Blood and Sympathy

by Lori L. Clark

  Blood and Sympathy

  Lori L. Clark

  Copyright © 2014 Lori L. Clark

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by Lori L. Clark

  www.LoriLClark.com

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of the above author of this book. Except when quoting brief passages for the purpose of writing reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  The first idea the child must acquire is that

  of the difference between good and evil.

  Maria Montessori

  Prologue

  Summer 2009

  Identical twins, Brogan and Braden Sayer, have more in common than their genetics. Both ended up in juvenile detention at the age of twelve for a crime the state prosecutor believes the brothers committed together.

  The boys, the media dubbed as the "Sayer Slayers," were taken into custody in early 2009 for setting the fire that resulted in the death of their stepfather, Jonas Gingerich.

  Brogan Sayer was found guilty of setting the fire, and sent to juvenile detention where he will remain until the age of eighteen. An earlier attempt to determine whether or not Braden Sayer acted alongside his twin brother ended in a mistrial.

  Lawyers for Braden must now prove that their client was not involved in the actual plot carried out by Brogan.

  "From our position, Braden was not present when the fire was started," said Victor Helms, who, alongside fellow attorney William Talbot, is representing Braden.

  While Helms admits that his client has been in and out of trouble with the law in the past for petty crimes, the attorney asserts that it is twin brother Brogan who is solely responsible for setting the fire.

  "Brogan is the proverbial evil twin," Helms said. "Not Braden."

  "Brogan has always been the aggressive one, the ringleader, whereas Braden was always more impressionable. He idealized his brother. Braden's more of a follower," Talbot agreed.

  Talbot said Braden continues to insist that he did nothing wrong.

  "He says he loves Brogan but then adds, 'We're brothers by blood, yes, but what he did was wrong. I'm afraid of what he's capable of sometimes,'" Helms said.

  Braden is currently being held in a separate, undisclosed location away from his brother while he awaits a new trial, which is scheduled to begin next week.

  "It's a much harder case because he's a twin," Helms said. "His whole life he's been pulled into his brother's shadow because they look alike."

  PART ONE:

  JANUARY 2014

  CHAPTER ONE

  Claire Copeland

  I was beyond frustrated by Alistair's inability to perform (again) so I rolled his drunken ass off of me. I stood and yanked up my pants. I don't know why the hell I even bothered trying to have sex with him. He used to be a damn good fuck--when he was sober. Trouble was, he was rarely sober these days. There was a fine line between booze helping your sex life and killing it with a nasty case of whiskey dick.

  We'd planned a quiet night, just the two of us. A little weed, a little wine, and a whole lot of horizontal fun. The first time he came like two minutes into it, and I had to get myself off. The second time, yeah, well that was worse. He could barely get it up, let alone keep it up.

  The fire had all but gone out, and it was biting cold inside the small cabin. Since my conscience wouldn't allow me to let him freeze to death, I tossed a couple hunks of wood onto the remaining coals in the fireplace and poked them until they started to burn.

  I threw on my coat and boots and stomped out to the car. Even with the heater on full blast, I was chilled to the bone. I'd left my mittens inside the cabin. I had one hand on the steering wheel and one on the dashboard vents of the old Taurus SHO. I was too busy trying to keep from getting frostbit that by the time I realized I needed to slow down to make the approaching curve, it was too late.

  I slammed on the brakes, the rear end of the car fishtailing in the loose gravel. My tires caught on a patch of ice at the edge of the road, and the car nosedived into the ditch; thankfully it was one of the more shallow spots. I was officially fucked. And not in a good way.

  The door was jammed and I threw my shoulder against it trying to force it open so I could climb out. My boots sunk into the soft ground as I made my way up out of the ditch. I knew exactly where I was--Sayer's Corner. I couldn't count the number of cars that had gone in the ditch in that very spot over the years. Most of the time it was people who weren't familiar with the road that were driving a little too fast after a day at the lake; other times, it was an idiot like me who wasn't paying attention to where the hell they were going.

  I leaned against the back bumper of the car and lit a cigarette while I figured out my next move. I wasn't supposed to be out this late. Truthfully, I wasn't supposed to be out at all. I was still serving the rest of my punishment from the last time I'd gotten into trouble. Not sure which offense it was--when you got into hot water as much as I did, the crimes all tended to blur together into one big bunch of fuck-ups.

  It was a little after three in the morning, colder than a witch's broomstick, and I wasn't exactly dressed for the weather. The closest house on the road belonged to Jeb Sayer, one of my dad's oldest friends. Jeb wouldn't be very happ
y about getting roused from sleep at this hour, but it wouldn't be the first time.

