Page 50 of Jonas

“Ed killed Adam. Then he walked out the front door waving a gun at the cops who had responded to the neighbors’ nine-one-one calls, and died by suicide by cop. He couldn’t even do it himself, he forced some cop to bear that mark.”

At the news his stepfather killed his brother, my heart did this weird flutter thing that I’d never felt before. As if for just a moment my heart had stopped before it performed a double beat to get back into rhythm.

“When I got home I was treated to seeing my mother on her knees next to her dead husband while the son she’d grown in her womb and pushed out of her body lay dead in her kitchen.”

Red hot fury suffused my insides. Anger like I’d never known, not even at my own mother for leaving me or my father for beating me or towards my brother for turning into a man I despised, came in an overwhelming tidal wave. The kicker was, this devastating hatred was geared at a stranger—but she’d hurt Jonas and that was all I needed to want to rain hellfire down on her until she felt every dram of pain she’d caused him.

“Jonas,” I whispered.

“Whatever respect I had for her, and there wasn’t much, died that day. I stayed to put Adam in the ground then I left and haven’t seen or spoken to her since.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen. Adam was seventeen. We only had a few months until he turned eighteen and we were leaving.”

My heart hurt for a young man who had a plan to rescue his brother from abuse but didn’t live to realize their liberation.

“I’m sorry you lost him, especially the way you did,” I muttered my understatement.

“I am, too.”

There was nothing I could say to Jonas that would help ease his pain; like mine it was embedded in his DNA. Tragedy had woven itself into the fibers, seeped into the marrow of our bones, fundamentally changed who we might’ve been.

Like me, he was an orphan—his by death and choice, mine out of that same choice but also out of fear and misfortune. My only wrongdoing was being born into dysfunction—a crime I’d paid for, a transgression that had left me alone in this world with no family.

But unlike me, Jonas had found his people—a new family built on loyalty and respect. Something I had yet to find. No, something I hadn’t allowed myself to seek out.

It was better to be alone.

There was no disappointment, no fear, no beatings, no guilt, shame, or sorrow. Alone was just alone and it was so freaking lonely.

But at least it was safe.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The walk to the big house was short and silent. Derrika looked like she was stewing on something, and since I’d dropped the shit that was my brother’s death on her right after she’d shared her concern that maybe we were too far down the pike to stop the Chinese from a terrorist attack, I didn’t know what she was thinking.

And I didn’t ask, mostly because now that I was thinking about Adam my thoughts had turned dark. The ugly way he died on the kitchen floor after Ed kicked him in the head. The aftermath of that—Ed going into his bedroom and retrieving his revolver, the same one I’d seen countless times, the same one he’d hit my mother in the face with, the same one he’d pointed at me, threatening to kill me. Too young, too clueless to know that revolver was never loaded. The police had found no bullets in the house. A rookie cop shot and killed a manic brandishing a gun—an unloaded gun—and that cop had to live with that. All because Ed was mean as fuck on a good day, totally unhinged when he was drunk, and my mother was too weak to grab her boys and run.

In fairness, there was nothing to say Ed wouldn’t have found her and dragged her back to the house, but she hadn’t tried. Not once had she stepped in front of a fist to protect us. Not once did she lock us in our rooms when he was on a tear and shield us from his beatings. When she could escape, she’d run and cower and leave us to take his wrath. Not that I wanted my mother harmed. Not that I wouldn’t’ve taken those beatings for her. Not that Adam wouldn’t’ve done everything he could to keep her safe. But for the love of God, the woman didn’t even try to help us.

It's an uncomfortable realization when it hits, when the fullness of the revulsion sinks in, when the finality of death digs its claws in and suffocates you, but with every breath you manage to suck in, you hate the woman who gave birth to you more than the man she brought into your life who was your tormentor.

I would’ve forgiven her, stood by her, helped her, loved her if she’d been on her knees holding her dead son instead of crying over the monster who killed him.

My left foot had just hit the wooden plank of the first step when my progress was halted by Derrika’s hand wrapping around my forearm. I glanced to the right and down and caught her eyes.

“I know that look,” she started. “I understand the silence. So before we go in, do you need a minute?”

I took her in more thoroughly, the way her eyes were gentle with comprehension, but more—they held a twinge of anger. It wasn’t hard to read that her anger wasn’t pointed at me but on my behalf. Of course she’d get it, see it, and recognize the demons.

“I’m good.”

Her fingers tightened, digging in deeper, and she added a shake.

“You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, pal. I know you’re not good. What I’m asking is if you need a minute to lock down the memories. We can take a walk or I can go in and leave you to it.”

Good Christ, I didn’t know what to do with that.