No Saint

by Jo Raven

I heap everything on the indicated tray, and try to focus on the reason I’m here. Visit Dad. Ask him about the woman, the earrings, the letters. The boy.

  Stop thinking about Luna. Luna leaving. Leaving you.

  I shake myself like a dog, as if that will shake the thoughts loose and break the circle.

  I’m patted down before I follow the officer through a door to the meeting area, or whatever it’s called. I’ve never visited Dad before. And he never visited me the times I was in jail before he was caught. This is all new and should distract me, only it’s a prison, and though not the same one I was sent to, time and again, the sounds, smells, the officers in sight, the uniforms... they throw me right back down that memory lane.

  And a new mantra forms: Stop thinking about your time in prison, about the nightmarish memories, the faces leering, the voices jeering for your death.

  Memories distorted by drugs, I remind myself. Big amounts of drugs.

  Almost lethal.

  I flick the images away from my mind, the remembered sensations of falling and fading into nothing, but they won’t go away that easily.

  Mantras are useless, let me tell you. By the time I’m sat down at a small table, in a room full of similar small tables and inmates talking to their loved ones, I’m sweating bullets and I can’t hear my own thoughts over the roaring in my ears.

  Then Dad walks in and that’s another whole can of worms in the shape of a man. I hadn’t realized I’d feel like someone sucker-punched me just by seeing him approach. I bet if I hadn’t skipped breakfast, I’d be hurling all over the little table and nondescript carpet.

  Dad narrows his eyes at me and takes a seat, his massive frame dwarfing the chair. It creaks ominously under his weight.

  “Ross,” he says evenly. “Finally decided to visit your old man?”

  I lick dry lips, and no proper reply comes to mind. How about... Glad to see you don’t have your ax with you? You left me with scars that can’t seem to heal? I hate you?

  “This isn’t a social visit,” I finally grind out.

  “Oh? Did you bring me cake?”

  Thrown off by the question, the presumption, I open my mouth and close it before I manage a dry “No.”

  “Then why the hell are you here?”

  “Seriously, that’s all you have to say to me after trying to fucking kill me?” It comes out in a rush, catching me by surprise, laced with bitterness and such fury it stings my throat.

  Oops. Guess I’m still torn up over that. Go figure...

  He just leans back in his creaking chair and stares at me, face expressionless. After a small lifetime has passed, he smirks. “Oh come on, Ross. It wasn’t personal.”

  Not personal? Killing your wife? Trying to kill me?

  I bite the words back. Fuck, I’m torn between wishing Luna was here with me, and being fucking thankful she’s not, not to see how off-balance I am around him.

  “I’m here to ask you,” I have to stop and take a breath, “who the other victim was. The other woman.”

  A familiar cruel smile twists his mouth. “And why should I tell you?” He leans forward, as if to impart a secret. “The police don’t know. They couldn’t figure it out. They have nothing.”

  “I found the letters,” I say. “And the earrings.”

  Something happens to his face. It warps and wrenches into something hideous, animalistic, fury and madness fighting for dominance. “Catherine,” he hisses, then, “You won’t find her!”

  And he reaches for me.

  I remember that face from my nightmares, from my memories as he lifted the knife to end my life—and that’s what sends me jerking back in the last second. He manages to snag the front of my T-shirt, though, lifts me to my feet, and with his other hand he backhands me so hard I almost go over sideways. I taste rusty metal in my mouth and I know it’s blood. He split my lip.

  My head is ringing, and I’m hanging in his grip, my legs unsteady. “What about the boy? What about your son? Where is he? Do you even know?

  “Catherine and Finn,” he says, and I’m not sure he realizes he’s saying the names. There doesn’t seem to be anyone behind his eyes that are so similar to mine, no human, no Jasper Jones. They’re hard and flat like glass. “Catherine and Finn...”

  “You!” someone yells. “Let him go. Officers, in here! Get him back to his cell.”

  “You won’t find her,” Dad says to me, or to himself, hard to tell. He releases me. “You can’t find her! I took her earrings! Her favorite earrings!”

