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I didn’t.
“I never gave that Zippo to anyone,” I say.
“Then how did it end up on the counter? Huh?” he yells.
“I didn’t give it to them! You have the wrong girl,” I say.
“Bullshit!” he spits.
“It’s the truth. Yes, I found that fucking Zippo of yours, but I kept it in a box in the shed. I never handed it over to anyone.”
“Your brothers must’ve gotten their hands on it then,” he barks.
“No, that’s impossible,” I say.
“They were at the shop, Dixie!” he shouts. “They fucking killed my papa with their own fucking hands.”
He’s so angry, I feel as though he’s going to punch a hole in the ground beside my head. I close my eyes as he lets his rage loose on the soil, roaring out loud.
“My papa is dead because of you!”
And even though I didn’t do anything wrong, I still feel guilty. Guilt he bestowed upon me the moment he decided I was to blame for his pain. That same pain I know all too well.
But my brothers are innocent.
“They didn’t do it,” I say.
“They did, and you know it. They knew my papa had those Zippos on his shelves, so they must’ve thought he set the farmhouse on fire. Except no one did. I didn’t even do it on purpose,” he says, taking a deep breath. “After you broke up with me, I needed a cig, so I lit one. And then I saw your brothers busy in that farmhouse. They caught me looking, so I ran. And then the fire broke out.”
“And you left your fucking Zippo,” I mutter.
“Which you found,” he fills in for me, flashing the Zippo again, holding it in front of both of us as if it’s some sort of final piece to the puzzle.
But it isn’t. Far from it.
Because I know for a fact my brothers didn’t do this … and that they were murdered for nothing.
“So you killed my brothers … for killing your dad?” I mutter, choking on my own words.
“An eye for an eye,” he says through gritted teeth.
“And you think I gave them the Zippo that led them to your dad?”
“Finally, you admit it.”
I shake my head, closing my eyes so he doesn’t see me cry.
No wonder we got so fucked up in the head.
No wonder he’s so pissed off.
But it’s directed at the wrong person.
“You’re wrong,” I say, lying still on the harsh ground, wondering what it all means. Why things happened the way they did. It must be one sick, cruel joke. And for some reason, it makes me laugh. Out loud. Hard. Pathetic.
“What’s so fucking funny about my papa’s murder?” he snarls.
“Nothing, but you have the wrong person,” I say.
He grabs my shirt again, pulling me closer to his face so he can yell a little louder. “You brought them to his doorstep, Dixie!”
“I didn’t,” I say. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“What?” he snarls.
“My brothers were at the farm with me and my parents the entire time,” I explain, looking him directly in the eyes. “We were cleaning up the mess from the fire you started. They didn’t leave the property until the day they died.”
The look in his eyes changes drastically, and his lips part, his face darkening.
“What?” he mumbles.
“Yeah, they have an alibi,” I say. “Me and my parents.”
He shakes his head vigorously. “No.”
“It. Wasn’t. Them.”
“There was a fucking note!” he stammers, clearly not wanting the whole image he painted of us to break apart into tiny little pieces. But I have bad news for him … everything he thought about me and my family was wrong.
“My brothers didn’t kill your dad, Brandon,” I say with the most serious tone I can muster right now.
“Then who fucking did?” he growls, clasping the Zippo as if it’s his last lifeline to the truth.
“I don’t fucking know,” I say, “but it wasn’t them.”
Suddenly, he pulls out his gun again and points it right at my head. “You’re lying, right? Tell me you’re fucking lying,” he says, hiding fury behind those vicious eyes. But his hands tremor with fear. Fear of the unknown truth about to be exposed.
And with his gun pointed right at me and death looming right around the corner, I still find the courage to shake my head, and say, “No. It’s the God’s honest truth.”
With eyes that predict thunder, he gets up off me and shakes his head profusely, refusing to face the truth. Both our bodies shake from the revelation. From the realization that this is why we’ve been hunting each other … why we’ve been haunting each other’s minds for decades.
This.
His father’s murder.
My brothers’ murder.
This is why he did the unforgivable.
And it was all for nothing.
“You murdered my brothers when they didn’t do anything,” I hiss.
“No,” he says, pacing around with the gun still in his hands. “They killed my papa.”
