Logan (The Kings of Brighton Book 2) Page 6

  Logan Bright.

  The search engine cooks for a few seconds before it spits out a list of articles and recommendations related to my search. Scrolling through them, I’m disappointed to find that all of the articles are about Tobias. A few mentions about their brother Jase in the New York society pages. An article about Gray in Military Times, dated back to 2015.

  Not so much as an honorable mention about Logan.

  Nothing.

  Not even a link to his social media accounts.

  Staring at the screen for a few seconds, confusion mixes with something else. Something that feels a lot like trepidation.

  Quit being paranoid. Knowing who his father is, it makes sense that he’d want to stay as untraceable as possible.

  I wish I could say I stopped digging. That I recognized his need for privacy and respected it, but I didn’t.

  Thinking back to that night, standing in the kitchen while I begged my mom to help him, I remember something. Something I read that night.

  Due to his age and the trauma that he has suffered, and while it is the likeliest of diagnosis given his genetic background, clinical staff at Brighton are still reluctant to assign an AXIS II diagnosis of 301.7, rather keeping the AXIS II open with an unspecified diagnosis.

  307.1

  DSM 5 diagnosis code 307.1

  I never forgot it.

  Opening a new tab, I type it in.

  The article at the top of this list knocks the breath out of my lungs.

  DIAGNOSTIC CRITERIA FOR 301.7 ANTI-SOCIAL PERSONALITY DISORDER

  Double-clicking the link, I read the first sentence of the article:

  There is a pervasive pattern of disregard for and violation of rights of others occurring since age 15 years, as indicated by the following…

  I scroll through the article, words and phrases catching and snagging in my brain.

  Failure to conform to social norms.

  Deceitfulness for personal gain or pleasure.

  Absence of empathy for others.

  Complete lack of conscience.

  Disregard for authority.

  Often present as charming and intelligent.

  Dangerous and unpredictable when denied what they want.

  Exiting out of the article, I type in a new search:

  Serial killers diagnosed with Anti-social personality disorder.

  A few seconds later, Google spits out a list.

  Ted Bundy.

  David Berkowitz

  Ed Gein

  Charles Mason

  Jeffery Dahmer

  Matthew Collins Sr.

  Holy shit.

  Next to each name is a thumb-nail photo. Bundy grins like he’s posing for a GQ cover spread. Charles Manson glares at the camera, his eyes empty and soulless. Dahmer avoids it, shifting his gaze away from the lens, his expression blank. Logan’s father looks right at it, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth like he has a secret—hundreds of them—that he’ll never tell.

  Aside from the tidy, bible salesman haircut and the lack of thick-framed glasses, he looks exactly like his son.

  I always told myself I’d look it up so I’d know what it was. That it was okay to be curious. That looking it up wasn’t the same as breaking the promise I made to my mother to stay out of it. I sat down to do it lots of times. Went to the library’s psychology section. Chatted up psych majors in college. But I could never make myself ask. Could never make myself dig it up. I told myself that it wasn’t important. That it was none of my business. Had nothing to do with me. Whatever disorder that particular diagnostic code stands for, it didn’t matter because the person it’s attached to is a total stranger and I’ll never meet them in real life so why keep picking at something that doesn’t affect me.

  Fast forward thirteen years and that very person has me pinned against the door of an empty hospital room, making crazy threats and accusations…

  Are you the one who found me? Shoved this under my door this morning? Are you one of his?

  Lifting my ass out of my chair, I dump Shad off my lap as I stick my hand under it, feeling for the back pocket of my jeans and the piece of lined, yellow paper I shoved into it—

  Days ago.

  That was days ago.

  I’m at work, and I’m not wearing jeans. I’m wearing a pair of yoga pants.

  No pockets.

  Sitting back down, I exit out of the articles and sigh in defeat because I know that if I want answers—real answers—I’m going to have to break my promise.

  Eleven

  Logan

  I expected her middle name to be Anne or Anita. Maybe Allison or Addison.

  It isn’t.

  Her middle name is Austen.

  Jane Austen Halstead.

  She was born August 10th, 1992, to a single mother who was barely fifteen when she had her. Her mother’s name is Catherine Halstead. I recognize the name immediately, but instead of pouncing on that particular thread so I can start pulling, I tuck it away for later and keep digging.

  Instead of being put up for her adoption or surrendered to the state, Jane’s mother raised her in transitional housing for minor-aged mothers. Instead of dropping out of high school and getting her GED and a minimum wage job or going to a trade school that would afford her a fast, efficient way to provide for herself and her daughter, Jane’s mother stayed in school and graduated. Her grades were solid. Not Harvard material, but considering what she was working with, she outpaced everyone’s expectations. Coupled with her grades and the circumstances she was in, she was a prime candidate for a scholarship, and she got offered several for both in and out of state schools. She chose Boston College, probably because they had family housing and offered free daycare for students.

  She graduated with her BA in social work, which given her background, isn’t surprising. While working for social services, she applied to law schools and was accepted into an online program when Jane was ten. She graduated and passed the bar with a degree in family law when Jane was fourteen.

