Daniel opened a drawer and took out two spoons.
"One round."
"Daniel."
"What?"
"You promised me you were finished."
"I promised I wouldn't compete."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," he said. "It isn't."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"What?"
"Fighting. Did you enjoy it?"
"No."
Daniel stared at the running water.
"Not even a little."
"Then why did you do it?"
"Because he wouldn't stop."
"People like Ethan never stop. That's how they get what they want."
"He needed someone to tell him that he isn't invincible."
"And you think you're the person who should tell him?"
Daniel dried his hands.
"No."
"Then who?"
Sarah opened the paper bag and began unpacking containers of rice, vegetables, and grilled chicken.
"I saw the video."
Daniel closed his eyes.
"Already?"
"Someone uploaded it to the gym's private group. By dinner, three people had sent it to me."
"Wonderful."
"You're trending among a very small group of people who spend too much time watching other people punch each other."
"I've always wanted that."
Sarah smiled faintly, but the expression disappeared when she noticed his hands.
Sarah looked at him.
"That isn't from a mop."
"It's from the toolbox."
"Daniel."
"Please."
Sarah lowered her hand.
Then she asked, "Did you think about Michael?"
"I think about him every day."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize for being angry."
"I'm not angry with you."
"Then who are you angry with?"
Daniel looked toward the window.
Six years ago, Michael had been the one person capable of making him laugh after a brutal training session. He had been a talented fighter, though not nearly as disciplined as Daniel. He loved music, terrible movies, late-night food, and arguments about things that didn't matter.
Daniel had promised their mother that he would protect him.
Daniel had helped Michael train. He had taught him how to defend himself, how to read an opponent, how to remain calm when someone tried to provoke him.
Whenever Michael wanted to take a risk, Daniel reminded him of the dangers. Whenever he wanted to enter a tournament, Daniel insisted he wasn't ready. Whenever he talked about building a future in the sport, Daniel told him to be patient.
Michael had finally stopped listening.
Six years earlier, he had entered a private invitational tournament sponsored by a powerful group of investors.
Michael accused him of treating him like a child.
Daniel told him he was reckless.
Michael walked away.
Later that night, Michael was injured in a fight that should never have been allowed to continue.
Daniel had been standing outside the hospital room when the doctor delivered the news.
"You can't keep punishing yourself forever."
"Who says I'm punishing myself?"
"You work in a place where people fight every day. You watch them train. You clean the blood off their mats. You live in a building nobody would choose unless they wanted to disappear."
"I chose it because it's affordable."
"You're a terrible liar."
Daniel looked at her.
"I didn't come here to argue. I came because Raymond is worried, and because I am too."
"About Ethan?"
"About you."
"Raymond told me Ethan's father recognized your name."
Daniel's expression changed.
For several seconds, he didn't speak.
Then he asked, "What exactly did he say?"
"Raymond didn't know. He only said that the boy asked his father about you and received a very strange response."
"His father's name is Richard Caldwell."
"Yes."
"Did Raymond tell you anything else?"
"No."
Daniel pressed his palm against the cold glass.
The man had attended the invitational tournament. He had sat in the front row beside the organizers. He had shaken hands with the fighters and promised that the event would create opportunities for everyone involved.
After Michael's injury, Caldwell's name had appeared in documents Daniel had never been allowed to see.
Witnesses had changed their statements. Records had disappeared. The tournament organizers had dissolved their company.
And Daniel had been advised, in language that sounded suspiciously like a threat, to stop asking questions.
Now Richard Caldwell's son had challenged him in a cage.
"Danny?"
"I need to find something."
"What?"
"The records from that tournament."
"Why now?"
"Because I think Richard Caldwell knows what happened to Michael."
"Daniel, we already went through all of this."
"No. We went through what they allowed us to see."
"And what are you going to do?"
Daniel looked at the faded photograph on his refrigerator.
"I'm going to find out why my brother died."
For the first time in six years, his voice contained something other than grief.
It contained purpose.
And purpose, Daniel was beginning to realize, could be more dangerous than anger.