“Livia did. At least she told people she did. An older tall, skinny guy partial to gold chains and tracksuits. Very early two thousands. I’ve seen him myself.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“So you know him?”
“He’s not our brother. I mean, he’s a half brother. From some asshole my mom was with years ago. Damn fool went to prison. For all I know, he died there.”
“You have a half brother who’s been in prison?”
“Deke got sent up for armed robbery. He’s ten years before my time. Fucking loser.”
J.J. spits the words, his rage now directed at this half brother and less at me. J.J.’s still twitching more than I’d like, though. And his fingers keep plucking at his open blue plaid shirt, as if feeling for the comforting weight of his piece. He’s geared himself up for battle. An armed druggie looking for a fight.
A half sibling who’s spent quality time in prison. That would explain the outdated fashion sense. “Why is Deke a fucking loser?”
“Broke my mom’s heart. She needed him to help out. Put food on the table, hold down the fort. I was just a kid at the time, but even I got that. Instead, he took off. Next thing we hear, he’s busted for holding up a gas station. Good riddance, I think. But my mama cried every night. She didn’t need that kind of shit.”
“Versus your kind of shit?” I can’t help but ask.
His response is immediate and defensive. “I do what I gotta do. It keeps a roof over our heads.”
“And Livia?”
“What ’bout Livia? She’s not into this shit. She’s going to school. She’s good, goddammit. She was good!”
J.J. whips out his gun. His cheeks are wet, his pain a feral beast I can practically watch claw at his throat. I once hurt that much, too. I know exactly how it feels. It allows me to take one step closer, then another, till we are nearly chest to chest.
He is so much bigger than me. All muscle and sinew, rage and grief. The gun is down at his side, but it would be very easy for him to raise it between us. Fire at me. Blow away himself. One last giant fuck you to a world that’s done him wrong.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I keep my gaze steady on his face, willing some of my calm into his trembling form.
“Angelique and your sister were friends. Close friends. Did you know that?”
He practically snarls at me. “No way!”
“Yes. They met here, during the summer program. Something happened. It scared your sister. And Angelique stepped up to help her. She disappeared that day, dressed in your sister’s clothes. Posing as Livia.”
J.J. shakes his head. His eyes are still wild. I can watch his erratic pulse throbbing at the base of his throat. “My sister didn’t have friends. She was quiet. Kept to herself.”
“Angelique was posing as her,” I repeat.
“Why would my sister keep something like that a secret?”
“I don’t know, J.J. Why would she?”
I can see the answer on his stricken face. Because it would’ve been one more thing for her to lose, in a house filled with a stoned brother and a drunk mother. In a house where she’d probably learned years ago to walk softly and never call undo attention to herself.
“Fuck!” J.J. explodes, waving his pistol, vibrating in place. He’s going to hurt himself. Or me. Or all of the above. Later, he might regret it, but now, caught in waves of unbearable rage and unending grief . . .
Instead of shrinking away, I get right up into his foam-flecked face.
“Your sister’s dead,” I yell at him. “And someone’s gotta pay, right? That’s how it works. She’s dead and some bastard did it and he needs to hurt! He needs to feel this pain. He needs to burn in agony, scream in terror, cower in fear. All of it. Over and over again. Till he feels exactly as terrible and awful as you do right now. I understand, J.J. I want that, too.”
I have his full attention. It wasn’t really that hard. I just had to tell him the words that ten years ago I most wanted to hear.
I grip his left shoulder. “Help me, help her. Can you do that, J.J.? Can you pull yourself together long enough to avenge your sister?”
“Is it Deke? He’s out? He did this?”
J.J. moves to step away. I fist his shirt in my hand and hold on tight. “Fake IDs. What does your sister know about fake IDs?”
“What the hell—”
“Focus, J.J. Focus. Look at me. Listen. There was this kid here two summers ago who was selling really shitty fake IDs. Piss-poor quality. And your sister and Angelique embarrassed him.”
“DommyJ.”
“There you go. Did you ever see him around your home? Your sister mention his name?”
“Nah. But some of the guys talked about it. They said she got him good. And yeah, shitty fakes. I don’t even see the purpose.”
“Your sister knew exactly what was wrong with them. In detail. Why did your sister know so much about fake licenses?”
“I dunno. She’s smart like that. She’s always copying things and doing stuff on the school computer. She’s gonna get out of this place, you know. First member of the family to make good.” He catches himself. The use of the present tense. The statement of a dream that is now past.
The trembling starts again. I smooth my hand on his shoulder, rubbing slightly to soothe.
“Could DommyJ have hurt your sister in retaliation for her shaming him?”
“DommyJ’s nothin’ but a wannabe. Why do you think his fakes were so bad? He doesn’t have the juice to be anything but a poser.”
“Okay. So DommyJ isn’t the badass he pretends to be. What about Deke? He was spotted hanging out around the rec center that summer, watching Livia. Maybe also talking to her?”
“She never said—”
“DommyJ appeared scared of him. So did Livia. Why would they be scared of him?”
J.J. looks down, issues a long, shaking sigh. Some of the tension is finally draining out of him. Less adrenaline, more rational thinking. “If Deke’s out . . . He’s got real connections. From his own days, plus serving time. Around here, you gotta respect that. If he showed up at my front door, I’d have to let him in. I wouldn’t want to, but I’d have to.”
“But he didn’t show up? Didn’t contact your mother? At least not that you’re aware of?”
“I don’t think she’d have anything to do with him. Especially not with Livia in the house. He’s a cold motherfucker. Everyone knows that.”