Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(65)

With Mike, though, it was always about Dad, which meant hiding his art projects when our father checked in on him at night. Worst of all, it meant declining an invitation to participate in the county-wide art contest and giving up art school for the academy.

I should have told the kid then and there to f*ck what Dad thinks. Make your own life. If he can’t accept it, that’s his problem.

Instead. I went the easy route. I didn’t want to make my brother feel any worse than I knew he already did.

“I think he’s gonna be really happy, Mike.”

I swing an arm over my face to try and block out the sound of his voice that day. The look in his eyes. Both telling me no. Screaming at me, subconsciously or not, to support him instead of the ideas our father had for us to live as legacies to his name.

The quiet in this apartment isn’t f*cking helping much, though.

Where’s a train wreck when you need one?



X X X



I’m not sure how long I was out. It’s not until Frodo jumps on my gut, and I throw him off the bed in a knee jerk reaction to getting my bladder assaulted that I even realize I fell asleep.

That shit hurts.

Unfortunately for me, bladder control isn’t enough to make me forget the dream I just had. So I play a mind game with myself to push away the pain of being a failure of a brother for the time being. I get my ass outta the bed and take a piss because now I f*cking have to. After that, I go through the motions of a day in the life of Jackson Stiles.

It’s much later now. The sun isn’t blinding me so it must be on the other side of the building, making it after noon sometime. Not that I give a shit about time. Just an observation.

I skip a shave after I shower. I’m not in the mood. I pour some food into the hellcat’s bowl for whenever he gets hungry, and I head out, satisfied I’ll be one productive motherf*cker tonight.

Traffic sucks ass on the three-oh-one over to the office, so I take my standard alternate route. The one-twelve. Honestly, it’s not much better than three-oh-one. Worse, actually. But it makes me feel like I’m taking a stand for traffic haters all over the tristate area.

An eternity later I’m at the office listening to a little over fifteen messages on the answering machine. The results of being absent more than I thought I would be.

A bunch are from Ma. Some prospective clients. But then I listen to the last one. Something about it gives me the heebie-jeebies.

It’s not a client or family member. It’s not even a tele-f*cking-marketer.

“Mr. Stiles. Long time no talk.”

It’s my brother’s boss, and he’s chipper.

“I’d like to see you in my office, if it’s not inconvenient. Give me a call, and we’ll set something up.”

Odd. Not so much that he called, it’s not like I never hear from the guy. It’s more along the lines that he referred to me as Mister Stiles. Since when does he give a rat’s ass about how convenient anything is for me?

The phone rings. My mind is too busy pondering reasons Dick Walker would want to see me to bother looking to see who it is.

“Stiles.”

“Green.”

I grin despite the cheesy shit she just pulled.

“What’s up?”

“Your hunch was right. Two of the three boys were brought up on petty theft a few times. That kid, Decker? He was never even booked for anything until he wound up pursued and then dead. Donnie was assigned to foster care quite a few years back, but he disappeared off the radar and never ended up back in the system for some reason. Also there’s absolutely no mention, anywhere, of a brother.”

“Figures.”

“The only other thing on Donnie’s rap sheet is squatting once or twice, but you’d think they’d have set him up in a home or something after that, right?”

Someone had their Wheaties today.

“You’d think.”

I guess it makes sense Stix isn’t in the system. The homeless are basically forgotten about in Redemption, unless you call attention to yourself. Donnie and Jimmy must have made sure that didn’t happen with Jimmy.

“And, Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“No money was recorded as being found on any of the vics.”

Shit on a shingle. “I had a funny feeling you were gonna say that.”

“Do you think maybe they were stealing things to pawn? You know, so they could buy the pot and sell it?” I can hear her incessant foot tapping on the other end of the phone.

“Negative. That much pot means you’re selling. If you’re selling, you don’t need to steal. The money comes to you.”

“Okay, so none of them have a record of drug dealing, smuggling, or smoking. Suddenly, they turn up dead with only the cops as witnesses. Whoever killed them didn’t take the pot?” She’s right. That’s doesn’t f*cking compute. Why would Jim Galley set these kids up to look like they were pot ringers and then kill ’em?

“Maybe there wasn’t enough time to take it,” I say, partially thinking out loud.

“It was right out in the open. All they had to do was reach out and grab the shit. Unless someone planted it after they died.”

“Because they needed a reason for murdering kids with barely a scratch on their records?”

“Maybe─”