  Panting hard, I drop back in my seat as if my strings were cut. I watch two guards wrestle Dad away and can’t relax until the door closes behind them, hiding him from view.

  Jeezus.

  That was close. I need to get out of here. He seemed insane. Did the killings send him off the deep end? Was wounding me the last straw? Or had he always been crazy and I just didn’t realize?

  “Are you all right?” The officer who let me in earlier is standing in front of me, looking concerned.

  “Yeah.” I make as if to stand and it takes me two tries before I manage. When I wipe my hand over my mouth, it comes away streaked with blood.

  “If you’ll follow me,” he says, “I’ll take you to the visitor bathroom so you can clean up.”

  I nod, and then regret it when my ears ring louder. Fuck, my head hurts, though it’s not as bad as the ache somewhere in my chest that’s killing me. Dad is a psycho who’d love to see me dead, Luna won’t stay, I even lost Buddy.

  A snicker escapes me, because, really, Ross? You gonna cry over a stray dog? But the snicker almost turns into something else, and I stop it.

  No, you don’t deserve to break down.

  God, but hope is a tough bastard, refusing to die. That’s where the pain is coming from. That last little flame still burning, after everything. It’s slowly getting snuffed out, and the cold is starting to spread once more.

  I got two names, though, I remember as I wash the blood off my chin and splash water on my face. Catherine, and Finn. Did the “C.” on the letters stand for Catherine? Is Finn her son?

  Her favorite earrings. Is that a clue? Did he take them from her body? Chances are she wore them all the time. What if she was filed as a missing person, and what if there is a photo of her wearing those earrings?

  Too many factors. Too much speculation. But you never know, do you? Not until you search.

  And as for Luna... she comes first. Her happiness, her freedom. If I can help her in any way, then that’s what I should start with, and I have an idea...

  Well, if my one act of redemption is gonna be this one, I might as well get on with it before night comes.

  ***

  In my pocket, I have a wad of my savings from the past couple of years. In my hand, a bottle of vodka. My plan is to find Luna, but my feet refuse to obey. When I left the house, the money in my pocket, my goal was to head to the diner, take her out back and talk to her.

  But instead I bought me some booze, got drunk and stopped to rest on the steps outside the grocer’s. At least, that was the idea. Resting.

  Then things got fucking weird, because I found myself walking down the Main street, Luna’s hand in mine. What’s weird is that she’s an adult, and I’m a kid. I have to look up to see her, and she’s taking me somewhere, but I don’t know where, and it twists my stomach into knots.

  I trust her. I know that. She wouldn’t hurt me.

  Not on purpose.

  She’s searching for something, though, for someone, and it’s not me. I try to keep up with her, but I can’t.

  And then Dad appears and drags me away from her, no matter how I fight him, kicking and punching and screaming for help. Nobody’s there to help me, and I’m going back to prison, with Dad, where he can finish killing me.

  “Ross, wake up. Come on, wake up, please.” The voice, soft, insistent, breaks the dream like a soap bubble, and I’m left gasping on the steps, the bottle rolling away from me.

  She’s here
, Luna is here, on the steps beside me—or maybe we’re still in the dream, and she came to rescue me from Dad’s fury.

  But then I see Conrad coming out of the store and I know that, dream or not, I’m in for another fight.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Luna

  “And... here’s some more frigging orders,” I announce, tearing the papers from my notebook and sticking them on the board for the cook to prepare. “How much can people eat, huh?”

  “You’re in a mood today,” she remarks, snickering. “Their hunger is good for business, girl.”

  I know. But I’ve had this bad feeling in the pit of my stomach ever since I told Ross we took Buddy in and it’s been eating at me. I can’t put my finger on it, couldn’t tell you what is bothering me. I don’t believe in premonitions. If I did, at least the way I feel today would make sense.

  “It’s PMS!” the cook calls from inside the kitchen, and I rub at my eyes.

  Or it could be PMS. Can’t argue with hormones.

  The thing is, I haven’t heard from Ross all day. He hasn’t answered my texts, and I really should stop worrying about it because he’s at work and is probably busy, but... there you have it. The bad feeling. The churning in my gut telling me something’s wrong.

