“But no monologue about it. Understand?” I ask. When she nods, I go on. “What do you want to know?”
“Jude broke up with Simone, right? Not the other way around?” When I hesitate, she goes on. “Look, I know what my parents told the world. They wanted it to seem like she’d broken it off and that caused him to go crazy, but they lied. Simone sat at the breakfast table two weeks before the shooting bawling because he’d broken up with her.”
I let out a low whistle. It wasn’t new information, but I hadn’t realized the Monroes were aware of it.
Jude had dumped Simone. He’d told me about it afterwards, an angry little gleam in his eyes, though he hadn’t offered an explanation as to why he’d done it other than that Mom had pushed him to. I always thought that was weird. Since when had Jude done anything Mom had told him to? However, I’d never bothered to correct the news people when they reported it the other way. It seemed to be one of those little life lines Monica’s family pinned everything on, their reason for Jude killing their baby—she’d dumped him.
But according to Monica, they’d known all along it wasn’t true.
“Yeah, Jude broke up with her.” I shrug. “I don’t know why, but whatever the reason, I got the impression even my mother agreed they should stop seeing each other. Jude was pissed about something, and he started quoting all this crap about true love being bullshit and how everyone is a liar, blah, blah, blah.”
“So do you think he killed her because he felt betrayed or was this one of those situations where if he couldn’t be with her, no one could?”
“I don’t know. Jude was fucked in the head.”
“What do you mean?”
Where to begin…
“He would do things, little things just to be an asshole. For example, Jude had this thing about punching me in the arm and he would do it all the time. I swear I have a permanent bruise from getting knuckle punched there a zillion times,” I say, rubbing my arm in the spot. “Sometimes he would fly into these crazy rages and claim the whole world was against him. Once he got started, Mom and I would just have to stand back and let me have his way until the mood passed.”
“How often would he do that?”
“Hard to say. That’s the thing about living with Jude. We had to tiptoe around him, out of fear one of us would do something to set him off. He held tight to grudges. You could say something in the most innocent way and a month later he’d be throwing it back in your face if he felt slighted.” I shake my head. “When he started dating Simone, he was actually better. He almost seemed normal. Almost.”
Monica doesn’t say anything to that, but a little frown creases her forehead as I plunge on, feeling braver. Maybe this is something I’ve needed to do. Having someone listen to me is new.
“Okay. Here’s an example. One summer I wanted to go to this science camp and Mom worked extra to pay for it, which meant she was gone a lot. Jude locked himself in his room and did nothing but draw. I didn’t mind. It was a relief to get away from him. He worked and worked all day long on this secret project so I was surprised when he came to me and said he wanted me to look at it. I’ll never forget the smile he had on his face.” Even now thinking about those drawings, seeing Jude’s raw feelings on paper makes my heart race. “They were pictures of me. All detailed, all well drawn, but in each one, he’d drawn me dead. There was one with a rope around my neck, another with a long spear going through my stomach.”
Jude showed me all the ways he wanted me to die. He often told me he’d never wanted a brother. Killing me was something he’d fantasized about for a long time. If I were dead, he would have Mom all to himself.
“How old were you?” Monica gasps.
“I dunno. Sixth grade or so, I guess. Jude would have been a freshman.”
“Did you tell your mom about the pictures?”
“I didn’t get a chance to. I freaked out about them like a little bitch and Jude knew he had to get rid of them. They would have been evidence to Mom of his mental state. He burnt them in the fire pit in our back yard.”
“Was he pissed?”
“Oh yeah, but that’s the thing about Jude. One day he would be in a great mood, king of the fucking world, and the next day he would be so low, so tired, and just plain mean. He never came out and said he was mad that he had to burn his drawings of me, but I know he never got over it.”
“What about your mom?” Monica asks. “What did she think about Jude?”
“He was her baby. When Jude was in middle school, the guidance counselor suggested he get some kind of psychological testing because he’d developed this thing about always needing to be clean. He would take two showers a day and sometimes obsessively clean things over and over and over. But my mother—” I pause, remembering how she’d babied him, how she’d catered to him. “She looked at Jude and saw only a gifted kid because he could draw well and speak like an adult. No way could something be wrong with him.”
“So what about that time when the cops came to your house and you were playing with the gun?” She studies me. “And the spray paint stuff? Did you really do all that, too, or was it Jude.”
“Jude had the gun. He forced me to take the blame when the cops came.” I look at the cracks in the ground beneath us, embarrassed. I really wish I were more of a badass in this tale. “I was too scared to tell them what really happened. The whole time he talked to them he was cool and calm, not in the slightest bit worried that I would tell the truth. My mom never even asked to hear my side of the story.”
“He really shot at you?” She tosses her head, her jaw setting in an angry line. “Jesus.”
“The scariest part is knowing he missed on purpose. He wanted me to understand that he could have killed me. And as for the spray-painting…yeah, that was me. What can I say? I like to tag things.”
Monica frowns and stares at the ground. “So what happened to all his other drawings? He used to carry around that black notebook. Whatever happened to it? Did the police take it?”
“I don’t know where it is,” I lie.