  Jeb owned Sayer's Marina and Small Engine down on Devil's Fork Lake. It wasn't too far, but it was a bit of a walk. I took a long drag off my cigarette and tossed it to the ground, grinding it out with the toe of my boot.

  The motion detector outside Jeb's house lit up the yard like the fourth of July. Katie, Jeb's old bloodhound, howled and trotted over. I patted her on top of the head and she nudged me with her graying muzzle. "Hey Katie."

  The front door swung open and I found myself staring down the barrel of a shotgun. "State your business!" Jeb's gruff voice called out.

  "Hey Jeb, it's just me. Claire Copeland."

  "You do realize it's three o'clock in the morning, and most folks are asleep at this hour?"

  Thank you Captain Obvious. "Yes, I know that. I was just on my way home, and um, something ran out in front of my car. I had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting it, and, well, here I am."

  "Something ran out in front of your car?" he drawled. His eyes bored into me the same way my dad's did whenever he knew I was lying.

  I fidgeted and stuck my hands in my front pockets. "Jeb…" I paused, wondering how much info I should give him. I cocked my head and stared up at him. "Do you think you could pull me out of the ditch?"

  He shook his head and scrubbed his hands over the scruff on his jaw. "Let me guess, your daddy don't know you're out, your sister don't know you're drivin' her car, and you got to get home right now."

  "Pretty much."

  He blew out a noisy sigh. "Let me get the tractor."

  I dropped my head and stared down at my feet. "Thank you, Jeb."

  He grunted something unintelligible and disappeared inside the house. In a few minutes, he reemerged. "You know I can't keep this from your daddy, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He had the car out of the shallow ditch in no time, and I was on my way home again.

  ***

  "Claire, get up. We're going to be late!" Olivia, my sister, said in between raps on my bedroom door. Each thump made me wince beneath the covers.

  For once in my life, I would have loved to sleep in on a Sunday morning, but since our dad was Reverend Copeland, preacher at the only church in our tiny town of Hensteeth, Tennessee, some things weren't negotiable. Skipping church because I'd stayed out too late on Saturday night wasn't an option.

  I rolled over and my head spun like one of those plastic yellow daisies in Mrs. Talbot's flower garden down the road. I kicked the covers off and swung my long legs over the side of the bed. "I'm coming, Liv."

  She gave me a "when are you going to learn" stare down when I emerged from my room. As I tugged a long skirt over my hips, she wrinkled her nose and said, "Unfortunately, there's no time for you to shower. Go comb your hair and spritz on some perfume. You smell like a beer-soaked ashtray. I'll meet you downstairs."

  I pulled a brush through the wavy length of my auburn hair before coaxing it into a knot at the back of my head. I brushed, gargled, and gagged, hopeful I wouldn't throw up all over the front of my clean clothes. I doused on the cherry vanilla body spray and snatched up my shoes on the way out to the car.

  January was just about behind us, and the winter weather wasn't close to giving up without a fight. I pulled the wool coat tightly around me and put my shoes on as soon as I climbed into the passenger seat of the vintage car.

  "It's beyond me how you haven't caught pneumonia yet," she grumbled, and put the car in gear before speeding down the rutted lane.

  "It's beyond me how you haven't wrapped this thing around a tree with the way you drive." I pointed over my shoulder. "I think you missed a pothole, better go back."

  "I would if we had any time to spare."

  The organ music could be heard from the parking lot as I slammed the car door and walked around to meet Olivia.

  "See? Plenty of time. You worry too much," I muttered under my breath.

  "I wasn't worried. Besides, I'm not the one you'd have to answer to if we weren't on time. Daddy just gets embarrassed when his daughters are the last two members of the congregation to walk through the doors every Sunday morning."

  "You could have gone on ahead without me," I said, yawning. "Everyone knows you're the good daughter. They expect this from me. But you? No, not Miss Perfect."

  We'd had this same conversation countless times. Eleven months separated us and most people thought we were twins. Those same people probably wondered how one child was so perfect, and the other was so not.

  I blamed fate. The cards had been stacked against me from the day I came kicking and screaming into this world. My mother died giving me life, and I always figured that was why our dad liked Olivia more than me.

  Each week, the back pew was left empty for us. We'd never been early, we'd never even been on time, but we always showed up, and that was all that mattered if you asked me. I slid across the smooth solid oak bench and Olivia scooted in beside me.

