Bet on Us

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Mr. Conway, am I the first call you’ve received today?”

  That was a strange question, and Trent pulled the phone from his ear, put the call on speaker and checked his voicemail. Only the one message from today. He looked at recent calls and saw there were two other Knoxville numbers that had called, but left no voicemail.

  Laying the phone on the counter, Trent covered Jacob’s hands with his, closing his eyes when Jacob threaded their fingers together. “I’ve got two missed calls from Knoxville, but no other messages. What’s this about, Mr. Reedman?”

  “Well, this puts me at an unexpected disadvantage. If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll conference in a colleague who can speak to the matter at a different level. I’ll be right back, but before I do that, can you tell me if you know an Estelle Stemp, Mr. Conway?”

  Hearing her name knocked the breath out of Trent. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A second attempt met no better success. Estelle. Stella.

  “Mr. Conway?”

  Jacob slipped his head around Trent’s side and looked up into his face. Whatever he saw there made him understand the difficulty Trent was encountering. “Mr. Reedman, this is Jacob Grimes. I’m Trent’s husband. He’s got you on speaker right now. Can you tell us what this is about?”

  “Mr. Grimes, if you’ll hold on a minute, I’ll get someone who can answer part of that question.”

  Silence from the darkened phone, and as they waited for Reedman to come back, Jacob tightened his hold on Trent’s hand. “I’m here, babe. Whatever this is, I’m here.”

  Trent nodded, and they waited.

  After an eternity, the speaker on the phone popped and hummed, then Reedman’s voice came through. “Mr. Conway, Mr. Grimes, I’m back, and I’ve brought Trinity Chapman with me. She works for DCS but is a liaison to the Knox County District Attorney’s Office, helping out when there are criminal matters.”

  “Mr. Trent Conway?” The woman’s smooth voice paused, clearly unwilling to go forwards without confirmation.

  Trent cleared his throat. “Yes. This is Trent Conway. I’ve got Jacob Grimes here, too.” His voice was unfamiliar to his own ears, rough and gravel-filled. “What is this about?”

  “Mr. Conway, Mrs. Estelle Stemp is your sister, is that correct?”

  Jacob’s head jerked, and he stared up at Trent. Trent had never hidden the difficulty with his family, nor the reason he’d left Knoxville in his dust, but he’d only spoken in very general terms about exactly what that family entailed. Trent knew if he’d talked in detail about Stella, or even acknowledged he had a sibling, Jacob would have pushed to contact her. His sweet husband was only capable of seeing the kind of supportive and loving relationship he had with his own sister, Jaime.

  “Yes. Estelle, Stella’s my sister. Is she okay?”

  “Mr. Conway, I’m the liaison to the chief criminal investigator for the DA’s office here in Knox County, and I regret to inform you that your sister was killed last night.”

  His arm gave way and he went to an elbow on the countertop, breathing loud in his ears. Stella dead? His eyes squeezed shut, and images of Stella danced across the darkness underneath his lids. Standing at the range in the family’s kitchen, laughing over her shoulder at something Trent had said, looking carefree and vital. Clutching the dashboard of the sedan their grandparents had given her, face white as she taught Trent how to drive. Stella as she’d been the last time Trent had seen her, face twisted with anger and disgust, shouting at him to go away.

  Forehead pressed against the back of his hand, he was aware of Jacob’s voice as he took on the burden of talking to the voices on the phone, them answering, concern in every word while Trent warred for control within himself. A few minutes later, it was quiet once again in the kitchen, and Jacob molded himself against Trent’s back, covering him protectively.

  “Babe.” Pain, deep and raw, bled through Jacob’s voice, and at the sound, Trent’s throat released the first sob.

  Dark and painful, it ripped from him, followed by dozens more as Jacob gathered him up, turning him and steering Trent to the floor where Jacob wrapped him up, cradling Trent’s head to his shoulder. Comforting and comforted, they sat like that for a long time as twilight crept through the windows, casting shadows in the corners.

  Jacob stirred finally, adjusting his position with a groan. “Trent.”

