“The last time we did that, we ended up in a fistfight.”
“Well, hopefully, you and your dad won’t lose your tempers and act like children again.” She pecked Jarrett’s cheek. “He loves you, honey, but you’re like oil and water. Try to play nice.” She left the room, the squeaky door that led to the kitchen swinging behind her.
He craned his neck and moaned as it popped. How simple it would be to jump on his bike and disappear. No one would even know in time to stop him. He headed into the living room as Marissa snuggled with her son on the sofa. He couldn’t make out their whispered words, and he didn’t dare intrude in their bubble, so he moved on. The front door loomed a few feet away. Sweat dampened his palms. His skin itched. Freedom, so close, but damn his soul to hell if ever caused Jason pain. When he left, he had to tell the boy goodbye. He grumbled a curse and headed down the hall until he reached the den—his father’s haven, and Jarrett’s most despised room in the house.
“What you said to my grandson was good. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Should he take that as a compliment? Jarrett joined his father at the far wall near a pair of dark-wood bookcases cluttered with paperback crime novels. His dad’s washed-out portrait of himself as a younger man in his dress uniform once hung smack-dab in the middle between the shelves, but someone—likely his old man—had moved it off to the side and hung Joel’s official policeman portrait next to it. If his father had his way, Jarrett would have his photo up there, too, just another clone from the source. Damn, he loved his brother, but why had he always followed in their father’s footsteps?
“Marissa has done a good job with Jason. Even though I just found out a few days ago that he exists, he’s still my nephew. I don’t want anyone or anything to hurt him.” The serious eyes in the familiar face staring back at him from Joel’s portrait heaved chunks in Jarrett’s stomach. If he trimmed his hair to that godawful buzz cut Joel had always favored, he would swear that he was looking in a mirror.
Back when he lived in California or New Mexico, he was his own person—no matter what identity he’d claimed—and no one would ever mistake him for his goody-two-shoes brother. Here in Siltan, he was poor Lieutenant Brandt’s misfit son, Joel’s rebellious twin, the no-good punk who shamed the family.
“I read every article I could find on Joel’s case. A thirty-year sentence for killing a cop, even an off-duty one, makes little sense.”
Harold fisted his hands. “The damn perp was seventeen at the time of the shooting. The courts tried him as an adult, but Internal Affairs botched the investigation. Most people who kill cops get life or death row, but the asshole got thirty years with the possibility of parole in twenty.” He sighed heavily and stomped away to plop on his creaky leather recliner. A ceremonial retirement plaque and a few certificates graced the wall around the mounted TV like an ever-present reminder of everything he was and everything he’d lost.
How could the man stand it? Jarrett scratched his scalp and perched on the edge of the same olive-green suede sofa from his childhood. Other than Joel’s photo, his father hadn’t changed a damn thing in the room.
“I retired four months before Joel died. If I hadn’t, I could’ve pulled every string under the sun for a longer sentence. Hell, I pulled every string I could anyway, but little good it did. The chief promised justice, but thirty years—a hundred years—is nothing to a father. There was so much damn red tape, technicalities, and bureaucratic bullshit. You know how it is, red tape and all.” He clutched the armrests. “No, you don’t. Construction workers don’t know shit about the law.”
“Harold.” Linda hissed as she strode in. “You promised.”
“I know”—he held up his hand in Jarrett’s direction as if in apology—“but he doesn’t know. That’s the truth, Linda. The boy chose his own path away from his family.” He bobbed his head at Jarrett from past the magazine-cluttered coffee table. “That’s fine. You’re clean, living healthy, and by the law. It’s better than nothing.” He grabbed the television remote and flipped on the news.
A tic beat in Jarrett’s jaw. That was as close to a handshake, pat on the back, andI’m proud of you, sonthat he would get from his old man, but his father was wrong. He knew all about arrests, bookings, police proceedings, and red tape, and not from being a cop’s son. Even though he didn’t have any current, on-the-book arrest records in his name, one had existed for about six months until a judge expunged it.
“How’s Jason?” he asked Marissa.
“Sleeping. He’s had a busy day.” She sat on the green love seat and swiped her hands on her slacks.
Linda seized the spot next to him and grasped his hand. “Where are you staying tonight?”
Jarrett shrugged. “Not sure. I planned to leave town after visiting the cemetery, but Marissa blew that idea out of the water.” He smiled at her as blush filled her cheeks.
Linda winced. “Things didn’t go well earlier. Of course, you’d want to leave as soon as possible. I’m sorry. What your dad said is inexcusable. I should have defended you.”
The retired lieutenant shifted and gripped the remote so hard his knuckles whitened.
“There was no need for you to defend me.” Especially since she likely agreed with him. “And don’t defend him. I’ll never be good enough in his eyes.”
“You are to me. You’re more than welcome to stay here. Your room is exactly as you left it.”
Harold scowled. “Now, Linda—”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it.” He pulled from her hold. “You may want me here—so thank you, Mom—but we both know who has the final word.” He tilted his head toward his father in accusation. “It’s fine. I won’t intrude.”
Linda frantically clutched his hand again. “It’s no intrusion. Youarewanted. We just don’t know what to say or how to act around you. It’s been so long.”
“I understand, I do, but I shouldn’t stay and get your hopes up when I don’t intend to come back.” He squeezed her hand, released it, and stood. “Mom, Dad, thanks for the meal, but I should go. It’s getting late.” He maneuvered around the furniture and left the room. Each step he took soothed his raw nerves. He donned his jacket as fast as he could and cursed as the women dashed toward him from down the hall.
Marissa grabbed her coat and forced her arms through the sleeves.
“No, don’t. I’m not leaving because of an argument. I’m not angry, so you aren’t coming with me.”
“Like hell I’m not.” She snatched her purse from the entryway table. “We have things to talk about.”
“Like what?”