  Best thing about work today, though, is that it takes my mind off my worry for a while. Then that’s over, too. I finish early, since I started early and, on a whim, I decide to go buy some doggie food for Buddy from the grocery store. I’m already climbing the steps to enter, when I notice someone sitting there and stop cold.

  Ross is slumped on the steps, a bottle in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other. He’s asleep, I realize after a moment of panic. Asleep sitting on the steps of the store.

  Drunk.

  Then disappointment sets in.

  Sitting down beside him, I grab his shoulder and shake him. “Ross. Ross! Wake up. Come on, wake up.”

  The bottle rolls from his hand, coming to a stop before it falls down the steps. He blinks at me, eyes blood-shot and unfocused.

  Seeing him like this I want to cry. “I thought you didn’t want to be like your dad,” I whisper.

  “A murdering old drunkard?” he rasps. “Well, I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “What are you talking about? You didn’t answer any of my texts and calls. Why?”

  He grabs the bottle and sets it upright, then sticks the unlit cigarette into his mouth. With his blond hair disheveled, blue eyes bloodshot and his clothes in disarray, he looks like a street bum. “I’m making it easier for you to go,” he says, not looking at me. “Not that you needed help, but...” He frowns, closes his eyes. “But just in case.”

  “Go where? Ross, why are you behaving like this? What happened?”

  He blinks. Abandoning the bottle beside him, he reaches into his back pocket and draws something out. A wad of bills, I realize as he throws onto my lap.

  “Here,” he grunts.

  “What is this? Why are you giving me money?” He’s acting so weird, it’s scaring the hell out of me.

  “I’ve been saving it for a while. I— I didn’t steal it, Jesus Christ. Don’t look at me like that. I swear I earned it the honest way, working construction.”

  “Good, then take it back.” I grab the bills and try to push them into his hands.

  “It’s for you. So you can go and start a new life. Far from this shithole. Far from me.”

  My eyes sting. “Ross...”

  “Take it. Your brother told me you’re leaving. You should have told me, not let me... hope. But it’s only fair I help you go and... be happy, Luna. That’s all I want for you and... fuck, I can’t do this.”

  Dumping the money back in my lap, he rises unsteadily to his feet. His lip is split and bruised, I realize with a start. There’s dried blood on his cheek and chin.

  I scramble to my feet, too. “Wait... what did Josh tell you? When did you see him?”

  “This morning. Went around to your house. Look, it’s okay, I understand. I had plans of leaving, too, on my Harley.” He winces, rubs at his forehead. I can see the scabs at his hairline where Joshua’s rock hit him. “I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”

  “Expected what? What do you want from me, Ross?” I reach for him.

  “Everything,” he says hoarsely, and his eyes look wet. He blinks rapidly, looking away. “I want everything from you. I want to keep you forever, don’t you get it?”

  “Ross.” I grab hold of the front of his T-shirt, and he jerks a little, his gaze wide as it zeroes on my hand. “I—”

  “You, there!” a bass voice rings out, scaring the holy crap out of me. “Is he bothering you, Miss Luna?”

  It’s Conrad, the store owner, the one who dislikes Ross. Well, I dislike Conrad, too.

  “No,” I tell him, struggling to keep my temper, “we’re fine. Leave us alone.”

  He frowns at me, strokes his mustache. “Are you sure? I can kick his ass all the way out of town.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” Ross mutters, glaring.

  Conrad mutters something in return under his breath and heads back to his store, the door slamming behind him, the bang like a gunshot.

  “Ross...” I turn back to him. “I’m not leaving town.”

  He blinks those pale lashes, his eyes uncomprehending. “Joshua said—”

  “I told my dad that I want to go study. And I’ve wanted it for years. Or so I thought.” I release his T-shirt to grip his biceps. “But I was wrong, and I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go. Not if you won’t be with me.”

  His breath goes out in a rush. “Lu...”

  “I don’t care where I’ll be living. I don’t give a crap about college. Maybe someday, but only if you’re with me. I’m not leaving you.”

