No Saint (Wild Men 6)

I have her mouth, Dad said. He hated that. I touch my lips, and frown at the memory, then I’m finally at the house and I pound up the porch steps and shove the door open.

Squelching the urge to yell “honey I’m home!” to nobody in particular, just because this house has never seen humor in its long murky years, I rush to my bedroom to check for the pendant. A search of the pockets of my other pair of jeans yields nothing at all, and neither do my two shirts and my jacket.

Holy fuck... Maybe I left it at the garage? But that’s not possible, I haven’t been there in a while. Flinging stuff around the house I’ve been working so hard to clean and tidy up, I try to keep calm but it’s not really working.

Did I drop the pendant somewhere else?

I stride out of the house, walk around the yard, trek down to the river. Did I drop it at work, or during one of the scuffles? Why the fuck did I think carrying it around on me was such a good idea?

Scrubbing a hand through my short hair, I sigh and try my best not to see this as a hint of new trouble brewing, a sucking hole in the bubble I’m in, a knot in the thread of time.

On autopilot, I walk to the shed and open the door, to check in case I dropped the pendant here. It’s a possibility.

I stop, staring into the gloom.

I’ve been telling myself I’d go back and check the papers, check the shed for anything else the police might have missed, but I somehow never made it. If the house gives me the creeps, this shed is a hundred times worse. I’ll never forget finding here the ax that got Dad convicted for the murders, or how he found me here and tried to kill me.

Jesus. Fighting a full-body shudder, I step further in and spot the metal box right where I left it, on the floor. I crouch down and open it, staring down at the pair of green stone earrings and yellowed pages.

I lift the papers, scan the scrawling handwriting filling them. Not my mom’s hand that’s elegant and soft. No, the person who wrote these... letters, from all appearances, pressed the tip of their pen deep, almost tearing the thin paper.

“...you can’t do this to me...” I read, my eyes jumping between phrases, “...meet your son. I named him Finn...” and then “...since you’re not replying to my phone calls and texts, I decided to send you letters, but if you don’t reply to these either I’ll come meet you...”

My hands are shaking.

Is that what happened? She came here and he killed her? Was I around at the time? Was I in the house while he met with her down here, or by the river, and swung that ax into her chest? And what happened to her son?

My gorge rises and grabbing the box, I stumble out of the shed to gulp big breaths of air. What the hell, Ross. Don’t be such a wimp. It all happened long ago, and these papers... they could be important. Could tell the police who that other woman was.

Goddamn, why was Dad saving all this, the photos, the letters, both these and mom’s? Souvenirs, mementos of his victims, trophies of a sick mind.

I sit down on the doorstep of the shed and check the pages over. They’re only signed “C.” and that’s no fucking help. My eyes return to the earrings and I lift them in my hand. I wonder what the green stones they are inlaid with are. One of them is a bit twisted and has a stone missing.

They look like real gold and gems. Maybe they could be traced to their owner? As in, the woman buried in the woods. The second skeleton. Maybe someone might recognize them if they were posted on social media.

Shit. I really have to talk to someone, Luna is right. John Elba. I mean, he’s the only cop that ever talked to me like I’m a real person, not a criminal who should be rotting in prison. I couldn’t live with myself if there was any chance we could find out who she was and what happened to my half-brother and I wasted it by not coming forward to let the police know.

I’ve failed my siblings before. Octavia, Gigi, Merc—they suffered for my faults. Have I ever told them we have another brother out there? I can’t recall. I wasn’t even sure of his existence until now, only aware of the possibility thanks to Dad’s drunken rants about his bastard children.

It’s time to find out his fate.

***

Finally getting off my ass, I go back into the shed and search up and down, behind all the stuff Dad hoarded in here, looking for any more clues left behind, but it seems that the police did a pretty thorough job. No more hidden boxes are to be found, and the floor is solid concrete so no holes for hiding stuff. I go as far as to examine the wooden walls, in case something is hidden between the boards, and to upturn every crate and toolbox left to rot, but nothing.

Clutching the tin box in my hands, I make my way back to the house, covered in spiderwebs and dirt, dust clinging to my sweaty skin, making me itch.

I set the box down on the sofa and take out my phone to text Merc, the only one of said siblings who’s kept in touch, despite my past behavior and testy replies.

‘Hey Merc.’ I pause, not sure how to broach this. ‘You said I could talk to you. It’s important. I found some love letters.’ I stare at the words. Are they love letters? Or angry letters? Evidence? Hell. ‘I need your advice.’

Next thing I know, the phone is chiming with a new text. ‘All this time of radio silence and you call me for love advice?’ Merc writes.

I blink. ‘What the hell are you talking about. This isn’t about Luna.’

‘Luna, huh. That your girl? A saint to put up with you, no doubt. Tell me about her.’

Fuck. I’ve never told him about her, have I? Walked right into that one.