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He paces slowly in front of Cash, nodding to himself. James spins around to me. “Roxy was Jace’s mom.” He continues to look down at the floor, pacing. I glance over at Cash who eyes James with caution, his eyes darting with every movement James makes, but also, he keeps squinting, like he is trying to work out how James knows Roxanne. James turns his attention back to Cash with a sinister smile.
“You see, Roxy . . .” He pauses, spinning back to me again like this is some fun guessing game. “That’s what the pimps used to call her,” he says, laughing.
“She used to watch Jace from afar. He was always . . .” He uses the gun to point to his chin, as if he is trying to remember something. “‘The son that got away,’” he says, waving the gun around in the air.
“What are you going on about, James? Where are you going with this?” James points the gun at Cash.
“No, please. No, James.” I feel like my body is about to crumble. He then points the gun at me.
“Shut the fuck up, both of you. I’m getting to where this all fits,” he spits, dropping the gun to his side as he paces some more.
James stares and squints at the floor, concentration marring his face as if he’s going back to a time in his head that he doesn’t want to. He freezes on the spot, his gaze darting to Cash.
“Roxy loved you, Cash,” James states. “Yes, she loved the drugs, but she did really love you. Maybe if you would have stayed with her. She would have stopped the drugs and bettered her life. Did you ever think of that?”
“Of course I did,” he grits out. “She was too far gone.”
James nods, as if he’s agreeing with him. “You’re probably right.” And puts his hands out either side of him. “And hey.” He pauses with an evil smirk. “If you did, the world wouldn’t have been graced with me.” He stares Cash down, waiting for a reaction. Every emotion flickers across Cash’s face: confusion, disbelief, disgust, hurt. Which has me confused, but I was too focused on Cash to take any of what James said in until now. This can’t be true. He has to be lying.
“No.” Cash sucks in a sharp breath, shaking his head. He eyes James, his gaze running all over his face, and then he rubs at his eyes with the base of his palms before eyeing James again. James smiles, letting Cash assess him.
“You see it now, don’t you.” James smirks. “You see Roxy,” he states.
Chapter forty-three
Cash
Iseeit.Thosesoulless, sunken black eyes. That horrible big smile that once lit up my life. The smile that turned evil overnight. I see her.
“I feel you would have been a great stepdad, Cash.” James nods, staring back at the floor, but then his eyes that now represent her glance up at me, creasing in the corners from that evil smile and then turn to Rylee. “Although, I would have had to keep him away from my girlfriends.” He jokes, causing bile to rise to my mouth. I can’t look at Rylee. I can’t see the hurt on her face and the tears. It will gut me since I can’t do anything right now.
“That would mean.” Her jittery voice floats through the room as James turns back to her.
“Go on,” James says.
“You-you’re Jace’s . . .”
All I want to do is hold her, tell her everything will be okay, but right now, I don’t know if it will. I was meant to keep her safe, and now look at us. If he kills me, then who the fuck will save her. Who will keep her safe. Whoever it is, hopefully they do a better job than I have.
“Say. It,” James spits.
“Brother,” she sobs out.
“Finally. I feel a big weight lifted of my shoulder now it’s out in the open.” James bunches his shoulders up and down like it’s a huge relief. How the fuck can he be my son’s brother, and how could he kill his own brother?
“How?” I say. Even though I don’t want to know the who or why’s. In my eyes, he is nothing to with my son. Fuck what DNA says.
“Great question,” James shouts.
“No one in this room knows what it’s like to grow up with an addict that doesn’t love you.” He bangs the gun against his head. “It fucks with your head. Mentally and physically scars you,” he says, pulling up his top. His whole body is covered in scars, some big, some small. Some circle shapes. He points the scars out.
“Cigarette burn.” He points to the small circle.
“Pocketknife.” He points to another one.
“Kitchen knife.” He points to a larger one. “That one fucking hurt.” He laughs. “What you are looking at is what it’s like to live with an addict who will put drugs before their kids, even if it means men torturing their kids for fun.” He pulls his top back down, and an ache starts in my chest. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for him growing up.
“You know, she had a picture of Jace.” He stops. “A few, actually. I think she must have gotten them online. She had this specific one in a photo frame from when he was around sixteen in his football jersey.” I’ve got loads of pictures of Jace in school in his football jerseys.
