Pieces in Chance

by Juli Valenti

  “…your brother … we got a call. I’ll be…”

  Drew was having trouble following his hands and closed her eyes, holding up one of her own to halt him. Pulling as much oxygen as possible into her lungs, she forced herself to focus. Ready and paying as close attention as she could, she motioned for him to start over.

  “Drew, I’m so sorry,” he started again and it took her entire resolve to stay calm enough to let him finish. “We got a call … It’s your brother. I’m so sorry. I’ll be there to get you in ten minutes.”

  What did he mean he got a call? And it was her brother? What did that mean?! Was he in the hospital? Was he okay? So many questions filtered through her head, consuming her, all demanding to be asked. She raised her hand to ask one of them, which, she wasn’t sure, but what Jensen said replayed in her head. I’m so sorry, he’d said. He would only say that if…

  “No, Jens. You tell me he’s okay, right now,” she demanded aloud, too upset to sign and him follow her movements. Instead, she hoped against hope she was wrong, that she’d misunderstood the man she loved. Surely her brother was just hurt. Maybe he’d gotten drunk somewhere, fell, and hit his head. Maybe he’d been in a car accident and they were rushing him to the hospital. His I’m so sorry couldn’t be that he was gone.

  Jensen refused to look at her, his eyes downcast for a long moment. When he looked at her again, his eyes were red and she knew. Drew didn’t need him to sign to tell her; Dean was dead. She wasn’t sure how or what happened, but he was gone. The pain her chest had eased, turning into a dull ache, as disbelief set in.

  He continued to sign, saying things that were completely lost on her. Drew’s attention was gone – going back to the night two weeks ago when he’d hit her. She’d known he was in a bad place, and watching Jensen defend her had helped ease the hurt in one way, but increased it in the other. Her twin had always promised to be better than the man her father had been. He’d sworn it on the many, many occasions he had to paint her face to hide the bruises. Never, in a million years, did she ever think he’d strike her. But now, now he was gone, and she knew, deep down, she was the cause.

  Drew stood at the end of the driveway to her childhood home, feeling more lost than ever as she blankly stared at the building. There were more emergency vehicles than she even knew Chance had – it seemed every police cruiser in town was there, along with every ambulance and even two fire trucks, though there was no fire in sight.

  The ride from Jensen’s house to her old place was somber and quiet, with nothing being said on either end. She knew she’d have to pump him for details, but with him driving, she’d decided it wasn’t the place to do so. Instead, the moment they arrived, she’d jumped out of his cruiser, searching for her brother, but not finding him. Confused, she’d turned to Jensen.

  “They had to take him away already. You shouldn’t have to see him like that, anyway, Drew,” he’d told her, his face grim, his expression telling her he never wanted to tell her that ever. He hadn’t even moved to hold her, to touch her, and she was inwardly glad. If he did she would break, completely crumble, and she couldn’t afford that yet. She needed answers.

  He’d told her to wait until they’d gotten the information they needed from the ‘crime scene,’ and she listened, remaining standing where she was. Finally, she saw him walking toward her.

  “You can go inside now, if you want,” he said slowly, wiping his hand across his face in an attempt to wipe away whatever horror he was still hiding from her.

  Nodding, she followed him back inside the house, surprised to find everything in its place. All the furniture was righted, the floors cleaned, even the pictures on the mantle were dusted. It looked nothing like it had the last time she and Jensen had been inside, and it confused her. Turning, she looked at Jensen.

  “Did they clean the place, too?”

  In answer he shook his head ‘no,’ confusing her even more. Instinct drove her movements, guiding her from room to room, and she found herself climbing the stairs. Hands shaking, she hesitated at the door to her old room. Drew didn’t know how she knew, but she did – this was the room that whatever happened, happened. One glance at Jensen confirmed her suspicions.

