The Truth (14 page)

The sound of a gunshot behind me catches both of us by surprise. Derek goes stumbling backward, and by the time he's on the ground, sprawled on his back, I can see the blood blossoming from a wound in his chest. Like I've imagined the wound that killed my father must have looked.

“
Nooo!
” I shout, rushing toward him, but I can already see there is nothing I can do. His eyes are wide and unseeing, and though his mouth is open, I can tell that it's not going to be like it was with his brother, who lived long enough to try and tell me something while the blood pumped out of him.

Derek is dead.

Wildly, I turn back to see Devon, my ten-year-old brother, standing there with the gun that Derek had dropped still smoking in his hand. “Devon,
drop it
!”

I recognize the look in his eyes—it's the fourth time I've seen it.

“You said there was a certain way your brother looked at you during that game when he let that pitch go by and took the strikeout. You said it was the third time you had seen that expression on his face. The second time was just before he knocked over the catcher coming home. So when was the first time?”

“I…I don't understand what—”

“When was the first time you saw that expression on his face?”

“Devon!”

The night Derek's brother was shot.

I remember the gun Mom keeps in the side table next to her bed. Unlocking the drawer, taking the gun out, feeling the weight of it in my hand. Thinking I should check to see if it was loaded, but not sure if I knew how. Though Mom had told me she always kept it loaded.

I remember that the sight of it was ugly. And I wondered if the guy who'd killed my father had done it with a gun like this.

“Devon, give it to me.”

And I put it back in the drawer and closed it. Went downstairs without the gun. But I must have forgotten to lock the drawer. Which is how Devon got the gun. I didn't know he'd followed me until…

In a quieter voice, I say, “Devon, please.”

“So when was the first time?”

…I heard the gunshot behind me, saw Caleb Brannick fall, turned, and saw Devon holding Mom's gun.

My brother finally looks at me, his eyes dead. As dead as Derek's had looked when he first walked in on me tied up. “Dad should have shot the man,” he says in a cold monotone.

“Devon, Derek was leaving. You didn't have to—”

“Dad should have shot the man.” All at once, my brother passes me the gun, the same way he did in the kitchen.

“Sit down,” I tell him. He sits on the dugout bench.

I stand there, looking at him, thinking back to that night.

“Go into the living room, Devon. Wait for me.”

After calling 911, I went to talk to my brother, who was sitting quietly on the sofa.
“Devon, why did you—?”

“Dad should have shot the man.”

“What?”

“Dad would still be alive if he had shot the man. If he hadn't put his gun down, he could have. You didn't take the gun. I had to.”

A police siren begins to sound in the distance, and I know it's coming for us. Maybe somebody heard the shot and called it in. Or maybe people saw figures in the ballpark at night and thought they should report it.

We don't have much time. I have to do something.

Was Derek right? If Devon hadn't elbowed him in the stomach to get away, would I have just let Derek shoot him? I don't know. Maybe I'll never know.

Dad could have pulled the trigger, but he didn't. And he ended up giving his life for a child that wasn't even his own.

Devon was willing to pull the trigger to protect me. Twice. But was that really the reason? Jesus, what if he
saw
that Caleb wasn't holding a gun? What if he
knew
that Derek was going to walk away? And he still shot them?

He's only ten years old. He couldn't… He can't… No, Devon hadn't understood what he was doing. All he had known was that his brother was in danger.

I look at Devon to find something to reassure me, some form of regret on his face. But he still bears the same blank expression.

He's just in shock.

Well, there's only one thing I know for sure. All this time I've been trying to protect my brother, and really, he's the one who's been protecting me.

So I can do this for Devon now. I can tell the police I shot Derek Brannick, just like I told them I shot Caleb. Later, I'll talk to him about it, when it's just him and me. I'll
help
him understand. Help him deal with it.

The sound of the police siren has grown louder. Devon seems not to hear it.

Time to act.

What I tell Devon is the same thing I said to him in our house that night.

“Devon, listen to me. We are telling the police I did this. Do you understand? I pulled the trigger. Not you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he says simply. His expression remains the same.

Using my shirt, I wipe the gun clean then hold it firmly so my fingerprints will be on it. Then I place the gun on the bench next to me and finally take a breath.

This is the best I can do for now. But at least this time, I won't be doing it for my father. I'll be doing it for Devon.

A steady breeze has started coming in from over the right field wall. Over where Devon hit his last home run, one of three that game. He had been amazing that day.

“It's gonna be okay now, isn't it?” Devon suddenly says. “We're safe now?”

I put my arm around him and pull him close.

Now I see flashing lights appearing, heading toward the entrance to the ballpark complex.

Devon and I hold on to each other and wait for the police to arrive.

It was a long time between novels, and there are so many I want to thank for this one.

First, a thank-you to Karter Huber, Luke Tomrell, Anne Huber, and Tracy Koontz for reading
The Truth
during its various stages and offering valuable input. I appreciate it so much.

I also want to thank my editor, Aubrey Poole. Thank you for your support and guidance in helping make
The Truth
the best it can be and for all you did in making the revision process fun and productive. I also want to thank the Sourcebooks team for all their help and great ideas (including coming up with a much better title than I did).

A big thank-you to my wonderful agent, Wendy Schmalz, for hooking me up with Sourcebooks. Thank you for the enthusiasm and support you showed for this novel right from the beginning. It came at a time when I really needed it. We make a good team, and thanks in large part to you, the future looks brighter than it has in quite a while.

Finally, all my love to my wife, Janet, and our son, Will. Your love and support mean so much. I love you both dearly.

Jeffry W. Johnston has published about thirty-five short stories and over two hundred articles. His first young adult novel,
Fragments
, was an Edgar Award nominee for Best Young Adult Mystery and a Quick Pick for Reluctant Young Readers selection by YALSA. He writes music, and plays guitar and sings in a band. He also loves watching movies, reading, and binging entire TV series. Jeffry lives in the Philadelphia area with his wife and their teenage son. His website can be found at
jeffrywjohnston.com
.

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