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‘Forget it,’ I text him. ‘I was talking about love letters from a woman to our dad. Found them some time ago. Could be the woman he killed.’ I pause, fighting back another shudder. ‘She had a son. Our brother.’
There are no replies for a while, and I wonder if Merc decided this convo is nonsense. I should get up and resume cleaning, or go down to the stream and bathe. I stink of sweat to hell and back.
But then the phone chimes again. ‘Octavia said you mentioned that once. About Dad having more children.’
Suddenly I remember when it was that I mentioned this to Octavia, and I feel a pang of regret when I remember how I treated her that day. She’d come with her husband, Matt, to pick me up from prison and take me to breakfast. She’s said she’d been worried about me, told me about the bad dreams she had. And I’d basically told her to go fuck herself.
Son of a bitch.
‘Tell her... I’m sorry.’ I send the message before I have a chance to double-guess myself.
‘You can tell her yourself,’ he writes back and I glare at the phone.
This isn’t like Merc, to basically give me the finger. Then again it makes sense that he doesn’t wanna get between myself and his sister. It’s just that he’s been pushing me for so long to talk, open up, reach out. Is that his way of telling me to call Octavia directly?
Fuck him.
‘Tell her or not, I don’t give a shit,’ I type, the familiarity of my anger soothing. ‘Forget I asked.’
‘Why wait until now to do something about the letters?’ he writes almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting for my text—or rant.
Fuck.
Why? Because I’m finally able to focus on something else than my anger for the first time. To look past myself and my own difficulties to cope with the world. Because I have someone who seems to care for me, and it gives me strength.
Because I’m beginning to understand that anger isn’t the answer. That my family matters to me. That I can make a difference if I manage to get my head out of my ass.
For a good five minutes, I stare at my phone. Finally, I reply, ‘You’re asking too many questions.’
I get a string of laughing emojis for my efforts. Then, ‘Tell me how I can help.’
Reluctantly, I smile. That motherfucker. ‘I need ideas on how to identify the woman. I found a pair of earrings that seem old.’
‘You better not be expecting miracles, buddy, even from me.’
‘Go fuck yourself, Merc.’
‘Yeah, yeah. You love me anyway, big brother. That’s how families are, ya know. Btw, we are coming down to Destiny one of these days anyway. I said you’d have to tell Octavia you’re sorry yourself, didn’t I?’
Huh. That’s what he meant? ‘Why you coming over?’
‘Curb your enthusiasm,’ he writes back drily. ‘Maybe for the little ones to get to know their uncle Ross, how about that?’
‘You’re
full of bullshit,’ I write back, but I’m grinning so wide my face hurts.
Such an asshole, that little brother of mine... It must run in the family.
***
“They’re pretty,” Luna says later, sitting beside me on the sofa, cradling the earrings on the palm of one hand. “You’re right, they look old. Probably family heirlooms. You really think it’s possible to find out who their owner was?”
“It’s just an idea.” I rub a hand over my face, so damn tired, but smiling at her. I drape my arm around her and haul her against me. “I talked to Merc, and he said they’re coming here in a few days. I want him to take a look and tell me what he thinks. I’m hoping to convince him to talk to the cops instead of me. He has better chances of being heard.”
“The cops would listen to you.” Her upturned face is so cute I have to lean in and kiss her. “Ross Jones, I am serious.” She places two fingers against my lips. “You’re not a criminal. You helped the cops convict your dad. You found the murder weapon. They won’t dismiss you if you turn up with new evidence.”
The murder weapon. That’s right, I gave it to them. Images flash behind my eyes: the blood-crusted old ax, the shed, Dad with a long knife in his hand, face twisted with fury.
