Page 8 of One Night Years Ago

Jesse shook like a leaf. He was terrified. Hunter felt rage at whoever had done this to his brother.

“What happened, Jesse? What’s that in your hands?”

“She’s hurt, Hunter. We have to go find her. She was naked, but I couldn’t get it back on her.”

That was when Hunter realized the yellow rag Jesse clutched was a woman’s dress. He felt the first onset of true panic but pushed it back. Jesse didn’t have a mean bone in his body. There must be some other explanation. His brain felt foggy. He wished he hadn’t had those drinks.

He took the dress from his brother. He racked his brain, knowing he’d seen it before and trying to think of where, but it wasn’t coming to him. Then he saw the brown stains in the corner.

“Is this blood yours, Jesse?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Not mine, Hunter! It’s hers, I’m telling you!”

Hunter was normally very good at understanding and interpreting his brother’s words, but in this case it took him a few minutes to unravel Jesse’s story. And even then, it was making very little sense to him.

“I didn’t do anything!” Jesse sobbed.

“I know you didn’t, Jesse. Calm down. Did anybody see you in town?”

“She did. I got scared when she started screaming. I ran all the way home.”

Whoever the woman was, however, she’d been alive when Jesse ran away. Somebody would have found her and helped her by now. His muddled alcohol-filled brain told him that his brother was the one in most danger now.

Hunter did the math in his head. Jesse was fit. It would have taken him maybe twenty minutes to run back to the farm. That meant—

They both heard it at the same time, the siren in the distance. Jesse cried out. His brother hated loud noises.

Fuck.

And just like that, his mind was made up. He quickly washed his brother’s hands using the tap outside the barn and shouted for his mother. She came out, her eyes blurry from a late night watching TV.

“What’s going on, Hunter? Jesse? Are you both okay?”

Hunter noticed the rip along the front of his brother’s blue shirt. Blue was Jesse’s favorite color.

“Give me your shirt, Jesse.” He watched his brother shrug out of the ripped shirt, saw the enormous eagle tattoo his so-called friends had dared him to get when they were sixteen years old. It covered half his pectoral muscle. Jesse liked it because the eagle flapped her wings when he flexed his pecs. Hunter hated it because it was a sign that he hadn’t been there to protect his brother that day.

He gave his brother his black T-shirt in exchange. It reeked of booze.

“Put this on, Jesse. Come on. Mom, you and Jesse go inside. You’ve both been watching TV together all night. Is that clear?”

“You’re scaring me, Hunter. Have you been drinking? What’s going on? Is that the sheriff’s car?”

“Stop, Mom, stop. Do as I say or Jesse is going to prison.”

“Prison?” Her mother’s mouth made a perfect O. “What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything. Take him upstairs. You’ve both been home all evening. Do you understand, Jesse?”

“I’ve been watching TV,” Jesse nodded. “But the girl, Hunter …”

“I’ll take care of the girl. You trust me, don’t you, Jesse?”

“I trust you, Hunter.”

So when the sheriff arrived, Hunter was alone outside the barn, wearing his brother’s ripped blue shirt and clutching the yellow sundress.

Sheriff Bowmann got out of the car, his gun already in his thick hand and leveled in Hunter’s direction. It wasn’t the gun that scared Hunter the most, however, but rather the rage in the sheriff’s eyes. Hunter looked down at the yellow rag in his hand and suddenly remembered where he’d seen it before: that afternoon, outside the ice cream store. Pete, Joe, and Hunter had been waiting for the ice cream store manager to finish his shift. He was friends with Joe’s sister and always happy to buy the boys some beer.