Page 81

I step back.
She laughs. “Jumpy.”
“More like keeping my distance,” I say. “I am standing across from the woman who murdered my father.”
I’ve never said the words out loud, making the accusation directly. She freezes, her hand hanging, still reaching out as if to touch me. She snaps her hand back, and it drops to her side. The statement hangs between us, sucking the air from the room.
“Funny. You’re funny.” She turns so I can’t see her face, returning and settling herself in her dip on the couch. Finally, her eyes settle on mine. “You’re funny, but you’re wrong.”
“About what?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t kill your father.”
“How can I believe you?” I demand.
“You were young. The state wanted someone to blame. They put all kinds of thoughts in your head before you testified.” She smiles. “But you stayed loyal, and I thank you for that.” I wait, needing to hear more, wanting nothing to do with it. Finally, she says, “I didn’t kill him, Harrison. It was an accident. Truly. And I’m sorry.”
The details of that day are hazy. It was so long ago, and I will never truly know the truth. I find myself void of energy to deal with the past any longer.
I simply say, “Okay, Mom.”
She’s less confident than I ever remember her being. She’s fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve as she says, “I’m doing it better this time around. He’s got proper meals, and I’m working two jobs to pay for his sports. I’m working hard at it?—”
“Hard at what?” I ask.
She says, “Being a mom to your brother.”
The sound of the front door opening grabs our attention.
She stands back up, saying, “Speak of the devil and he shall appear.” She tosses the unlit cigarette into her pocket.
I turn to the door. What I see causes my breath to whoosh out of my chest. All the blood in my veins rushes to my head at once.
The doorway of my mother’s apartment has become a time warp, some kind of funhouse mirror showing me an alternative version of… me. I’m staring at a much younger, slightly better-looking version of myself. Tall and broad, he has dark hair like mine, more wavy than curly, but he must have his father’s green eyes.
“Yes, Mother, it’s me. Your son, Lucifer.” He grins, a dimple appearing on his cheek, a mirror to my own, and I’m confident he smiles much more than I do. “Though Ms. Enid called me an angel for raking her leaves for her last week.”
“Harrison,” Mom says, “this is my son, Blaze.”
“Haze and Blaze,” I mutter, still stunned by the presence of my brother standing before me in the flesh.
She laughs. “I wanted a more respectable name. Something like Ascot or Wolfgang. At the time, his father was into arson, so here we have Blaze.”
“Not true. Mother’s attempt at a joke.” Blaze turns to me, explaining, “My father was into gambling. If I was a betting man myself, I’d put money down you could guess the horse’s name that won him some money.”
“Blaze,” I offer.
“Correct.” The young man reaches out to shake my hand. “Blaze Brooks. A pleasure to meet you, Harrison.” He eyes me, curious. “And you are?”
“I’m…”
There’s no denying that the young man in her house is my flesh and blood. I can’t stop the protective energy that shoots through my chest. I can’t leave him here. But he seems clear-eyed. Happy. Is it fair to come in here like this? Dump this information on him? Then demand he come with me, a stranger, and have him leave everything he’s ever known?
Just like I did to Ophelia…
My revenge was foolishness. I should have left Ophelia alone. Now, my vengeance for my father’s legacy would be to take Blaze with me. I won’t make the same mistake twice.
I take one long, last look at my only sibling in this world and say, “I’m no one. I used to live here…. Was passing by and wanted a peek.”