  “Yeah.” Trent sat up, swiping at the dried salt on his cheeks. Jacob looked nearly as wrecked as he felt, reflected agony in his gaze as he hurt for Trent’s pain. “Should I call them back?”

  “No.” Jacob’s answer was firm, and Trent appreciated him taking control of even just that. He felt scattered, bereft, and small. “I’ll call in the morning when we know our plans.”

  “Our plans?” Trent swallowed, that action turning into another battle against tears as his chest hitched painfully. “Stella.” He hated his voice like this, high-pitched and whining. Weak. “She’s really gone?”

  “How much did you hear?” Jacob’s careful tone gave away the importance of the question. He climbed to his feet and reached down a hand that Trent took gratefully, letting Jacob guide him upright. “Beyond that first bit, how much did you catch?”

  “Not much.” Trent shook his head. “Nothing really.”

  A strong hand wrapped around his, and Jacob threaded their fingers together, pulling him towards the living room. “Come sit down.” He winced and rubbed at his behind with his other hand. “Somewhere our asses won’t go to sleep.”

  “Sorry,” Trent said absently as he followed, eyes on Jacob’s hand gripping his tightly.

  “Come here,” Jacob said, drawing Trent down beside him on the couch. “Your sister, Estelle.”

  “Stella,” Trent corrected, then winced. “Yeah. Stella.”

  “Stella.” Jacob lifted one shoulder. “Older sister?” Trent bit his lip and gave a single nod. “Trent, she was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” He’d heard “killed” and assumed accident. Stella murdered was beyond anything he could imagine or wrap his head around. “Who would do that? Who would kill her?”

  “Her husband. They already know who. He shot her, then killed himself. Murder-suicide, the lady said.”

  “But why?” Trent’s throat closed up again, choking off the last word. Stella murdered by someone who’d probably loved her was unimaginable. Through his tears he begged, “Why would he do that?”

  “They didn’t say. I don’t know. But, Trent.” Jacob took a deep breath in, one Trent tried to echo as if together they could bolster Trent’s flagging control. “Trent, her son is why they called.”

  Trent stared at him. “That doesn’t make any sense. Stella doesn’t…didn’t have a son.” Trent had last seen her at their parents’ funeral about six years ago. “I saw him once, the husband. But she didn’t have a son.”

  “Yeah, she does, babe. No matter what she told you, Mr. Reedman was real clear. She had a son.” Jacob’s gentle words rocked Trent backwards. “Jericho. He’s almost sixteen, his name’s Jericho, and he needs you.” Jacob’s gaze was unwavering. “He needs us.”

  “Jericho.” Trent tried the name out carefully. “Jericho Stemp.”

  “No, babe. Conway. Same as yours.” Jacob’s hand curled around the back of Trent’s neck, his grip gentle but firm. “Same as yours.”

  “Jericho Conway. Who’s his dad?” Trent stumbled over the question, intensely aware these should be questions he knew the answer to. “How old is he? Fifteen? That can’t be right. I saw Stella. Talked to her. She never said anything about a baby, a boy.”

  “His dad was killed in an accident when he was a couple years old. No relatives. Same on your side.” Trent knew that. His parents had died, killed in a car accident. His own grandparents on both sides had passed away before that. “You’re all he’s got.”

  “What do we do?” He hated feeling so lost and uncertain, but he had faith Jacob would carry him through as far as was needed. “What did they say?”

>   “In a few minutes, I’ll get the computer and book us seats on a flight out as soon as we can. I’ve got a couple names of folks we’ll need to connect with, but we can do that easier in Knoxville. I’ll call Jaime tonight, let her and her crew know what’s going on. Trent, honey.” Jacob leaned in, pressing his forehead against Trent’s. “I’m so sorry. I know you couldn’t have been close, but it’s never easy losing someone, a sister, your family. Losing her at all, much less like this.”

  “Why wouldn’t she have told me about the boy?”

  “I don’t know, babe. I just know what the guy said on the phone. Jericho’s in the hospital and doesn’t know about his mom yet. They’re waiting on you to get there to soften the blow. So they need us there, and then we’ve got to be everything for this boy. Reedman said he was already working on paperwork so we can bring him home, but there’ll be stuff for us to do once we’re in town. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so not a lot will happen until Monday.” Trent closed his eyes as Jacob’s lips brushed his. “Every step of the way. I’m with you. We’ll get through this.”