  Instead of going to work as a public defender or starting her own law practice, Jane’s mother took her law degree and became a Guardian ad Litem.

  She was my Guardian ad Litem.

  The person who helped get me out of Brighton.

  Advocated for me at my emancipation hearing.

  Testified in court that moving in with Tob was the best thing for me. That I wasn’t a danger to the community. That I shouldn’t be judged or punished for the things my father did. That I’d suffered at his hands, and just because I’d survived, that didn’t mean I was any less a victim. That I deserved trust and compassion, not suspicion and fear.

  And apparently, afterward, she came home and told her teenaged daughter everything about me.

  I guess if I want answers, I know where to get them.

  Knocking on her door, I take a step back on the porch and jam my hands into the front pocket of my jeans to wait.

  There’s a car—a red, late model Chevy sedan—in the driveway. The same car that’s registered to Catherine Halstead, according to the DMV.

  That means she’s here.

  I can hear someone moving around behind the door, checking the peephole. When the door doesn’t open right away, I aim my face at the black lens of the peephole drilled into the door and wait for her to decide whether or not she’s going to answer the door. I wasn’t lying when I told Jane I have patience. I have them in spades. I’m prepared to stand here until she either opens the door or calls the police.

  Even if it takes all damn day.

  Finally, the door opens.

  “Yes, can I help you?” she says, her hand reaching out to latch the screen door between us, either because she recognizes me and is afraid of me or she doesn’t and is afraid of me anyway. Either way, I can’t blame her. She’s a single woman who lives alone. It’s a decent, working-class neighborhood, but bad things happen in decent neighborhoods all the time.

  No one knows that better than me.


  “Do you remember me?” I ask her bluntly, unwilling to waste time with pleasantries.

  Tilting her head a little, she looks at me, mentally flipping through her memories until she finds one that holds me. “I do.” She nods her head and gives me a cautious smile. “That hair of your is hard to forget, Logan.”

  Logan.

  She called me Logan.

  As soon as she says it, my shoulders relax, and the fist wrapped around my gut unclenches. Feeling the relief course through me, I realize I was afraid she’d call me Matthew, the name she knew me by. Even though I’ve gone by Logan since I was ten, it wasn’t official until I legally changed my name when I turned eighteen.

  Catching the comment about my hair, I lift a hand to run it over the top of my head in a self-conscious effort to push it down. It’s always been a mess, and short of shaving my head, there’s not much I can do about it. I remember her tssking at me in the courtroom lobby while she adjusted my tie and tried to smooth my hair down, only to have it spring back against the dozens of cowlicks that cover my scalp.

  How in the world are we going to convince a judge that you’re responsible enough to be emancipated if it looks like you can’t even be counted on to comb your hair?

  When I remember it, I feel my throat constrict, and my lungs seize up on me because it’s something my mom used to do—stand over me with that same exasperated smile while she tried in vain to force my hair into compliance—and in that moment I missed her so much I felt like I might die from it.

  When I don’t say anything back, Catherine’s cautious smile edges toward worried. “How did you find me?” She’s asking me how but what she really wants to know is why. Why is one of her former clients, the son of one of the most vicious serial killers in New England history, standing on her doorstep, at eight AM on a Sunday? And maybe what—what does he plan on doing now that he’s found her?

  Because the question pisses me off for some reason, I ignore it. “I met your daughter yesterday,” I tell her instead, feeling a weird sort of satisfaction when my admission leeches the color out of her face. “Nice girl. Pretty. She called me Matthew.”

  The smile on her face winks out completely. She’s back to staring at me, her soft green eyes watching me like she’s waiting for me to deliver the punchline to some sick joke no one thinks is funny but me. Finally, her face falls a little, and she nods. “I was afraid this would happen—as soon as she told me that her friend Silver was involved with your brother, I…” Instead of finishing her explanation, Jane’s mother unlatches the screen door between us before pushing it open in invitation. “You should probably come inside.”

  Twelve

  Logan

  Brighton Home for Boys, Brighton, Massachusetts 2006

  Getting visitors in a place like this isn’t normal. Two in nearly as many days is practically unheard of. Aside from the staff, social workers, and the foster families that float around, window-shopping for kids to take home, no one ever comes here—and they sure as fuck don’t come here to visit.

  Like we’re all out on the front lawn, having picnics and shit. Playing croquet and flying kites. The thought is so ridiculous a sharp bark of laughter escapes my mouth before I can smother it.

  “What’s so funny?” The big, burly staff member escorting me down the hall cuts me some side-eye as we head across the empty cafeteria. His name is Grady—he’s an okay guy. He’s roughly the size of a bus so he’s not one of those assholes who feels like he needs to smack orphans around to prove how much of a badass he is. Plus, I’m pretty sure Tob’s been paying him cash on the side to make sure nothing happens to me now that he and Gray are gone.