Monica studies me, thoughtful. “Why do you think Jude did it then? The shooting, I mean.”
“I’m not sure.”
It’s not quite a lie. I’m starting to form a few possible theories as to what could have led up to Jude’s rampage. I had fought against analyzing it too much for the last few months. Doing so felt like I was giving my brother more attention than he deserved. But there’s something that’s been bothering me since last night, something I didn’t have the guts to ask my mom about. It keeps tugging at my thoughts, begging to be paid attention to. It’s the thing I want to ask Monica about.
“Monica, did you know your father and my mother dated in high school?”
Her body stiffens and she lifts her head from my shoulder. “Really? How crazy is that?”
“I thought so, too. I don’t know the specifics,” I say, “but I got the impression from my mother that your mom and mine didn’t get along back then.”
“I see.” Monica is thoughtful. “But what does that have to do with Jude and Simone? I mean, it’s kind of scandalous to think about our folks hooking up, but it was a long time ago. Why would Jude have cared?”
Why indeed? But…what if…what if things hadn’t completely ended back in high school? What if something had been going on between Mr. Monroe and my mother in the last few years? That look they’d exchanged…it still bugged me.
“My mom has your dad’s number on the speed dial for our house phone. And the way she spoke to him on the phone….” I speak slow, unsure how Monica will take my idea. “It was like two people who knew each other by just the sound of their voice.”
“What are you saying?” Her voice goes up an octave. “That my dad and your mother...are a thing?”
“Maybe. Maybe that’s why Mom wanted Jude and your sister apart.” I try to say it lightly, but the idea has been doing a little dance in my head all day. “How messed
up would that be?”
“Pretty messed up. Like totally messed up given the circumstances.” She leans toward me, face serious. “Maybe Jude used that phone to call my house. Are you sure he’s not the one who put our number on speed dial?”
“Jude always used his cell phone to talk with Simone. I really don’t remember him every using the house phone,” I say, shrugging it off. “But it’s possible. Maybe I’m just thinking too much.”
“Maybe,” she says, but doubt flickers in her eyes and I wonder if she knows something more about the situation than I do. “Let me do some snooping around my house. See what I can find out.”
Her face is inches from mine. I try to stay focus, but the delicious heat I always get around her envelops me, causing my head to bend and my lips to brush lightly across hers.
Desperation.
I taste it in her kisses. She is desperate for attention, for affection. And I am no better. My hands won’t behave. They slide up and down her back, into her hair, before going to her sides. I tug at her shirt, wanting to put my hands beneath it.
Oh god. Her skin. Soft and warm. Too warm.
Monica’s hands are on the buttons of my shirt. Before I know what’s happened, she has it open and is touching my bruised body, sending all kinds of tension through me. Her hands are gentle on my ribs, tentative, but I don’t want her thinking about how they became sore. I’m afraid she’d stop this. So I pull her closer, wanting to devour her, wanting to make her forget about everything but me.
I don’t know how long we are on the bench like that. Anyone could have walked by. Anyone could have seen us. We could be in Instagram Hell in the next five minutes. But neither of us cares.
I’m considering throwing her on the grass and seeing if she wants to go to the next level.
“Okay…”she whispers.
Did I ask her? I’m pretty sure I kept the thought in my head.
“We’d better...take a break.” She pulls back, her eyes are dazed. There are high blotches of color leading from her neck down to her collarbone. “I promised myself that wouldn’t happen anymore.”
“Wasn’t just you,” I say, surprised at how out of breath I sound. “How did my shirt get unbuttoned?”
She turns bright red.
So adorable. So sexy.
“Not that I’m complaining,” I add, quickly. “I’m not complaining about anything that just happened.”
“Good.” She walks a few feet away, running her hand through her hair. “What are we going to do, Stephen? Should we stop this right now? Is this…are we…real?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
The thought of not seeing her...that’s just not acceptable anymore.
“I don’t know how this is going to end.” I go to her, putting my hands on her shoulders. “But I’m not going to stop seeing you. If it means sneaking around, that’s what it means. I will take the risk.”
A slow smile grows on her face.
“All right, then,” she says. “I’m in. I want to do this. Us, I mean.”
My ribs groan in protest, a reminder of what being with her could mean, as she slides her hand to my waist and leans into the kiss I give her.
I know then I’m in too deep.
When it comes to Monica, I’m just as obsessive as Jude.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MONICA
Eventually, I leave the park and Stephen. Things are getting too heated between us. My self-control deserts me time and again when I’m around him. I can’t trust myself.
On the walk home, I think about what Stephen told me about life with Jude.
What kind of hell has he endured for all these years? What kind of mother lets her son torture a sibling and ignores the signs of abuse? The evidence had been right in front of her.
And yet, you’re the one who didn’t have a clue about what was really happening between your own parents.
Touché, conscience.
Mom is home when I get there.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, staring blindly down at her iPad, which I notice is open to the Saks Fifth Avenue’s website. Next to it is a small stack of crumpled receipts and a glass. Her hair is tidier than when I last saw her, makeup perfectly in place. The light blue sundress she wears is good for her figure, showing off curves I will probably never have. Right now I can see how pretty she still is. I know she likes to say she is old, but the reality is, she’s maybe in her mid-forties. That’s plenty old, but still not too old to be attractive.
