Page 4 of Eight Years Gone

And then Logan disappeared behind heavy wooden doors.

Time ticked by in centuries as Jagger paced, staring down at his blood-covered hands, unable to stop them from shaking. Never in his worst dreams could he ever have imagined this.

“Mr. Tennyson? Jagger Tennyson?”

Jagger turned to see a cop staring at him. “Do you know anything about Logan? Did they tell you anything?”

The officer shook his head. “I’ve just spoken to one of the detectives downtown. They’d like me to bring you down to speak with them.”

He knew the drill: the detectives wanted to know what he knew about Logan’s shooting. His brother had been getting into trouble for as long as he could remember. His mother hadn’t been much better. “I need to wait.”

“There’s not a whole lot you can do here.”

“Steve knows?” He shook his head. “Doctor Evans knows? He’s coming?”

The cop nodded. “He’s been contacted in Philadelphia.”

“And Grace? I have to talk to my girlfriend. She’s going to need me.”

And he needed her too—to wrap her up and hold on to her until he could make all of this make sense.

“Doctor Evans asked that an officer go pick her up at their Sheraton Heights residence.”

Jagger nodded this time. “I should wait for her here.”

“We’ll grab you a pair of scrubs so you can clean up. We’ll get you back as soon as we can.”

He opened his mouth to refuse, even when he knew he looked like he’d bathed in blood—his neck and arms, his clothes, legs, and shoes, a dried crimson mess.

But then the doctors and nurses who had been working on Logan pushed back through the wooden doors they’d rushed through several minutes ago. Sorrow and apology radiated in the doctor’s eyes as he walked closer to Jagger.

He knew what that meant too. Logan was gone.

* * *

Jagger sat in one of the police department interview rooms, impatiently waiting to be told he could go.

At some point, he’d lost track of time, but as he battled back the relentless nausea wreaking havoc in his belly, he knew for a fact that he’d been sitting in the yellow plastic chair for hours.

Technically, he could stand up and walk out. They’d made it clear he wasn’t under arrest, but he wanted to be certain the detectives had every detail he could offer them. Whoever had shot Logan was going to pay.

If Levi was lucky, the cops would pick him up before Jagger found him. They’d been close as little boys just trying to survive, but they’d been strangers for years. Logan had been more his brother than Levi ever would be.

He restlessly ran his fingers through his hair as he bobbed his leg up and down. The detectives needed to hurry the hell up because he needed to get to Grace.

His hand moved to rub at his heart as it ached for her—as it ached for them all. She was undoubtedly a wreck. She and Logan were ten and a half months apart—technically not, but practically twins, as Grace often explained it.

Logan and Grace had grown up with everything: wealth, privilege, and insane monthly allowances to go along with the six-bedroom mansion they called home in the exclusive Sheraton Heights subdivision.

But they also had a dead mother in a Philadelphia grave and a selfish bastard for a father who rarely made an appearance in his kids’ lives yet expected perfection from them nonetheless. Their best efforts had never been good enough—or at least that had been the case for poor Logan.

Grace was artsy and obsessed with her camera—ultra-talented, easygoing, and always the peacemaker between her father and brother.

Logan had been the athlete—the kid with the private former NFL coach and retired Army colonel who’d taught him how to shoot for their high school marksmanship team. There had always been room to be faster, more accurate—to do better.

When Jagger moved into the Evans household the summer before his sophomore year, Steve had expected nothing but the best. And Jagger’s natural athleticism had made it easy to deliver. But Logan had never been able to catch a break, even when he had been really damn good.

Jagger scrubbed at his face. He should have done more. He should have seen Logan heading down the wrong path sooner. Now there was nothing he could do to make any of this better.

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