  Holding her breath, she turned the knob, unsure of what to expect as she entered. The floor remained scorched, though the smell of wood cleaner filled the air, as if someone had tried to scrub it recently. Her belongings were still destroyed, and she didn’t see anything that indicated anything worse had happened. As she turned to leave, a glint of white on the old plywood dresser caught her gaze. She snatched the piece of paper and sat down, idly realizing it was the exact spot she’d held her ground against the fire. Opening it, Dean’s writing filled the page.

  Dear Drew,

  Twin sister, as you’re reading this, I’m already gone. I hope you’re the one to find this, rather than it being confiscated by anyone who tries to rescue me, because it’s you who needs to read what I have to say.

  First, and foremost, I’m so sorry for the other day. I have absolutely no excuses that even begin to make what I did okay. After losing mom, and seeing what dad had become, especially toward you, I promised I would never be like him. That I would always appreciate women, and you, and that I would protect you. Instead, I have become the exact same person.

  You need to know it was never you, or anything you did, that made me become the way I did. Guilt and my own self-loathing played a large part, but never you, Drew. I hated the fact I was spared, and so many bad things happened to you. I stood on the sidelines, playing the All-American while you were beaten within an inch of your life – you lost your fucking hearing and all I could so was … put on a pretty face I guess.

  After dad died, every time I looked at you in the hospital, all I saw was my own failure as your brother. Eventually, after I told you I couldn’t see you anymore, I turned to drinking because when I was drunk, it didn’t hurt so bad. I sort of understand why our dad did it too – though I, in no way, condone what he did, just that I understand it some. Except… well, it never took away the pain. It only masked it for a little while.

  Seeing you with Officer Marks, only fueled my anger and then my guilt. I’ve been miserable, hating my life, and here you were – looking happier than I’ve seen in a long time, with a man at your side who loves you. He stood by you because he loves you… whereas I, your twin brother, couldn’t love you enough to do the same. Sure, I know the love is different, that of a boyfriend versus that of a brother, but love should be love.

  So, instead of being happy for you, I lashed out in a way I can never take back. I wish your man had done worse to me – I wish he’d continued hitting me until I was nothing, because that’s what I deserved, and that’s what I am. I am nothing.

  For everything, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for abandoning you, I’m sorry for not saving you, and I’m so sorry for hurting you. I want you to live, Drew, and I want you to thrive and smile, and do something. Even if it takes you leaving Chance, do it. You deserve a great life, and I hope beyond hope you’ll find it.

  I’m so sorry. You’re my twin sister, the other half of me, and I’ve failed you, and I’m sorry.

  I love you, Scarlet Drew. I hope one day you’ll forgive me.

  Goodbye for now,

  Scottie Dean.

  Tears fell, dripping onto the white lined paper, causing the ink to spread. Drew wanted to scream, to rip the stupid note in a million pieces, while the other half of her wanted to hold it to her. She wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. It couldn’t be real. Her brother couldn’t have taken his life, taken himself out of her life forever. He’d said it himself – she was the other half of him, and he the other half of her.

  Already she felt empty without him, like a large part of her had been cut out and thrown to the wind. Guilt filled her. He said it wasn’t her fault, but it was. If she hadn’t chosen to come here, he wouldn’t have hit her, Jensen wouldn’t have hit him, and he would still be alive.

  Or
would he? the voice in her head tried to rationalize. Going by his note, his guilt-filled depression had been going on much longer than just the last two weeks. Still, even knowing that, didn’t make it hurt any less. He’d been all she had left, the only family she had in the world. With her mom gone, and then her dad, it had come down to just the twins. Both of her parents had been only children, and their parents had died long ago. The Townsend line ended with her and Dean. Now, she was all that was left.

  Glancing up and around at her room, the room that had once made her so happy and later turned into a prison, she could almost convince herself she was having a nightmare. She’d soon wake up, comfortable and warm and safe in Jensen’s arms, her brother fine and well, though as distant as always. But, as she felt large hands wrap around her, she knew she was wide awake.