Then she looks up.
Her eyes give away she’s been drinking. Not enough to be drunk, but enough to be edgy.
“Where have you been, baby?” she asks. Baby? She hasn’t called me that in a million years, and if I’m not mistaken, I hear actual affection in the word. “You should have been home an hour ago. I was getting worried.”
Baby? Worried? A few days ago, I would have taken this as a sign that she is coming out of her depression. Now, I’m just suspicious.
“Studying at a friend’s place.” I search the pantry for a snack. “What’s for dinner?”
“Dinner?” She says the word as if she’s never heard it before. “How should I know?”
Because it’s your job to cook it!
“Is Daddy going to be late?” I ask, grabbing a granola bar.
“I don’t think so.” She narrows her eyes. “I heard you got into trouble yesterday.”
“I’m glad I could do something to get you and Daddy talking.”
“You better watch yourself, missy.” She shakes her finger at me. “You don’t want to be messing with grown up things. Drinking is bad for you.”
“You do it.”
“I’m an adult. You’re a child.”
“You sure about that?”
She lifts an eyebrow at my sarcasm. “I’m very sure I’m the grown up, and I’m sure I can take your phone, computer, and other privileges away from you if you don’t watch it.”
She smiles with fake sweetness, the action belying her threat. It’s odd. This is the mom I used to know, and her threatened restriction of privileges makes me feel better. This is normal stuff. The kind of thing that is supposed to happen.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’ll be in my room.”
“Hey!” She calls just as I’m about to escape up the stairs. “You never said which friend you were with?”
“You don’t know him.”
“Oh? A him?” There’s a smile teasing her voice. “You got a boyfriend?”
“No!”
Or do I? Because the way we ended our conversation, it sounds like Stephen and I are definitely an item. A secret one. The idea is thrilling and scary.
“It’s not that Stephen Valley is it?” Mom’s tone shifts from teasing to utter disdain so fast it takes me a second to understand she has been tricking me, buttering me up with attempts to be motherly. I turn around, saying nothing. She nods as if my face has confirmed her suspicions before she leans back in her chair, studying me. Okay. Two can place this game. She caught me off guard. Now it’s her turn.
As soon as Stephen asked me if our parents knew each other, I couldn’t help but think about Daddy saying he wasn’t seeing one of my teachers, but yet sort of implying he was seeing someone. Wouldn’t it be a real kick in the ass if it were Karen Valley?
Let’s find out.
“Mom, were you and Daddy ever friends with Mrs. Valley? I mean, before Simone.”
My mother pales. “Why would you want to know about that?”
“Were you?”
“What kind of nonsense has that bitch been telling you?” Mom stands. “What right does Karen Valley have to tell you anything?”
“She hasn’t told me anything! I just wondered—”
“Karen is a self-centered, selfish woman!”
“Why would you say that?”
“Why? Really?” Mom’s bitter laugh scares me. “You really don’t know why? She didn’
t tell you?”
I’ve hit the jackpot. Here we go. My mother is about to finally have the opportunity to go off on her nemesis.
“Tell me what? Mom, I just want to know if you guys were friends or something in the past. That’s all.”
“And why would you suddenly want to know that?”
“I figured since Simone and Jude dated—”
“Don’t mention his name in this house!” Mom bangs her hand against the table, rattling the glass she’d been drinking out of. “And as for Karen Valley…That woman has been a thorn in my side ever since high school! I warned Simone about that family. But she wouldn’t listen.”
“What did Mrs. Valley ever do to you, Mom?” I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool, although my heart is beating a mile a minute. “Let me guess. She beat you out for dance team captain or something in high school, right?”
She stares at me a long moment before picking up one of the crumpled receipts on the table.
“This fell out of the trash. Your father isn’t very good at secrets. He doesn’t know how to cover his tracks,” she practically hisses, thrusting the paper at me. “And just so you know, it was a little more than beating me out for dance captain. See if you can figure it out, Little Miss Know It All.”
She stomps away, but not before I’ve seen the pure hate glistening in her eyes.
I look down at the paper. It’s a receipt for Cal’s Drugstore. Someone has recently purchased pain medication there in the amount of $50.35. From the looks of it, it was some strong stuff. The kind you can’t buy over the counter.
What am I supposed to make of this?
The name for the prescription neatly printed out on the receipt jumps out at me.
S. Valley
Stephen Valley. This is a receipt for Stephen’s pain pills. It’s dated Saturday evening. My father’s signature is at the bottom. Daddy paid for Stephen’s medicine, the boy he told me he doesn’t care anything about. Why would he fork over fifty bucks to pay for his meds?
You know.
Something is going on between Daddy and Karen Valley.
But Jude killed Simone! How could my father stand to be around Karen? Were his feelings for her so strong that despite what happened, he would go to the aid of one of her kids? Is she the reason my parent’s marriage started to crumble three years ago?
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