He nodded and she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him quickly and then letting go, turning. Agent Gallagher ushered her out of the room and closed the door. He walked back to Jak. He took Jak’s shoulder in his hand, squeezing it. “I imagine you’re ready to get home.”
Home. Harper. Yes. But . . . he frowned, thinking. First, he needed to talk to his grandfather. “Yes. I do want to go home. But first, I need to go to Thornland.”
“I’ll drop you there and come back in an hour. I need to stop by my office anyway. Will that work?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Agent Gallagher smiled. “Let’s go.”
**********
Jak watched Agent Gallagher’s car pull away, turning toward the grand estate that he’d once called a castle. Now he knew it was only a big house where lots of unhappy people lived. He took a deep breath, not looking forward to seeing his step-grandmother. He was sure she was inside sharpening her talons, ready to scratch his eyes out.
The door opened and Nigel stood there, as slinky as ever. “Nigel,” his mouth said. Slinky his mind said.
“Sir,” Nigel answered in that way that made Jak think he was about to sneeze. Jak felt his brow raise, waiting. No sneeze came. “Welcome home, sir.” Nigel opened the door wider.
“Thank you. I need to talk to my grandfather.”
“Mr. Fairbanks is upstairs. Should I call him for you?”
Jak nodded, stepping inside. “Yes. Thank you.”
He wasn’t sure he was welcomed there anymore, not as family anyway, so he walked to the big room near the door where he’d first met his grandfather, practicing what he wanted to say to him. Thank you for giving me a name, but I don’t need a home anymore. There it was. Simple words.
As he waited, the quiet of the house seemed to close in on him. He walked to the desk, picking up the picture of his father and staring at the man’s face. He did look like him, he could see that now. He wondered if he’d looked like him when he was a little boy too. The only pictures he’d seen of himself as a child were the ones he’d found in Driscoll’s house. The ones that made him sick.
He opened the drawer of the desk, removing a big, thick book and opening it. It was the book of pictures—the photo album—his grandfather had told him about when he’d first met him.
He set it on the desk, turning the pages, seeing pictures of his grandfather, a brown-haired woman who must be his real grandmother, and the little boy who had been his father. Christmases. Parties with balloons and presents, lakes and boats and things Jak couldn’t name. And in all of them, smiles. Everyone had been smiling.
His eyes stopped on one of the pictures, surprise
making him pause as he brought the picture closer. His grandfather and his father, a teenager then, standing together with a trophy. Jak’s eyes moved to the background where there were round targets. Jak squinted, looking more closely at the trophy. The words on the front said “First Place Archery” and his father’s name.
Jak swallowed. His father was good—no great—with a bow and arrow.
His father was dead though. He couldn’t have killed Driscoll. He stared back at the picture, the look of pride on his grandfather’s face. Like he’d practiced with a bow and arrow right along with his son. Like they’d practiced together.
The whispers inside him—his intuition—spiked. He’d already known it, hadn’t he? He’d smelled him there, the lingering scent of what he’d thought was a campfire but had really been the smell of his grandfather’s cigar. He’d been at Driscoll’s right before him. The footprints leading to the window had been his.
“Jak,” his grandfather said from the doorway. Jak looked up. His grandfather paused, frowning at whatever was on Jak’s face.
“Archery,” he said, tapping the photo album. “Driscoll. It was you. Why?”
His grandfather looked at the photo album, his face draining of color and then away. He opened his mouth once then closed it, a look of defeat coming over his face as his shoulders hunched. He let out a shuddery breath. “He took you, and then he made you into an animal.”
His grandfather’s words hurt him. He didn’t want them to, but they did. “I’m not an animal.”
“I know, son. I know. I see that now. But at the time.” He walked farther into the room and leaned against a chair near where Jak was standing. “At the time, all I could see was my own regret. My own shame and rage. I gave you away, but he made it so I could never get you back. Never make things right. He ruined my last chance for happiness. And I despised him. He took the last piece of my heart and so I took his.” He’d shot the arrow straight into Driscoll’s heart. He’d gotten his vengeance using the same kind of weapon Jak’s father had been so good with? He’d killed him with the love and pride he’d had in his son.
His grandfather massaged his chest as though it pained him there, his face scrunching. “I thought he’d turned you into a . . . beast. Only”—he let out a laugh that sounded like someone was strangling him from the inside—“I’m the beast. We’re the animals.” He raised his arm and waved it around the house. “And I surrounded myself with them, casting off my own blood. You deserved . . . a life. Better than what . . . I only wish. Oh God, I wish—”
He clutched his chest again and a loud moan came up his throat. His face went white and screwed up as he pitched forward. “Get help . . . Jak.”
Jak caught him, going down to the floor, holding his grandfather in his arms. His grandfather looked up at him, his face a grimace. But a pained smile turned up the corners of his lips as he reached up and ran his hand down Jak’s cheek, before his arm fell to the floor. “You’re the best of us . . .” he whispered, his voice fading away as his eyes closed.
Jak laid his grandfather down gently and went for help.