  She stood, pulling away from Jensen’s embrace. She wasn’t ready to fall apart yet. Walking blindly, Drew made it into Dean’s room, grabbing his gym bag from under his bed where he’d always kept it. With one quick move, she emptied its contents onto his bed, before pulling a couple of his shirts from his drawers and stuffing them inside it. Next she took the pictures off his dresser, the ones with him and her smiling, though some of hers was forced, as well as his class ring and football letter patch. She also pulled the cigar box from underneath his mattress, the one that held all the memories he held dear, and added it to the bag as well.

  The entire room smelled of his cologne, of him, and the air felt like it was waiting. Waiting for its owner to walk back in, to occupy the bed or to study at his desk. But it would be waiting forever, just like her. Grabbing the bag from his bed, she let herself out of his room and locked the knob behind her before blankly walking out of the house.

  Drew never turned back to glance at the house, nor did she turn to see if Jensen was following her. She already knew he was, though she didn’t want to talk to him, or anyone. Instead, she was at an inner war with herself, fighting her emotions and thoughts; one thought became resolute, though. Never would she step back into that house. If she had her way, the entire hunk of wood would be razed to the ground. Too much bad had happened there, too much heartache and pain that would forever haunt her. It was all just too much.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jensen

  Drew had completely checked out. There was no other word or expression Jensen could think of to describe her. He’d known it would be bad, too, he just hadn’t realized how bad.

  He’d been on patrol when he texted her, excited about the possibility of the two of them getting away from Chance for a while. As he hit send on the message, his radio had gone off.

  “Squad two, this is base, come in squad two,” Sherry, the dispatcher’s voice came through.

  “Come in base,” he answered, practically smiling to himself. Following the radio protocol in Chance always made him laugh. It was such a small town, with only three cars to begin with, and only two normal dispatchers – Sherry and Cheryl, the latter working the night shift. But, he followed the rules.

  “We got a call from the Townsend house – we need units out to check on the boy. The young girl who called it in is in a state, crying and believing him to have … well … we need to check it out.”

  Jensen’s heart stopped. His first thought had been that Drew went over there instead of going to the library, and that something happened to her. Yet, he thought about it, knowing that she would’ve called him before dialing 911. It would’ve had to be really bad for her to call without hearing any questions from the other end of the line.

  After confirming he was on his way, he drove as fast as he could, shooting questioning looks at Carrigan as he drove. His partner’s eyes were pinched in worry and neither said anything, both dreading what they would be walking into. Instinct had them on edge; whatever they were about to encounter wasn’t going to be good.

  His suspicions had been correct. Jensen let Carrigan take the teenaged girl, who claimed to be Dean’s girlfriend, Tiffany, away from the house as he entered, drawing his gun as he went from room to room. The fact that the entire place had been scrubbed from top to bottom didn’t escape his attention, startling him. It seemed like a completely different house than the one he’d been in weeks ago.

  As he climbed the steps, dread filled him. And, as he made his way down the hallway to the room Drew had been found, barely breathing, he held his breath. Glancing around the doorjamb, he saw him. Dean was on his back, his arms spread, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and an orange prescription pill container in the other. Holstering his gun, he rushed over to the boy and knelt, his hand searching his neck for a pulse but finding none.

  “No. You can’t do this, you selfish son of a bitch,” he demanded, compressing his chest in an effort to get him breathing. He counted and held his nose, before placing his mouth over his and forcing air into the smaller man’s lungs. The entire time he performed CPR he prayed it wasn’t happening. In his entire time in the military, then the police department, he had never prayed for hope more than he did now.

  But it was useless. There was no saving Dean Townsend. Even as the paramedics entered the room, taking over his ministrations, he knew. The boy was gone, and Drew’s life was going to change, and not for the better. His heart hurt so badly in his chest and his eyes stung; how was he going to tell her? Leaving the room, the house, he stumbled his way outside, forcing large gulps of fresh air into his lungs.