  Jase is gone too. Left this morning with a new foster after shoving a few changes of clothes into a trash bag. “Don’t worry,” he told me, slinging the bag over his shoulder with a smartass wink. “This douchebag looks like a jellyfish—he’ll be drop kicking me back to Brighton by the end of the week.” Jase’ll screw it up. It’s what he does. He does it for fun. He’ll make this guy’s life so miserable he’ll regret the day he ever saw Jase’s stupid, perfect face. And then he’ll bring Jase back to Brighton and it’ll be like he never left until the next foster family comes along and decides to try and save him.

  “Whatever,” I said, giving him what I hope looks like an apathetic shrug to cover up how jealous I am. Because even if he is just a douchebag foster parent, he still wants Jase. Still wants to take him out of this shithole and give him a chance.

  No one wants to save me.

  No one thinks I deserve a chance.

  “What’s wrong with you today?” Grady grumbles at me while he snaps his keyring off his belt and fits his #1 key into the deadbolt and gives it a twist. “You’re acting weirder than usual.”

  “Nothing.” I give him the same kind of shrug I gave Jase this morning before he left. “You know who it is?” I ask, jerking my chin at the open doorway that leads to the visitation center. Someone tried really hard to make it look like a living room in a real house. Couches and a coffee table. TV set up with a DVD player. Board games and puzzles on a shelf against the far wall. This is where foster families spend time with potential placements. Test drive them for a few hours before they sign the papers and take them home.

  I saw it once during my intake tour. This is where our clients get to spend time with potential families, the director told me, like someone would actually be crazy enough to want to take me home with them.

  I’ve been at Brighton for five years now and I’ve never been in here. Never been considered for a foster placement. I always get the conference room, next door to the director’s office because the only visitors I get carry badges and think I’m somehow involved in the horrible shit my dad did.

  “Nope.” He lifts a hand and makes an impatient gesture, waving me through the doorway. “Get your ass in there and find out.”

  Forcing my feet to move, I practically shove myself through the open doorway but don’t get much farther than that because it’s her—the lady from yesterday. She’s wearing a pair of dark wash jeans and tailored button-down shirt—casual but not sloppy—her long, light brown hair pulled back in ponytail this time. On the coffee table in front of her is a thick manilla folder.

  Catherine.

  Her name is Catherine.

  I feel a breath I didn’t even know I was holding, push out of my lungs in a sudden rush. A weight settles on my shoulders. Push me down. Root me in place. Remind me that I’m never going to get out of this place. Not until they have no legal way to keep me here, because whether they want to admit it or not, this is a prison sentence. I’m being punished for what my father did, same as him.

  “Thank you,” she says to Grady from her perch on the sofa. “I’ll call the front desk when we’re ready for you.”

  Grady stalls out for a second, his thick brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be—”

  Alone with me.

  He doesn’t think it’s a good idea for this woman to be alone with me. Because just because Tob is feeding him cash under the table to keep me from getting gangbanged in the showers, that doesn’t mean he particularly likes me and it doesn’t mean he thinks I’m a good kid. The realization stiffens the back of my neck and I open my mouth to say something—I’m not entirely sure what—but she beats me to it.

  “We’ll be just fine on our own,” she says, her tone making it clear that she won’t be argued with. “Won’t we, Logan?”

  I nod like a dummy and swallow hard. “Yeah,” I manage to croak out in agreement even though I have my doubts. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Alright,” Grady mutters, his massive shoulders moving in a shrug in my peripheral. “If you need anything, I’ll be right outside the door.”

  The GAL gives him a flat smile and waits for him to shut and lock the door behind him before she looks at me. “Do you remember me, Logan?”

  It’s a stupid question. I met her yesterday but I nod my answer anyway. “
What are you doing here?”

  “I thought you and I could talk,” she tells me, her brow crumpling slightly at my tone.

  “On a Sunday?” I blurt it out, suddenly frustrated with the entire situation because I don’t understand what’s happening but I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like it.

  “Sure—why not?” She waits for me to argue with her. When I don’t, she lifts a hand from her lap and gestures to the empty sofa across from her. “I read your file and—”

  “I already told you,” I say, shaking my head, suddenly understanding what this is about. Why we’re here instead of the conference room. Why she’s here on her day off, wearing casual clothes and smiling at me like she actually gives a shit. “I don’t know anything.” I keep shaking my head, swallowing hard. “I don’t know anything about my dad or what—”

  “I believe you.” She says it just like that. Like it’s the truth, so firm and sure, all I can do is stare at her.

  “You believe me?” I repeat it back to her like a parrot. “Just like that—you believe me.”

  “Yes—just like that.” She gives me a frown. “Now, are you going to keep being rude or are you going to sit down and listen to what I have to say?”

  I cast a nervous look over my shoulder. I can see Grady’s big, beefy shoulder through the meshed window set in the door and feel a measure of relief, knowing he’s still there, watching over her, and hasn’t snuck off for a smoke. Instead of answering her, I force myself across the room to drop my ass in the seat facing her. When I don’t say anything, she sighs.

  “Like I was saying, I read your file last night,” she says, sitting back in her seat while giving me a long look. “You’ve made repeated requests to your GAL to begin emancipation proceedings but she hasn’t.” She tilts her head to the side, looking at me like she’s trying to find something she’s missed. “Why is that?”