Schiller stood by the window and watched the Federal Bureau of Investigation vehicles leave. He turned to add wood to the fireplace, but another hand pressed down on the log he was about to pick up.
When he looked up, he saw Tim smiling at him.
The living room lights were off, illuminated only by the fading glow of the fireplace. Tim's smile was no different from when he had sat on the doorstep that night: it carried a smug flamboyance and subtle cunning neither of his two brothers possessed, brimming with youthful spirit.
Schiller grabbed the fire poker in his hand and smacked him over the head with it.
"Ow!" Tim clutched his head and cried out in pain.
"Why are you hitting me?!" Tim sat on the floor, holding his head as his eyes widened in fury.
"Was this your doing?" Schiller rose with the poker in hand. Tim scrambled to his feet too, grimacing as he covered the fresh bump on his head.
"Even if it was, you can't just hit people!"
Tim took another blow to the shoulder and hurried toward the sofa, shouting as he ran, "You're not following the script! Aren't you supposed to drag me over and sit down to talk?! Stop hitting me! Do you really think I wouldn't fight back?!"
With a weapon in hand and Tim unable to dodge in time, Schiller gave him several hard whacks before snapping, "Pride has a good temper. Talk, talk, talk—what's there to talk about?!"
Tim stood on the other side of the sofa, sucking in a breath as he held the arm that had just been struck. Schiller said irritably, "Did you think I'd give you a chance to smugly ramble on about your plan and show off how smart you are? Do