  The knot in his throat moves. He stares down at me as if he’s never seen me before. “You serious?”

  “Dead serious, Ross Jones. So take your money and keep it safe. I...”

  He waits, blinking. “What?”

  “Look, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you, but... I’m scared,” I confess.

  “Bullshit,” he scoffs. “You’re never scared. You’re the bravest person I know.”

  A hot flush spreads on my face. “But I am. I’m scared of loving you. And I can’t help it.”

  There. Ripe for the plucking. My weakness revealed, open for an attack, to be taken advantage of, mocked and trampled.

  But he’s quiet, looking at me as if he’s trying to read my face, my eyes, and can’t believe what he’s finding there.

  “Are you fucking with me?” he finally whispers, voice gruff and low, and cup my cheeks in his hands. His eyes seem red, his lashes wet. “Is this a joke? Because I couldn’t take it, if it was. Lu—”

  The roar of a pickup engine drowns out his voice, as said pickup draws to a stop right outside the store. The window is rolled down, and a thin, short man with a gray mustache and a receding hairline climbs out.

  “Ross Jones,” he says in a booming voice, “you’re under arrest.”

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out. For a long moment, the words make no sense. Ross turns to look at him, his face a mirror of mine—mouth open, eyes wide.

  “What?” I manage at last. “Who are you?”

  “Sheriff Herbert Lewis.” He shoots me a glare. “And you are...?”

  “Luna,” I mutter. “Luna Collins. Look, if it’s the store owner, Conrad, who called and complained, he’s wrong.”

  Though when he’d have the time to call and have the sheriff drive over so fast...

  “Ross here is a goddamn troublemaker,” the sheriff grumbles, “and it wouldn’t surprise me if Conrad called to complain, but that’s not what I’m apprehending him for.”

  “What then?”

  “Armed robbery,” he says with obvious satisfaction, and glances around as if expecting applause.

  Is he insane?

  That’s when I notice w
e’ve acquired an audience. All familiar faces, including Conrad, Dena, Mike, Edward, Fred, and a score of others whose names escape me right now as my mind tries to wrap itself around this fantastic accusation.

  “Armed robbery,” I repeat, incredulous. “Are you out of your mind?”

  He brandishes a pair of handcuffs. “Please, step this way, Ross Jones. You know, I was sure that one day it would come to this. A repeat offender, son of a serial killer, following in his dad’s footsteps.”

  “Hey, stop right there.” Ross glares at the man. “I’m following in nobody’s footsteps. And I ain’t going anywhere with you. What proof is there that I took part in this robbery?”

  “Well, there’s cameras. And witnesses willing to testify.” The sheriff tsks. “That hair of yours is a dead giveaway. Pale as silver. Your old man’s the same. And besides...” He leans into the car, fishes something out. It’s in a sealed Ziploc bag that he waves in Ross’s face. “Isn’t this your girly necklace, huh?”

  His pendant?

  “How do you...?” I can see the blood draining from Ross’s face, leaving it deathly white. “I... I lost it. Must’ve dropped it somewhere. Give it back.”

  “Dropped it, did you? During the robbery this morning, yeah?” The sheriff’s voice is full of glee. He’d be rubbing his hands together if he wasn’t still dangling the bag in front of Ross like bait. “Now you’re coming with me.”

  Oh God.

  “This is what Ed warned me about,” I whisper, horrified. “It’s happening.”

  Blue eyes flick to me. Ross’s face is gray, his gaze wide, pupils dark. “What? He warned you? What the fuck?”

  But the sheriff is already turning him around, clicking the handcuffs on, and pushing him into the back of his pickup, all before I’ve even had a chance to tell Ross it will be okay.

  It will be... right? He’d never do something like that. Not Ross. He’s not a criminal. Although he.... He gave me that wad of money—maybe it was stolen money?

  No. God, no way, I know my Ross. He wouldn’t lie to me, wouldn’t do that. I trust him. Maybe a few years ago, heck, a few months ago I’d have felt differently, but not anymore.

  Then, what happened, how did this happen?