Thicker Than Water Page 21

  He glances at me again. “You all right? We’ll get some lunch, but I can’t take you somewhere looking like that. I’ll loan you some things.”

  My mouth is dry. I have to lick my lips, but my voice still comes out with a rasp. “Who are you?”

  He smiles, looking amused again. “You haven’t figured it out yet? Honestly, I’m a little disappointed.”

  I haven’t figured it out . . . ? My thoughts spin.

  Easy, Tommy. Easy.

  Only my mother ever called me Tommy.

  My breath catches.

  “If you’re going to throw up, I’ll pull over.”

  “JB,” I whisper.

  “Yeah.”

  “Jonathan Bellweather.”

  “At your service.” He gives me another glance. “I wasn’t kidding about pulling over. Can you hold it together?”

  “Yeah. Yes.” I lick my lips again. “What are you—how are you—what—” I reel my thoughts in so I can get one clear sentence out. “What are you doing here?”

  “You’re in a world of trouble, little brother.” He looks over again. “I’m here to help you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THOMAS

  My brother isn’t much of a talker. I’m sitting in the front seat, trying to figure out when my life went flying off the rails, and he’s singing along with a country-western song on the radio while we fly down the highway.

  Three hundred questions crowd my brain, but all I can think to say is, “Did you really pay them a million dollars?”

  “Wrote them a check. We’ll be long gone before they cash it.”

  I turn wide eyes his way, and he laughs under his breath. “You’re too much.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously, I gave them a bail bond. Normally, you have to have ten percent to get one of those, but I know a guy.”

  Either lack of sleep has stolen my senses, or this conversation is going over my head. “Ten percent? What?”

  He glances over. “If you need to bail someone out of jail, you have two options. You can pay everything up front, at court. The bad guy gets to go free, until he’s required to show up for court. If he shows up, the person who paid bail gets their money back. But if you don’t have that much money—like a million dollars—you go to a bail bondsman, and you give them ten percent or so, and they provide a bail bond for the whole thing. If you show up for court, great. They get their money back and everyone is happy. If you don’t show up, the bail bondsman is allowed to come after you and drag you back.”

  “So you paid a hundred thousand dollars?” My brain is still reeling.

  “No.” He flicks the dials to turn on the air conditioning. “Sorry, I can’t take it anymore.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good.”

  I study him, trying to remember if my sketch in the car with Charlotte came close to what he really looks like. Do we look alike? I can’t tell. Now that he’s driving, he’s wearing sunglasses that hide his eyes. He’s not a big guy, but he’s bigger than I am—he looks like he lifts weights on a regular basis. His biceps strain the sleeve of his T-shirt, leading to clear definition along his forearm. I guess that would make sense, if he was in the military and he’s now in law enforcement.

  “So . . .” I turn his explanation over in my head. “You know a bail bondsman?”

  “I am a bail bondsman.”

  I blink. “I thought you were a cop or something.”

  His nostrils flare, and he glares at me like I just suggested he should be responsible for cleaning toilets at the bus station. “No, I’m not a cop. What the hell would give you that idea?”

  He looks like he expects an answer, and I’m not sure what to say. My eyes flick to the weapon holstered at his waist. “Um. The gun. The vest.”

  He glances down. “BEA. Bail Enforcement Agent.” He grins, and any irritation leaves his voice. “The gun is for skips. They don’t exactly leap in the car when I show up.”

  I need a glossary for this conversation. “What’s a skip?”

  “Someone who didn’t want to stick around for court. Clarence mostly handles the paperwork side nowadays, and I chase down the idiots who don’t stick around.” He lifts a hand to acknowledge someone who changes lanes to let him pass.

  He’s driving really fast, but he’s not aggressive about it. In fact, people seem to get out of his way when he approaches. Maybe seeing an SUV doing ninety miles per hour in the rear view mirror provides a lot of incentive. Wherever we’re going, we’ll get there in record time. I clear my throat. “Clarence?”

  “You met him last night. Big guy on Main Street.”

  I met him. Big guy on Main Street.

  “In Crisfield?” I whisper.

  “Yep.”

  “At the bail bonds place.”

  “Yep.”

  My head hurts. “But I told him I was looking for you! He said he’d never heard of you!”

  “He didn’t know who you were. You told him you were looking for your brother, but that you didn’t know what he looked like. He thought you were coming to settle the score for someone I’d picked up.” He gives me a quick once-over. “Honestly, I don’t know why he was worried.”

  He’s insulting me? He’s fucking insulting me right now?

  He gives my shoulder a little shove. “Lighten up. I’m yanking your chain.”

  I take a long breath and blow it out. “I can’t lighten up. I don’t understand anything that’s going on.” I look at him again, thinking of everything that happened last night. “Were you there? When I was looking for you?”

  “No. He called me. Why?”

  I think of the Asian guy who grabbed Charlotte. Today has been bizarre, but there’s no way to fit that puzzle piece in. Maybe it was an anomaly, like I said to her last night. The rest of today, though . . . I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. I know I didn’t attack Charlotte. We were—we were okay.”

  “First girlfriend?”

