at the back of my shirt and arresting my forward motion with jarring suddenness. I fall back against him and he reaches for the phone. I hold it away from him as best I can, but his arms are longer than mine. My eyes land on Isaac and I take one last desperate chance.

"Isaac! Catch!" I wrestle half free of Dylan's hold and toss my phone. "Play it! Play the recording!" I scream.

My throw isn't very accurate and goes wide, but Isaac is a natural athlete. He leaps and snatches my phone from the air.

At the same moment, Dylan lets me go. He doesn't push me, or shove me, or anything like that. He just releases his hold and lets me fall.

I see Isabelle's horrified face looking up at me from the landing below, a mirror of my own feelings, and then I'm at the bottom of the stairs, lying in a twisted mess of pain.

In the background, I hear the tinny replay of Dylan's ugly words, the rush of footsteps and exclamations of horror as the rest of the company arrives, and Isabelle's quiet sobs.

What I'm mostly aware of, though, is Isaac at my side. He's telling me something—lie still, don't move—assuring me that I'm okay.

I squeeze the hand that holds mine and smile.

I believe him.

I've destroyed a wedding, maybe sent my brother to prison, ripped away the illusions protecting my dad, and I'm currently in quite a lot of pain.

But despite all that—despite Dylan's best efforts to the contrary—despite everything—I am okay.