“Yes, they did. They stayed with us for a week or so until the accident and then we had to rush Jack to the hospital. They went home straight after that.”
They stayed with us. That part is very hazy in my head but I was barely eight. Children remember what they want to remember. “The accident?” I ask as glimpses of a visit to the hospital trip through my head.
“Yes, he was riding your bike when he had a nasty fall. A sharp-tipped branch cut right through his side. Poor, poor little guy.”
The truth hits me once and for all, unhurried, like a wounded bird that I have to keep close to my chest. Jaxson had that remote look on his face when I asked about the scar on his side. I thought it was because he wanted to avoid a conversation, but now I’m beginning to see he was probably wondering if it would trigger any memories in me, if I would finally open my eyes to see who was sitting right in front of me.
“How did it happen?” I mumble. “How did he fall?”
“I’m not sure how it happened, honey. He was riding the bike by himself. I think you two had a little fight. Our neighbor, Mr. Jones, found him bleeding and trying to walk back home. We took him to the hospital. They stitched him up and put him on antibiotics and pain meds. You wanted to visit him at the hospital. He was so happy to see you. He was over the moon. I’ll never forget his little face brightening up despite all his pains.”
“I can’t believe I forgot all that,” I say, absentmindedly. Processing hasn’t even begun yet. It might take me months to come to terms with those simple childhood memories.
My mother pets my hair. “Why are you asking now? It’s been so long.”
“No reason,” I say, shrugging. “Just the photo. It’s funny how we block out so many things as we grow older.”
“If we remembered everything, our heads would explode,” my mom says, patting my thigh. “Where do you want to go for dinner?”
“Wherever you want,” I say, getting up. “I just need to freshen up and make a few calls.”
In the room I still consider my own, the room where I grew up reading my beloved childhood books by Dr. Seuss, C.S. Lewis and Madeleine L’Engle, playing board games and gluing glow-in-the-dark stars to the walls, I’m finally able to let out a deep sigh.
A horde of thoughts rush against my skull fighting for a way out. It’s easy to start making assumptions about Jaxson’s motives and intentions, easy to convince myself I understand completely what drives him.
But can anything be that easy? People are complicated. There are still so many unanswered questions—like, how long has Jax been collecting information about me? What did he plan to do with it? When did he realize I was Madison’s stepsister? Why all the secrecy? Why didn’t he just tell me who he was? I gave him every chance in the world to come clean. I don’t even know how many times I asked him what he really wanted.
And then there’s the one giant, nagging question I’ve been trying to avoid asking. Did he kill Maddy? Did I just sleep with a psychotic murderer who happens to be obsessed with me? Am I his next mark?
Questions that have no rational answers are not good for the soul—not when everything around you hangs in the balance. What I need now is a cool head and enough strength to face Jaxson. Because no matter how difficult it is, no matter how many barriers have been raised between us, the only thing I know for sure is that I have to talk to him.
I have to look into his eyes and ask for the truth. There’s no way in hell he can lie to me now. Even if he tries, I’ll see it deep inside him, in little Jack Caleb’s lost eyes.
Scrolling through my address book in my phone, I stop at Donald Jameson’s number. I’m thankful Esposito took the time to provide me with a list of phone numbers I might find useful for the investigation.
Jameson might be my best shot at getting the answer I need. He answers almost instantly. He recognizes my name and he’s eager to take my call—who would have thought?
“Have you heard the dreadful news, Miss Wade?” he says. “The police have arrested Jaxson. It’s a terrible mistake. How could this happen? The boy’s innocent. I’m sure of it.”
“That’s right,” I say slowly, picking my words. “I agree with you. It’s a mistake. That’s why I’m calling. I have a question for you that might help me prove his innocence.” I’m getting good at hiding my thoughts. Not a trait I was looking to develop, but this world seems to require it.
“Oh, really?” Jameson says in a way that could indicate he either realizes I’m full of shit or hopes he can get rid of me if he just plays along. One thing’s for sure, he’s not convinced.