  “Will he want to come here?” Trent scoffed at his own question as Jacob’s head rocked back and forth. “He doesn’t have a choice, does he? God, that poor boy. I can’t imagine how he’s going to be feeling. If she didn’t tell him about me, then even us walking in the door will be a shock.” He fought through another round of weeping, throat so tight it choked him, stealing his breath. “I can’t believe Stella’s dead.”

  “Focus on what we can do, okay?” That made sense, so Trent nodded, then dropped his head to Jacob’s shoulder, the angle awkward, but he needed the closeness, that comforting knowledge that Jacob would support him through this. “I’m going to look at flights. Gotta get the comp, so I’ll be right back, yeah?”

  “Okay.” He straightened and stared at Jacob as reality sank in. His chest felt tight, as if his lungs couldn’t expel all the air needed to pull in a deep breath. He fought with it for a moment, then bit back a sob. “We’re all he’s got?”

  Fingers stroked across the back of his hand, and Jacob nodded somberly as he said, “Yeah, babe. We are.”

  That tightness in his chest twisted, turning painful as his heart clenched. Stella’s gone. He had a nephew who was right now all alone in a hospital, probably afraid. Trent lifted his chin and stared into Jacob’s eyes, finding everything there he needed to speak confidently. He’s my strength. “Then we’ll make sure he’s got everything.”

  Jacob’s smile was blinding, and Trent’s eyes watered at the pride he saw in the face of his lover, his best friend, his husband.

  “I love you so much, Jakey.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I love you, too.” They came together in a kiss that didn’t demand, a caress that was soft and slow, and a reassuring exploration of all the things they already knew about each other.

  His voice was husky as he agreed, “Yeah, it’s a good thing.”

  Chapter Three

  Jericho

  The muted light in the room helped keep the headache at bay, but Jericho knew if he moved too much or too quickly, or even tried to sit up, his head would be pounding again. He’d already tried all of those things since waking in the hospital. On his back, with only a thin pad under his head, he stared up at the ceiling tiles, counting them for the hundredth time before switching the pattern and counting from the outside in instead of in rows. He couldn’t read, not without risking a worsening of the headache, and even muted sounds from the TV had been enough to turn his stomach.

  The nurse had let slip that he had a concussion, so he assumed the pain and nausea would lessen as it healed. A bruise on the brain wouldn’t go away overnight, but if he mapped the ones on his ribs, he reckoned he’d be able to anticipate progress.

  The cast on his arm felt heavier than it should, requiring more effort to lift and readjust positioning than was worth the limited amount of relief granted. His other hand had a needle stuck in the back of it, tubes connecting to a plastic pouch on a metal pole. Fluids, the nurse had said, and a way to give him pain meds without having to poke him every time.

  Footsteps in the hallway got louder as they neared, and Jericho let his head fall slightly to the side, rolling his neck so he could look at the door. It opened slowly, and he saw Ms. Chapman standing there. She was the woman from the ER two nights ago. He’d talked to her once since, when she’d come to his room earlier, but only a few minutes into the conversation Jericho had started retching and she’d left him to the ministrations of the nurse. Behind her now were three men, and he quickly surmised none of them were police officers. They just didn’t have the look. One was tall and thin, older, his skin darkened from years of sun.

  The other two looked different somehow. Their clothes were nicer, brighter, hair styled just so. Jericho stared harder because the angle of their arms made it look like they were holding hands, and as they walked into the room behind Ms. Chapman, he realized they were. Two men in his hospital room, holding hands like a couple.

  Did this mean the doctor knew about him? Had he called them here to talk to him, mentor him somehow in how to be gay? How could anyone know that unless Frank told them? Had Frank done this? Panic set his heart beating fast, and his headache followed quickly, pounding out a beat just over his eyes. Jericho could hardly hear over the racket in his head.

