Home > Logan (The Kings of Brighton #2)

Logan (The Kings of Brighton #2)
Author: Megyn Ward







Brighton Home for Boys, Brighton, Massachusetts 2006



November 25th, 2006



Dear Matthew ~

I know it’s been a long time, and I know that you’re probably still upset with me over what happened with your mother, but I need you to understand that none of this is my fault. I’d like the opportunity to explain it to you in person, but my attorney tells me that the authorities have made that impossible.

I can only imagine how difficult the past five years have been for you without your mother and me. Just know that I think of you every day, and no matter what you hear or may have come to believe about me, I am still and will always be your father.

I often think of our many camping and fishing trips and long for the day when we can walk the wildness together again. I’m confident that we’ll see each other again someday, and it’s that knowledge that keeps me going.

Until then ~

Your Father

I look up from the letter and into the expectant faces of the trio of adults sitting on the other side of the table. The FBI agent who was the one who finally caught my father. The federal prosecutor who built the case against him. The Guardian ad Litem who, even though she’s never met me before in her life, seems desperate to do her job, which is to protect me.

She’s pretty. Light brown hair swept away from her face and caught up in a low knot against the nape of her neck. Large, gray green eyes set it a heart-shaped face. Minimal make-up. Severe navy blouse and gray wool skirt. She’s clear-eyed and eager. She wants to be taken seriously. Wants people to look at her and see someone who is competent and capable because she’s new and idealistic enough to think that what she does here today matters. That she can actually protect me.

I hate her for it, because even though it’s completely irrational—I mean, she didn’t even know I existed five years ago—I can’t help but look at her and think, where were you? Why weren’t you there to protect me? Protect us? Not now—not from these clowns. Then. Where were you then—when I really needed you?

Looking at her, I wonder if she has children. If she has someone to help her raise them.

If my father would like her.

If he would’ve picked her and followed her home.

If he would’ve killed her.

Making a decidedly miserable effort at ignoring her, I drop the letter on the table, flipping it script-side down, so I don’t have to look at his handwriting, before focusing my attention on the lawyer sitting directly across from me. “You’re wasting your time,” I tell him with a shrug, meaning to push the letter toward him across the table. I don’t. For some reason, I can’t seem to make myself move. Can’t make myself let it go.

“Excuse me?” The FBI agent snorts, drawing my attention from the lawyer. “You want to try that again, kid?”

“Sure.” I give him a disinterested shrug, the corner of my mouth kicking up in a fuck you smirk. I’m anything but disinterested, but this incompetent fuck is here because he thinks I know something. Thinks I’ve been keeping secrets for my father—maybe even participated in what he did—and that bothers me more than it should. “You’re letting my father waste your time for you? Is that better?”

FBI agent comes out of his chair so fast it tips over, letting out a muffled thump when it hits the carpeted conference room floor. “You think this is funny?” He bellows at me like I’m some punk kid he caught tagging in an alley or jumping the turnstile for the BART. “Is this some kinda sick joke to you, you little shit?”

“Take it down a notch, detective,” my GAL warns him with more steel in her tone than I would’ve expected. “He’s a minor, not a murder suspect.” She doesn’t say it, but we all know what she means.

I’m not my father.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

Neither the FBI agent or the lawyer look too sure of that.

“Fuck that—he knows something,” FBI agent shouts back at her, shoving the lawyer’s hand off his arm when he tries to reason with him. “He’s a fucking psycho, just like his dad and everyone knows it—his own grandfather won’t even take him.” Turning toward me, he aims a glare in my direction while the GAL talks over him, telling me to get up, that the interview is over and that she has every intention of filing some sort of injunction against FBI agent to keep him from further contact with me. Unhampered by any of it, FBI agent leans over the table between us and shoves his finger in my face. “Your father killed eleven women—eleven—and no one knows where he put them. They were mothers—they had families for fuck’s sake—and it’s like they’ve just disappeared into thin air. Shit like that doesn’t just happen. Mothers don’t just vanish.” Knowing he’s not getting anywhere with me, The Fed drops his finger and looks at the woman trying to protect me. “He was there, Ms. Halstead. He saw what his father did to those women—that means your client knows something.”

“I assure you, Agent—mothers can and do just vanish, every day,” she tells him, with a shrug. “Regardless of what happened to those women, my client is a minor and hasn’t been convicted of any crime, much less—”


Just like that, everyone freezes. Everyone shuts the fuck up. Everyone stares at me like I just pulled a gun and stuck it in their faces.

“My father killed twelve women,” I say quietly, looking each of them in the eye. “But I guess my mother doesn’t count since we know where she is.”


“Don’t call me that,” I say, pinning my GAL with a sharp look. “That’s not my name. Not anymore.”

“Okay…” She gives me a choppy head nod and tries again. “Logan—”

“I don’t know anything.” I focus on her, ignoring both The Fed and the lawyer because, even though I don’t know why, it’s suddenly very important that she believes me.

“You know something,” The Fed cuts in, unwilling or maybe unable to let it go.

“I know he never took me camping,” I tell him, pressing the flat of my hand against the letter beneath it like it’s a living, breathing thing I’m trying to smother. “Never took me fishing—I know he’s messing with you. Wasting your time.”

“Why would he do that?” This from the lawyer who so far has me wondering how the hell he closed twelve first-degree murder convictions on my father on what basically amounted to circumstantial evidence. “What would he have to gain by lying about a few camping trips?”

“Access to me.” I can feel the loops and slashes of my father’s handwriting, the ink of it pushed so deep into the paper that I can feel it, raised and livid, on the other side. No matter how caring or concerned he made the words he wrote sound, I know the truth. He was angry when he wrote it. I don’t have to wonder who he was angry with. I already know. “He knew the only way he’d get a letter to me would be to make you think I might know where he buried those women, so he throws in some bullshit about camping trips to get you to bring it to me—and here you all are. Exactly where he wanted you to be.”

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