  Carrigan ambled over, taking one look at Jensen before turning around, his hands resting on his knees as he, too, tried to breathe. The fact that one family in town could have drawn such a short stick seemed so unfair, and as the vibrating in his pocket continued, he knew Drew felt something was wrong.

  It took several long moments for him to compose himself well enough to actually pull his phone out. He had a few missed video dials from Drew and he took a deep breath as it vibrated again in his hand. Pressing the answer button, he found her beautiful face pinched in worry, her hand rubbing against her chest. Setting his phone down, propping it against the dash of his cruiser, he began signing.

  “I’m so sorry Drew. We got a call and it’s your brother. I’ll be there to get you as soon as I can,” he told her, except she wasn’t watching him. Her eyes were closed and he could tell she was breathing deeply, trying to calm herself.

  She gave him the gesture to repeat his words and he did. Drew continued to stare at him blankly, as if she didn’t understand. After a moment she spoke, demanding he tell her that Dean was okay, emotionally eviscerating him. He couldn’t even look at her, couldn’t tell her the truth. Yet, she knew him well enough – his not speaking spoke volumes to her.

  Since he picked her up, took her to the house, and she found the note, she’d barely cried, which surprised him. It had been during her reading the suicide letter he’d missed that the most tears fell. Now she sat unmoving, as still as a statue on his couch, the bag she’d taken from the house at her feet, her fingers caressing the strap.

  Jensen didn’t know what to do. He wanted to pull her to him, to tell her how sorry he was, but he knew it wasn’t good enough. Nothing he said would make it okay, nothing would take the loss away from her. There wasn’t anything he could do to take the pain from her, and he knew it. So he sat beside her, his arm outstretched behind her on the couch, careful not to touch her. When he’d tried to hold her before she’d pulled away; he was pretty sure it was because she would fall apart if she let her guard down. It was what she should do, what, in reality, she needed to do, but he knew she wouldn’t.

  Drew hated weakness, had told him so many times. She’d been so helpless, so weak, when her father had beaten her, when he’d taken advantage of her even, and she’d resolved in the hospital to not be that girl anymore. She’d confided that she’d hated every time she cried to him, every time he glimpsed the brokenness inside her. Jensen had told her he never thought less of her for any of it, but she hadn’t seemed to believe him.

  After what could have been hours of the
two of them seated the way they were, Jensen’s cell phone rang. Glancing at Drew, he answered it.

  “How is she, Marks?” Carrigan’s voice filtered through the line, his words gruff with emotion.

  “Not good, in truth. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. I’m at a loss here. I don’t know what to do,” he answered truthfully, hoping his partner would give him some sort of advice he could go on. To his surprise, Drew turned to face him before the other man could speak.

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. Just because I can’t hear you, doesn’t mean I don’t know,” she said emptily, no heat or emotion behind her words. They were simplistic, a statement of fact, but spoken like she didn’t care whether he continued or not.

  “Baby, I’m sorry,” he told her, ignoring the words his partner was speaking. As he watched Drew, he expected her to say something else, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood and, taking her brother’s bag with her, she made her way to his bedroom, leaving him in the room alone.

  “Fuck. I don’t know what to do here, Tommy. Seriously. This girl … she’s been through hell and back. Every time she gets through something, life throws her another god-damned wrench at her. This time, I’m not sure I can do anything, either. I mean, she won’t talk to me, nothing.”

  “You’ve got to let her grieve, buddy. It’s not going to be easy, but she’s strong,” he said before changing the subject. “The ME has a cause of death though – it was suicide, which we already knew. Ironically, the amount of drugs in his system would’ve only made him sick if it weren’t for the alcohol he’d consumed. His blood level measured point five six, the highest our examiner has ever seen. Even without the drugs, the liquor would’ve taken him. Fucking shame – kid had a bright future.”