I never told my parents I was the Chief of Police. They thought I was a mall security guard and constantly compared me to my brother, a “successful” banker. One night, my brother called me in a panic. “I hit a ped;e;s;trian. You have to take the blame! You’re a nobody anyway!” My parents agreed, shoving me toward the driver’s seat. “Do it for the family!” my father screamed. I looked at the dashboard cam recording everything. I picked up my radio. “Dispatch,” I said calmly. “Send a unit. I have a confession on tape.”

“Do it for the family!” my father screamed, shoving me toward the wreckage. He didn’t realize that by trying to save one son, he was handing the other the handcuffs to arrest them all.

But the crash wasn’t where it started. It started, like all rot does, at the dinner table.

The dining room of my parents’ colonial estate was suffocating. The air smelled of expensive pot roast and disappointment. I sat at the far end of the mahogany table, picking at my food, acutely aware of how out of place I looked in my worn-out gray hoodie and jeans. Under the table, my knee bounced nervously. Outside, in the glove compartment of my beat-up sedan, lay my Glock 19 and the gold shield that identified me as the Chief of Police for the Metro Precinct.

Inside this room, however, I was just Alex. The failure.

Across from me sat Kyle. My younger brother. The Golden Boy.