Page 19 of Beyond the Stix

I smile down at my mom, kiss her cheek and head inside the house. Not giving a fuck what I look like, I grab the bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet, and close myself in my old bedroom.

I want to drink myself stupid. With the lack of food in my gut, it won’t take me long before the amber liquid clouds my brain and makes me forget those slivers of memory cutting my insides.

Putting my sound-canceling headphones on, I tap to open a playlist on my phone, and let my breathing sync with the beats of songs I love.

As the liquid notes in my ears drown out my thoughts, the high of the alcohol hums through my blood. Fatigue finally wins out, and I collapse onto the full-size bed, falling fast asleep.

But it isn’t that easy, as my dreams crash into nightmares.

SIX

John

After Connor shutshimself in his bedroom, Fig and I make sure Jessup did leave.

Once Amanda goes to bed, Fig heads back to the spare room to get some sleep.

I plant myself on the couch, while the wall clock tick-tocks away past two in the morning. Restless, I stand and wander to the pictures on the wall, my eyes studying every one.

Jesus. It’s like a shrine. From Connor’s grade school pictures to boy scouts camping to his high school career in baseball. There’s one where he’s holding a set of drumsticks in his tiny hands. There are images of the band when they were at the Midwest Clash of Bands contest in downtown Chicago.

Then my eyes land on a photo of Jessup behind a set of drums, holding Connor on his lap, with sticks in his hand. I study the drummer’s young face and realize he had to be no more than three years old.

My mind keeps reeling over what Amanda said, about what Jessup did to Connor. But I have a feeling the drummer’s deep-rooted hatred for his uncle is rooted in more, a darker reason than a single slap across the face.

If the reason for Jessup being here was to apologize, then why did he clam up? He could have easily explained himself. But he didn’t. And that’s too suspicious in my book.

I’ve asked Connor, but his silence about the past is just that—silence. I won’t get anything from him.

As the night wears on, my mind becomes consumed with scenarios that all lead me to the startling realization that the bastard needs to be investigated.

I grab my phone from the coffee table, step out of the house, and hit Tobias’s number.

“Do you know what time it is?” he growls low.

“I know, but I need to keep this on the down low, without Connor finding out,” I admit, looking around the front lawn.

“Hold on,” Tobias mutters.

“Who is it?” I hear Danny asking.

“It’s John. It’s nothing. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” Then I hear a click. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“I’m sure Fig let you know that Jessup showed up here earlier.”

“Yeah—Is he there again?”

“No,” I say, and quickly explain. “I want to know Jessup’s history. Any felonies or misdemeanors. Jail time—anything to get a better insight on the man.”

Silence over the other end of the line has me squirming where I stand.

“Tobias.”

“What’s your interest in this matter—why do you want to know?”

“Strictly professional,” I lie.

“Bullshit,” he counters. “I want the truth, John.”