Blood and Sympathy
Read Blood and Sympathy Online
Authors: Lori L. Clark
Blood
and Sympathy
Lori
L. Clark
Copyright
© 2014 Lori L. Clark
All
Rights Reserved
Cover
design by Lori L. Clark
Without
limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by
any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise)
without prior written permission of the above author of this book. Except when
quoting brief passages for the purpose of writing reviews.
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents
are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without
permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized by the
trademark owners.
The
first idea the child must acquire is that
of
the difference between good and evil.
Summer
2009
Identical twins, Brogan and Braden Sayer, have
more in common than their genetics.
Both ended
up in juvenile detention at the age of twelve for a crime the state
prosecutor believes the brothers committed together.
The boys, the media dubbed as the "Sayer Slayers," were taken
into custody in early 2009 for setting the fire that resulted in the death of
their stepfather, Jonas Gingerich.
Brogan Sayer was found guilty of setting the fire, and sent to juvenile detention
where he will remain until the age of eighteen. An earlier attempt to determine
whether or not Braden Sayer acted alongside his twin brother ended in a
mistrial.
Lawyers for Braden must now prove that their client was not involved in
the actual plot carried out by Brogan.
"From our position, Braden was not present when the fire was started,"
said Victor Helms, who, alongside fellow attorney William Talbot, is
representing Braden.
While Helms admits that his client has been in and out of trouble with
the law in the past for petty crimes, the attorney asserts that it is twin
brother Brogan who is solely responsible for setting the fire.
"Brogan is the proverbial evil twin," Helms said. "Not Braden."
"Brogan has always been the aggressive one, the ringleader, whereas Braden
was always more impressionable. He idealized his brother. Braden's more of a
follower," Talbot agreed.
Talbot said Braden continues to insist that he did nothing wrong.
"He says he loves Brogan but then adds, 'We're brothers by blood, yes,
but what he did was wrong. I'm afraid of what he's capable of sometimes,'"
Helms said.
Braden is currently being held in a separate, undisclosed location away from
his brother while he awaits a new trial, which is scheduled to begin next week.
"It's a much
harder case because he's a twin," Helms said. "His whole life he's
been pulled into his brother's shadow because they look alike."
PART ONE:
JANUARY 2014
Claire
Copeland
I was beyond frustrated by Alistair's inability to
perform (again) so I rolled his drunken ass off of me. I stood and yanked up my
pants. I don't know why the hell I even bothered trying to have sex with him. He
used to be a damn good fuck--when he was sober. Trouble was, he was rarely
sober these days. There was a fine line between booze helping your sex life and
killing it with a nasty case of whiskey dick.
We'd planned a quiet night, just the two of us. A
little weed, a little wine, and a whole lot of horizontal fun. The first time
he came like two minutes into it, and I had to get myself off. The second time,
yeah, well that was worse. He could barely get it up, let alone keep it up.
The fire had all but gone out, and it was biting
cold inside the small cabin. Since my conscience wouldn't allow me to let him freeze
to death, I tossed a couple hunks of wood onto the remaining coals in the
fireplace and poked them until they started to burn.
I threw on my coat and boots and stomped out to
the car. Even with the heater on full blast, I was chilled to the bone. I'd
left my mittens inside the cabin. I had one hand on the steering wheel and one
on the dashboard vents of the old Taurus SHO. I was too busy trying to keep
from getting frostbit that by the time I realized I needed to slow down to make
the approaching curve, it was too late.
I slammed on the brakes, the rear end of the car
fishtailing in the loose gravel. My tires caught on a patch of ice at the edge
of the road, and the car nosedived into the ditch; thankfully it was one of the
more shallow spots. I was officially fucked. And not in a good way.
The door was jammed and I threw my shoulder
against it trying to force it open so I could climb out. My boots sunk into the
soft ground as I made my way up out of the ditch. I knew exactly where I was--Sayer's
Corner. I couldn't count the number of cars that had gone in the ditch in that
very spot over the years. Most of the time it was people who weren't familiar
with the road that were driving a little too fast after a day at the lake;
other times, it was an idiot like me who wasn't paying attention to where the
hell they were going.
I leaned against the back bumper of the car and
lit a cigarette while I figured out my next move. I wasn't supposed to be out
this late. Truthfully, I wasn't supposed to be out at all. I was still serving
the rest of my punishment from the last time I'd gotten into trouble. Not sure
which offense it was--when you got into hot water as much as I did, the crimes
all tended to blur together into one big bunch of fuck-ups.
It was a little after three in the morning, colder
than a witch's broomstick, and I wasn't exactly dressed for the weather. The
closest house on the road belonged to Jeb Sayer, one of my dad's oldest
friends. Jeb wouldn't be very happy about getting roused from sleep at this
hour, but it wouldn't be the first time.
Jeb owned Sayer's Marina and Small Engine down on
Devil's Fork Lake. It wasn't too far, but it was a bit of a walk. I took a long
drag off my cigarette and tossed it to the ground, grinding it out with the toe
of my boot.
The motion detector outside Jeb's house lit up the
yard like the fourth of July. Katie, Jeb's old bloodhound, howled and trotted
over. I patted her on top of the head and she nudged me with her graying
muzzle. "Hey Katie."
The front door swung open and I found myself
staring down the barrel of a shotgun. "State your business!" Jeb's
gruff voice called out.
"Hey Jeb, it's just me. Claire
Copeland."
"You do realize it's three o'clock in the
morning, and most folks are asleep at this hour?"
Thank you Captain Obvious
. "Yes, I
know that. I was just on my way home, and um, something ran out in front of my
car. I had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting it, and, well, here I
am."
"Something ran out in front of your
car?" he drawled. His eyes bored into me the same way my dad's did
whenever he knew I was lying.
I fidgeted and stuck my hands in my front pockets.
"Jeb…" I paused, wondering how much info I should give him. I cocked
my head and stared up at him. "Do you think you could pull me out of the
ditch?"
He shook his head and scrubbed his hands over the
scruff on his jaw. "Let me guess, your daddy don't know you're out, your
sister don't know you're drivin' her car, and you got to get home right now."
"Pretty much."
He blew out a noisy sigh. "Let me get the
tractor."
I dropped my head and stared down at my feet.
"Thank you, Jeb."
He grunted something unintelligible and
disappeared inside the house. In a few minutes, he reemerged. "You know I
can't keep this from your daddy, right?"
"Yes, sir."
He had the car out of the shallow ditch in no
time, and I was on my way home again.
***
"Claire, get up. We're going to be
late!" Olivia, my sister, said in between raps on my bedroom door. Each
thump made me wince beneath the covers.
For once in my life, I would have loved to sleep
in on a Sunday morning, but since our dad was Reverend Copeland, preacher at
the only church in our tiny town of Hensteeth, Tennessee, some things weren't
negotiable. Skipping church because I'd stayed out too late on Saturday night
wasn't an option.
I rolled over and my head spun like one of those
plastic yellow daisies in Mrs. Talbot's flower garden down the road. I kicked
the covers off and swung my long legs over the side of the bed. "I'm
coming, Liv."
She gave me a "when are you going to
learn" stare down when I emerged from my room. As I tugged a long skirt over
my hips, she wrinkled her nose and said, "Unfortunately, there's no time
for you to shower. Go comb your hair and spritz on some perfume. You smell like
a beer-soaked ashtray. I'll meet you downstairs."
I pulled a brush through the wavy length of my
auburn hair before coaxing it into a knot at the back of my head. I brushed,
gargled, and gagged, hopeful I wouldn't throw up all over the front of my clean
clothes. I doused on the cherry vanilla body spray and snatched up my shoes on
the way out to the car.