No Saint (Wild Men 6)

I frown, not knowing what to say to that. Finally I settle for a hum, that I hope sounds neutral and encouraging.

“He had his good sides, too.” Ross grabs the stick, stirs the ashes, revealing small lumps of coal still burning, sending sparks flying. They illuminate his handsome face in flashes—intense, brooding, wistful.

I nod, because Ross seems to want to talk about it, not because I believe Jasper Jones has any redeeming qualities. Child abusers and serial murderers generally don’t.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he goes on and gives me a rueful smirk. Did he read my mind? Maybe I wasn’t able to hide my true thoughts so well. Or maybe he’s thinking the same thing. “He was a bastard. A violent drunk, and ultimately a murderer. But as I was growing up, he seemed to... remember me sometimes. Remember he had a son, and that he’d planned to raise me to be like him. That meant cooking over an open fire pit, shooting, cursing, working on engines. And sometimes... it was pleasant. It was the good times. The bright spots. I thought... for a long time I thought everyone grew up like me. That it was normal to have a dad who’d beat the shit out of you for saying the wrong word, but then dragged you to the garage to show you how an engine works. Or to eat greasy burgers—only to take a belt at you later, if he got bored with you.”

I shiver. These are his good memories of the man? Christ. I hate Jasper Jones a little bit more with each passing day.

We sit in silence for a while.

He pokes at the coals and sighs. “I wanna tell you something. I’ve found... some letters, at least I think they are, and earrings in the shed, in a box. They must’ve belonged to the other victim, the other woman... If she’s the one my dad talked about, she had a son.”

“What do the letters say?”

“I haven’t read them yet.” He bows his head, but I have enough time to see him wince. “Haven’t been back inside that shed since.”

“You should tell the police.”

He gives me a jagged smirk and a shrug that looks defensive and angry. “The cops are just looking for excuses to lock me up again.” His gaze slides away. “But the thought that I have another sibling out there somewhere... it’s been eating at me.”

“You don’t like the thought?”

He gives me a startled look. “No, I... that’s not it. Besides, it’s no news to me. I’ve known about him for a while.”

“Him?”

“Dad mentioned a boy once or twice. Among his talk of his other bastards, all better than me. And since I found out that his mother is dead, too... I’ve been dreading finding him. Fearing the state I’d find him in. Wondering if he’s even alive. This is the first real clue I got about their identity.”

“Ross...”

“I like my other siblings,” he says and a red tinge comes to his cheekbones. “I’ve never told them. I’ve been so fucking jealous of them growing up. Bitter, full of envy and anger. But they’ve been nice to me. So fucking nice.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I don’t trust nice.” He pauses, gaze turned inward. “Didn’t use to trust it. So much has changed.”

“Tell me about them?”

He hesitates. “I’ve been an asshole to them, Lu. Like I’ve been to you.”

I reach out and take his other hand. “And yet they still love you, don’t they?”

He looks away, mouth down

turned, the flush on his cheeks growing darker. “They don’t hate me.”

Oh... I bet they don’t. But I wait for him to continue.

“There’s Octavia,” he finally says, turning my hand so it’s on top of his. “She’s the oldest, about my age. I... blamed her for my own life. She took the brunt of my anger, but said she forgives me. And then there’s Gigi, and Merc. He’s been calling me and texting and driving me up the wall.”

“What is he texting you about?”

“Opening up,” he grumbles. “Accepting that we’re a family.”

I vaguely remember the Watsons, and I like what I hear about them.

“So maybe you should share this information with them. About this lost brother of yours? How do you want to do this?”

He stares at our entwined hands. “You’re right. I need to talk to the cops. And first I need to check that fucking shed again, see if it coughs up anything more, any more surprises.”

“You’re not alone,” I remind him. “Your siblings are here. I am here. Let us help.”