  “Jericho, how are you feeling?” Ms. Chapman’s voice was quiet, soothing in a way that made his nerves jump worse. “I’ve got something to tell you, and some folks for you to meet.”

  “Where’s my mom?” He’d meant it to come out demanding, not puling like a kitten, but he knew a first grader could have done a better job. “I want my mom.” The bigger man made a sound, and Jericho focused on him. Something about his eyes was familiar, but not, and Jericho stared. “I want my mom,” he told the man before biting the inside of his lip, trying to stop the tears. “Where is she?”

  “Jericho, how much do you remember from that night?” The tall man spoke up, then stepped closer and rested one loosely clasped hand on the foot of the bed. “Do you remember anything before you woke up in the ER?”

  He’d already told the cops everything. More than once. Talking and talking until the nurses made them leave, because he’d been bawling like a baby, telling them about Frank and how he’d come to the farm. How he wasn’t supposed to, because there was a restraining order, but he’d come anyway. He’d come and let fly with everything he had, not holding anything back, aiming to hurt and maim with every blow. That’s what had earned Jericho the concussion, a vicious backhand to the jaw that had him flying backwards, his head connecting with the edge of a cabinet.

  “The last thing I remember is Frank. Mom was in the barn because of my arm. She’d told me to stay in the house and she’d take care of the boarders. Frank was there and he wasn’t happy.” Jericho bit down hard until he tasted bitter copper, until the pain in his mouth was bright and overwhelming, until he’d pushed away the memories of Frank’s shouts and fists. “The doctor in the ER said I hurt my head when I fell. That’s all I remember.” He swallowed hard, belly rolling ominously. “Where’s my mom?”

  Ms. Chapman stepped up next to the man and reached out, but she pulled back before her hand touched Jericho’s leg. “Jericho, did you know your mother’s family very well?”

  The change in topics was confusing, and Jericho shook his head before he remembered not to, closing his eyes against the spike of pain between his temples. It took him a minute, but he finally wheezed out a quiet, “No, ma’am.” He let that hang there for a minute, then gave her a little more. “I don’t remember much about my grands. They passed a while ago. It’s just me and Mom.”

  Shuffling footsteps came closer, probably the hand-holding couple looking to get the best view of the pitiful kid in the bed. He hated them for being there, for seeing him at his weakest, for inserting themselves into this thing, whatever it was, where they didn’t have a place at all. Eyes squeezed shut, he waited.

  A m
an cleared his throat, the sound gentle and soft. “Jericho, your mom, Stella? She’s…she’s my sister.” Jericho turned his face towards the sound, like a cave rat seeking heat or food, or safety. “I’m… My name is Trent, Trent Conway. I’m your uncle.”

  “No.” Jericho denied the man’s words, not caring if that meant he called him a liar. “She woulda told me. She never had a brother.” Something pressed into his hand, a fleeting touch of cold fingers quickly removed, leaving stiff paper in their wake. “What’s this?” He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see whatever proof this lying man thought to produce. “What’d you give me?”

  “It’s a picture of me and Stella on the day I got my license. She taught me how to drive.” The voice was closer, even as other footsteps withdrew. With faint humor, the man continued, “She wasn’t the easiest of taskmasters.”

  Jericho blinked as he lifted the photo, eyes slowly focusing in on his mom’s teenaged face, arms propped on the shoulders of the smaller boy in front of her, chin on top of his head, both of them smiling broadly. The boy looked enough like her they could have been twins, and in his face, Jericho saw a clear resemblance in the features he saw in the mirror every day. Angling his head up, he studied the bearded face in front of him. Older, covered in beard, but the eyes were the same. Conway eyes, his mother called them. The shape and color, even the way they tipped at the corners were the same.

  “Hey.” The man’s mouth moved in a way that said he was gnawing on the inside of his lip on one corner, something Jericho’s mother did. A habit he had, too. “I’m Trent.” He gestured towards the photo in Jericho’s hand. “I’ve got more pictures with me, all from school and band. Ag club and stuff. High school, mostly.”

  “Why hasn’t she said anything?” Jericho simultaneously wanted to shove the picture back and tuck it away for safekeeping. “She never said nothing about a brother.”