Page 101 of Jesse

“Johnny Boston is a bully, that’s what he is!”

And then I shrug him off and head for the fire stairs.

Zach doesn’t follow me. He probably thinks I can’t get into the stairwell.

But he’s wrong.

I’m a numbers girl.

And I’ve seen Jesse Boston push this code twice now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - JESSE

I could hear them fighting as soon as I opened the fire stairs door. I took the steps three at a time and burst out onto Johnny’s floor ready to join the fight.

But I stopped in my tracks when I realized Johnny had a gun pointed at Joey’s head.

Joey was face down on the floor. Johnny kneeling beside him.

Johnny looked at me, then back at Joey. Then the gun in his hand.

And he got up and walked away.

I ran over to Joey and pulled him to his feet. He pushed me off him, then glared in the direction Johnny disappeared, and said, “Fuck you all,” and left the way he came.

Now I’m standing in Johnny’s living room and can I just say… my big brother could really use a maid. Because this place is a disaster. Newspapers everywhere. Stacks of them. But not only newspapers, files too. Just boxes and boxes of files.

There’s furniture here but I can’t see most of it, that’s how much fucking paper is filling up the huge, expansive space around me. And lined up against the wall are rifles. Dozens and dozens of them. Neatly placed like good little soldiers in formation. The pistol Johnny had pressed to Joey’s head is resting on a tall stack of newspapers, forgotten.

This was what I expected down on the family floor, I realize. This was what I thought we’d find in those cupboards, but didn’t.

Evidence like this.

Evidence that my brother is something bad. That we are all part of something bad.

The windows are covered with articles he’s clipped. And for a moment I assume they’re just like the ones downstairs. Death announcements of important people.

But they’re not.

Johnny comes back looking put-together. Hair slicked back. Face composed. He’s wearing a nice pair of black slacks, a crisp, starched white shirt, a white tie, and a pair of dark, expensive, highly-polished shoes.

He pours two glasses of whiskey, then turns and holds one out to me.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I quit that shit a long time ago.”

“I know,” Johnny says. “Time to start again, brother. Take my word on that.”

I can’t even manage to laugh. But that was funny. “No, I don’t think so, brother.”

He glares at me.

“So what do you want?” I ask.

“I want to show you something,” he says. And then he looks at the windows. Specifically, at the clippings taped to them.

“Yeah, I saw them.”

“Did you read them?”