  “She’s not—”

  “Come on.” He gives me a withering glance.

  I swallow and shake my head again. The yellow CCDOC shirt catches the sunlight, providing a glaring reminder—literally—that my life has gone to hell overnight. “She was my friend. She was the only one who believed me.” To my shame, my eyes go hot, and it takes everything I have to keep emotion out of my voice. “I didn’t hurt her. I wouldn’t.”

  He sighs. “Of course she believed you.” His tone is resigned. “You wanted her to.”

  He flicks the turn signal to exit the highway. We’re nearing Crisfield—and it took twenty minutes less than when Charlotte and I made the exact same drive.

  “Do you believe me?” I ask quietly.

  “About Charlotte? Sure. She wouldn’t be the first girl to change her story after letting regret settle in.”

  “They said someone tried to strangle her.”

  “That does complicate things.” His voice doesn’t make it sound complicated at all.

  I keep staring at him. He keeps staring at the road.

  “What about Mom?” I finally ask.

  His voice is flat. “What about her?”

  I don’t know what to make of that. He must know she’s dead. What did he say when I climbed into the car? You’re in a world of trouble, little brother.

  My voice comes out hushed and gravelly. “Do you think I killed her?”

  He shakes his head, but not like he’s answering me. More like he’s upset about something. “She should have told you.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother. She should have told you what could happen.” He turns at the first light, which isn’t close to the bail bonds shop, but isn’t far either.

  Your mother. Not our mother. “What could happen? What are you talking about?”

  Another turn, this time into a parking lot. We’re in front of a squat brick apartment building. The architecture is old-fashioned, making it look like it should be doing double duty as
a retirement home. JB swings his SUV into a parking place and kills the engine.

  He slides his sunglasses into a spot on the dash and doesn’t look at me. “Come inside. You can clean up. I’ll get you some clothes.”

  “I still don’t understand what you’re talking about. What could happen?”

  He keeps his eyes on the dashboard. “I’m talking about you, Tommy. She knew what you were, and she knew what could happen.”

  I want my brain to reject all these statements, but it’s accepting all of it. He’s not lying to me, and it doesn’t feel like he’s misleading me. “What am I?”

  He sighs and taps his fingers against the dashboard. “Come in. Clean up. I’ll—”

  “Tell me!”

  He looks at me, and his dark eyes are intense. “You asked me if I thought you did it.”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t need to think you killed her.” He pushes open his door, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “I know you did.”

  Then he’s gone, out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

  My breathing is loud in the empty cab. I know you did.

  I can’t move. I sit there, watching as he goes around the front of the car. My pulse roars in my ears.

  An image springs to mind, completely unbidden. My mother in that darkened bed, fingers wrapped around her neck, choking the life right out of her. The hands are mine. I can actually feel her windpipe collapsing.

  I’m going to throw up. My thoughts seem completely detached from my body. Time has frozen, or maybe I have.

  I know you did.

  He opens my door, and I launch myself at him. It’s not like Danny or the cop in the interrogation room. I want to get my hands on him. I want to punch him in his lying face.

  He dodges my hit easily, then my next one, but he doesn’t strike back. “Chill out, Tommy.”

  I hate that he calls me that. “I didn’t touch her,” I’m saying. I sound like I’m choking. “I would never—I would never—”

  “Come inside.”

  “Fuck you.” I take another swing at him.

  He’s quick. He sidesteps, leaving me to follow again. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “By telling me I killed my mother?” Tears. My voice is thick with tears. I can feel them on my face now. The day has been too long, and I can’t trust anyone. I don’t know what made me get into the car with him. “I didn’t do it,” I say. “Take me back. Take me back to prison.”

  “You don’t want to go to prison.”

  “I don’t want to be here with you.” He’s not moving, so I shove him in the chest, hard. “Take me back.”

  He sighs and falls back. “If you’d stop chasing me around the parking lot, I could explain—”

  I swing a fist. I want to hit him so hard that it breaks every bone in my hand.

  I don’t get the chance. He catches my forearm and spins me. My chest hits the pavement, and the only reason my face doesn’t smash into asphalt is because he’s got an arm around my neck. I must have hit my knees at some point, because it feels like I’ve torn right through my sweatpants.

  I was wrong earlier. This is humiliating.

  He does nothing more than pin me there for the longest moment. Proving a point? Being an asshole? I don’t know.

  I do know this hurts. The pain chases away some of my anger.

  “I get it,” I say, my voice grating. It’s hard to breathe with my neck twisted this way. “You’re stronger than me. Let me go.”

  “I really am trying to help you,” he says.

  “What’s wrong?” I wheeze. “Can’t take a punch?”

  “You’re funny. Are you going to behave yourself if I let you up?”

  I have to squeeze my eyes shut. My brain keeps supplying images of my mother’s body, but now, instead of seeing her corpse, she’s alive, choking, fighting for breath. I see hands wrapped around her neck. Fingers smudged with charcoal.

  “I want to curl up in a hole and die.”

  “No, you don’t.” He lets go of my neck. Pressure eases from my lower back, and I realize he was kneeling on me to pin me there.