  I slouched into a more relaxed position and glanced sideways at her. "Wake me up when it's over."

  She gave me a steely-eyed glare. "Don't you even think about it, Claire."

  The music stopped and people shifted restlessly while waiting for the services to begin. Dad's chosen topic for the day was the tabula rasa--the theory that people are born like a blank slate, and that all their knowledge comes from life experiences. I wondered if it was my imagination--or guilty conscience--that made me feel as though his eyes lingered on me a little longer than usual as he preached about good and evil. His rich baritone voice made me want to sink lower in my seat.

  "When it comes to the aspects of whether man is born evil or whether society makes him that way, I tend to favor the nurture side of the nature versus nurture debate." He paused to let his words sink in.

  My hands were folded in my lap, and I picked at my chipped nail polish. Olivia nudged me with her elbow. "Stop."

  "It's not up to you or me to condemn a man for his sins. That's not our job. I try to give a person the benefit of the doubt because I want to believe that good can indeed overcome evil. With a little patience, understanding, and forgiveness, I think almost everyone has redeemable qualities. Judge not lest ye be judged."

  Mrs. Rummels, with her blue-tinted hair, took a seat in front of the massive pipe organ which was only slightly older than she was. I lip-synched along with the hymn, letting Dad's words settle into the recesses of my brain.

  "Before you all stampede out of here today, my daughter Olivia has an announcement to make. It's no coincidence that I chose the topic of good versus evil and the power of forgiveness for today's sermon," he said, his eyes skimming over the crowd, landing on my sister. "Come on up, Olivia."

  I stared as she made her way to the front of the church. She hated being the center of attention. I could almost see the sweat pooling beneath her arms.

  "Thank you, Daddy. I promise I won't keep y'all any longer than necessary." She chuckled nervously. "I've been asked by my professor to head up the correspondence program with a few of the inmates at West Tennessee Juvenile Detention Center. If you're interested in having a WTJDC pen pal, or have any questions about it, let me know. The program has been very successful in the past."

  Afterward, as people filed out of the church the sub-freezing temperatures made milling around outside uncomfortable. I was anxious to get home and take a shower since I smelled like rancid cherries. Dad caught up with us as we were walking across the parking lot.

  "We've been invited to Jeb's for lunch," he said. Lunch at Jeb's house was an after-church standing invitation, and if Dad said we were going, it wasn't optional.

  "Claire and I'd love to join you, Daddy. We'll meet you there." Olivia accepted graciously for the both of us while I wondered if I could jog home without turning into a block of ice. I pasted on a fake smile, hoping it didn't resemble a scowl, knowing my ass would be grass as soon as Jeb brought up the car in the ditch incident. Dad nodded at Olivia and headed t
oward his car.

  "We'd love to join you, Daddy," I mocked with my best Olivia Copeland imitation as I slid into the passenger seat and fastened my seatbelt.

  "I don't sound like that."

  "Yeah, you kind of do."

  "It won't kill you to go," she said, starting the car and revving the engine.

  "Don't blame me when your nose hairs start to singe from my lack of hygiene." I folded my arms across my chest and turned up the radio to avoid further conversation.

  She turned it back down. "Don't you want to know the name of your pen pal?"

  I peered sideways at her. "My what? The hell are you talking about?"

  "The WTJDC pen pal program," she said. "Would you like to know who you're going to be writing to?"

  "I'm not writing to some criminal. What if when he gets out he wants to meet me? Then what? In case you've forgotten, West Tennessee Juvie isn't that far from Hensteeth. God, Olivia. I'm not that desperate for friends. And I'm not looking for a boyfriend," I said. I needed a cigarette.

  "Your new pen pal is Braden Sayer," she said, as though I hadn't just told her no.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Braden Sayer

  Class was almost over with for the day and Alex was on a tangent about some pen pal program. He encouraged us to put our names on a list to receive letters from people willing to write to us.

  Alex is one of the few teachers I've trusted during the four years and six months I've been incarcerated in this hellhole. He has always been real big on getting us to set goals, and says having something to reach for gives us a sense of purpose in our otherwise fucked-up existence. It's supposed to help keep us from reentering the system once we've been released.

  The odds are stacked against everyone in here, and a lot of these kids will wind up right back on the inside as repeat or habitual offenders. I think Alex truly gives a shit; he acts like he wants to help us all beat the odds. There are some here who are broken beyond repair, incapable of anything other than a life of crime. Some of it petty stuff, some of it unimaginable.