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I hold my hands up in mock surrender.
“Shit, okay. Well, Sharon Ketis is Jane’s mother and the one who owned the antique business. Robert Ketis was Sharon’s husband, but not Jane’s father.” I step away, pacing as I recall the details. “I’m not sure, but I think something happened to Jane’s real dad. Sharon remarried to this guy, Robert, to save the antique business. He was a doctor, seemed alright on paper, but I have a feeling he wasn’t very good to Jane, if you know what I mean. Robert had a son who had the same name, but they didn’t call him that.”
Branson’s eyes widen. “Bud?”
I nod. “Robert and Sharon both died around the same time, around thirty years ago.”
“Do you know what happened?”
I shake my head. “No, but I can guess.”
He nods too, “Fair enough. So, you think she killed them back then and the police are connecting this all now?”
I shrug. “It’s the best I have. The timeline is about right, and I saw newspapers with a missing person notice for Sharon and Robert in Jane’s desk. If they never found them but did now, it might raise some questions.”
I watch Branson’s face as he considers this before I clear my throat.
“There’s one more thing I want to tell you.”
He turns to me, his brown eyes searching deep into mine.
“There… there was a picture in Jane’s desk too. Of Robert Ketis.”
“And?”
“And he looked like you,” I say, watching his face closely. His nostrils flare and I see the wheels turning, the recognition. That he suffered two decades for a dead man’s sins.
“Branson?” I ask after a moment, unable to read the darkness that’s written across his face. His eyes snap back to mine.
“We should wait,” he replies. “Let’s wait until dark and head back to the motel to grab our stuff.”
“Okay,” I reply with a wan smile, which he returns. I told him what I needed to. What he does with it is up to him.
A few bird songs ring out behind us and it's only then I realize how beautiful of a spot this is. There’s a light chill to the air, but the sun is shining through the thick trees, making the dewy forest glisten. I look at Branson and his pale skin and my smile grows.
“Since we have some time to kill, how about a walk?”
He gives me a small smile and a nod, taking my offered hand. I happen to know these forests go for a long time and, as a matter of fact, if we walked long enough, we’d end up back at Jane’s. Branson hasn’t spent much time outdoors, but I’ve spent many afternoons wandering these woods.
“I don’t suppose either of us ever had much chance of a normal life,” I say conversationally. Branson slows his step beside me, but we keep walking, hand in hand. “I think, if not for, or, you know, all of it, I would have wanted to work and live outside, somewhere like this.”
I let go of his hand long enough to outstretch my arms, spinning in a slow circle before stopping. He smiles as he looks around.
“I could see why you like it. Even the air seems to smell better out here. I always thought that was just a saying, but it isn’t.”
I giggle, “Nope, definitely actually a thing.”
We continue our walk in silence for a few minutes, both lost in our own thoughts.
“I wonder what I would have been like,” he finally says, and though his tone is light, I feel the sadness beneath the words. It’s strange how sad that makes me. How much it makes me want to change that, when I consider that only months ago, I would have reveled in his misery. Or did I?
I can’t help but wonder if it’s always been the same, a back and forth, a power struggle and us finding our dynamic. Would we have had such tumultuous years if not for Jane? Maybe not. But somehow, I think if we met under any circumstances, there always would have been a struggle. And I don’t doubt that no matter what else, we always would have found one another.
After all we’ve been through, I know he’s my soul’s fucked up and twisted counterpart. The only man alive who could take what I gave and come out stronger for it. If that isn’t fucking fate, then I don’t know what is.
“What about a doctor or something?” I reply, thinking back to the medical texts he used to read to me. Even now once in a while, I catch him reciting random terms under his breath and I don’t even know if he realizes he’s doing it.
“Doctor?” he asks with scorn.
“Since when do you have a problem with doctors?”
He doesn’t reply and I get the sense there’s something he doesn’t want to say. Despite my immediate desire to push him, I remember I’m trying to make him happy.
“You are good at memorizing, have steady hands, and want to make people feel good. Plus, you’re calm, or more than me, at least,” I say with a wink and he chuckles.
“True, I guess. I don’t think I like dealing with people, though.”
“People do suck,” I agree.
After that, we walk in silence again.