  I press my forehead to the pavement. We’re in the middle of the parking lot, but I don’t care. The world is spinning, and there’s a good chance I might throw up.

  I don’t know what’s happening to me. “I didn’t do it. I loved her. I didn’t do it.”

  “It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”

  “None of this is okay.”

  My brother blows a long breath through his teeth. “Some of it is. Seriously, Tommy, you’re going to have to get off the ground, or my neighbors are going to think I brought a tweaker home.”

  I shift until I get my feet underneath me. I don’t want to move, but my muscles respond when I force them. My sweatpants are torn, and my knees sting something fierce. I can’t look at him, so I busy myself brushing grit from my clothes. Once my body is in motion, I convince my brain to move forward, too.

  I can’t talk about my mother again. I need to set that aside for a minute.

  I can’t stand here in silence, either.

  “Can you speak English for five minutes?” I say bitterly. “What the hell is a tweaker?”

  “A meth addict.”

  Nice. I scowl.

  He gives me a look up and down. I still can’t meet his eyes, but I can feel the air shift as he loses the mockery. “Come inside. You can get cleaned up. We can talk. Okay?”

  I don’t need to think you killed her. I know you did.

  I force my eyes to lift. “I don’t think I want to talk to you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “What are you, a mind reader now?”

  He smiles. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of.” I scowl. “What does that mean?”

  “It means sort of.” He turns away and pulls keys out of his pocket. He starts walking, not even looking back.

  “That’s it?” I call after him.

  “That’s it.” He keeps walking. When he gets to the door, he punches a code, and a buzzer sounds, releasing the lock.

  “What if I don’t want to follow you?” I yell.

  He stands there holding the door. “You do.”

  He’s right. I do.

  My brother’s clothes are too big for me, but nothing about them announces that I’m a criminal, so they’re a big step up from the fluorescent shirt the cops gave me. He gave me jeans and a T-shirt, and I could use a belt, but otherwise, I’m dressed and I’m free—for the time being—and that’s a lot better than the direction I thought my day was headed in.

  He’s got a nice apartment—nicer than I expected. Third floor, with a balcony off the main room. The bathroom is huge, and his towels are thick and plush. The mirror is large enough to give me a good look at the bruises forming on my knees around the abrasions. I look like a toddler who hasn’t learned to run yet.

  When I come out of the bathroom, I don’t see him, so I take a moment to look around. Two bedrooms are on either side of the bathroom, one of which is set up as an office. He didn’t make his bed this morning, but there aren’t any clothes lying around. I spy an expensive looking laptop on his desk. Two tall safes stand along the wall behind the desk, and my eyes stop there for a moment. Does he keep a lot of cash here or something?

  A big screen television is mounted on one wall of the living room, over the top of what looks like a gas fireplace. His couch is a large, beige L-shaped sectional, and his dining room table is a solid slab of stone mounted on a wrought iron base.

  He’s not a slob, but the place looks lived-in.

  “I ordered a pizza,” he calls from near the living room. Must be the kitchen—it’s the only room I can’t see from here.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You want to come sit down and talk, or are you going to keep hiding in the bathroom?”

  I ease my way out of the shadowed hallway and find him sitting in the one chair of the stone table that was hidden from view.
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br />   “I wasn’t hiding.”

  He gives me a look that tells me he thinks I’m full of shit. “You want a soda?”

  “Okay.”

  He uncurls from the chair and goes to the refrigerator. He’s lost the gun and the vest, but he’s no less intimidating.

  I still can’t quite believe that this man is my brother. My brain keeps thinking that he’s just some guy who knows a little bit about me.

  When he comes back to the table, I haven’t left the corner of the hallway, but he sets the soda in front of the seat opposite him, then drops back into his chair.

  I clear my throat. “How do you know about me, when I don’t know anything about you?”

  “Because I remember when you were born.” He pauses, and his eyes narrow just a little. “You must know something about me. You came looking for me.”

  I swallow. “I found your letters.” Now I pause, considering what he just said. “You remember when I was born?”

  “Yeah. I knew you for one year before she ran.” He traces a line in the stone surface of the table. “She kept my letters?”

  “Yeah.” The apartment is so quiet in between our words. “She ran?”

  “You know she ran.”

  He’s right. I do know she ran. But she ran when I was five, not when I was a baby. I shake my head, trying to make the timeline work in my head. “This doesn’t make any sense. I remember her leaving Dad—” I stop short and look at him. “Do we have the same father?”

  He nods.

  “Is he—is he still alive?”

  “Yes.” He grimaces. “Probably. It’s been a few years. I haven’t seen him since I enlisted.”

  “So you did join the military!”

  “Yes.” His dark eyes flick to the soda. “You going to sit down and drink that?”

  I slide into the chair, but I don’t touch the soda. We’re on eye level now, and neither of us looks away.

  “How’d you know about the army?” he asks. “I stopped writing to your mom before that.”

  “I went to the old address. Talked to a neighbor.”

  “You detective, you.” He rubs a hand over the back of his head. “Those letters probably sounded nuts. I was an . . . an emotional kid. Needy. I can’t believe she kept them.”