My brothers best friend

Chapter 36: Twisted Confession

Chapter 36

Jake's Point of View

The car engine rumbled softly as I sped down the highway toward my parents' house. The road was familiar, but my thoughts were far from the cracked asphalt stretching ahead. Valerie's face lingered in my mind, her tear-streaked cheeks and trembling voice.

She'd looked so small last night, curled up in my arms. I'd never seen her that vulnerable before, and it scared the hell out of me. The weight of what she'd gone through—it was something I couldn't shake.

And then Mason had walked in this morning, catching us together. The look on his face was like a gut punch. I owed him a conversation. I owed him the truth.

I needed to tell Mason how much Valerie meant to me. It wasn't just some passing thing, and it sure as hell wasn't a game. I didn't know if he'd accept it, but he deserved to know that I loved her.

The thought of losing Valerie, of failing to protect her the way I should have last night, made my hands grip the wheel tighter. Then there was that moment, back at the farm a few weeks ago, when she'd whispered that she wanted to go home. I'd brushed it off at the time, thinking she was just overwhelmed. But now... Now, I couldn't get it out of my head.

Valerie wanted to leave. She felt safer away from me, from all of this. The realization hit me like a brick, and I didn't know how to fix it.

The turn-off for the farm came up quicker than I expected, and I slowed, pulling onto the gravel drive. The house stood there in the distance, its silhouette framed against the golden afternoon sky. Usually, there was something comforting about coming back here. Not today.

Something felt... wrong.

The driveway was lined with vehicles I didn't recognize, all dark SUVs with tinted windows. I parked a little way down, stepping out of the car slowly. The air was eerily quiet, save for the crunch of gravel under my boots.

When I reached the porch, the door was ajar. My dad, stood just inside, his face pale and drawn. He was speaking with someone—a man in a navy suit.

"Dad?" I called out, stepping inside.

Phil turned, his expression flickering between relief and something darker. "Jake." His voice was tight. "You need to sit down."

I frowned, stepping further into the room. That's when I noticed the handcuffs.

"Mom?"

Karen sat on the couch, her hands bound in front of her. Her face was a mixture of defiance and desperation, her lips pressed into a tight line. Two officers stood nearby, their stances stiff and professional.

"What the hell is going on?" I asked, my voice rising.

"Sit down, son," one of the officers said, gesturing to a chair near the kitchen table.

I didn't move. My gaze flicked between the officers, my dad, and my mom. None of this made sense.

"Jake," my dad said, his voice breaking slightly. "Please. Sit down."

Reluctantly, I sank into the chair, my legs feeling like jelly. "What's happening? Why is Mom—?"

"We've been working on Josephine's case for almost two years now," one of the officers began, his tone measured. "And we've finally identified the person responsible for her murder."

The room seemed to tilt. My breath caught in my throat.

"What?"

The officer's gaze shifted to my mom, who sat motionless on the couch. "It was Karen."

The words hit me like a sledgehammer. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

"No." My voice was barely a whisper.

"We have substantial evidence," the  officer continued. "Including DNA, eyewitness accounts, and a confession."

"Confession?" My head snapped toward my mom. She was staring at me now, her eyes wide and pleading.

"Jake, listen to me," she said, her voice shaking. "I didn't mean—"

"Don't." My voice cracked, my stomach churning. "Don't tell me you did this."

Tears streamed down her face, but there was something else there too. A kind of desperate determination.

"I did it for you," she said, her voice trembling but resolute. "You have to understand, Jake. She was going to ruin everything. That woman—Josephine—she was going to take you away from me."

Her words barely registered at first. I stared at her, trying to make sense of the nonsense spilling from her mouth.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, my voice trembling. "What does this have to do with me?"

Karen's expression shifted, something dark flickering in her eyes. "You don't know what it's like," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "To love someone so much and know you can never have them."

My stomach lurched.

"I've always loved you, Jake," she said, her voice cracking. "Not just as my son. You're everything to me. And that bitch—" Her voice rose, venomous now. "That bitch thought she could steal you away with her lies about being pregnant."

I shot out of the chair, the room spinning around me. "Stop!" I shouted, my voice shaking with rage and disgust.

Karen flinched but didn't stop. "She wasn't good enough for you! None of them are! I couldn't let her ruin your life, Jake. I did it for us."

The bile rose in my throat, and I stumbled back a step, my legs threatening to give out.

"Shut up," I choked out, my hands trembling. "Just... shut up."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Abuela. She was standing in the doorway, her expression a mix of fury and heartbreak. Her hands trembled, clutching the rosary she always carried.

Dad was still in his chair, his face pale and drawn, his nose scrunched up in disgust. But it was Jack, my eight-year-old brother, who broke me.

He sat on the floor, his small frame hunched over. He wasn't crying, wasn't reacting at all. Just staring at our mom with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

"I... I can't—" My voice broke, and I turned, stumbling toward the door.

"Jake!" Karen screamed after me. "Don't go! Please, don't leave me! I did it for you!"

I didn't stop. I couldn't.

The cold air hit me like a slap when I stepped outside. My breaths came in ragged gasps, my stomach twisting violently. I barely made it to my car before I threw up, my body shaking uncontrollably.

I leaned against the car, the metallic taste of bile in my mouth. My head was spinning, my mind unable to process what I'd just heard.

She killed Josephine.

She killed her because of me.

The thought made me gag again, but there was nothing left to throw up. I stumbled into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut behind me.

I couldn't stay here. I couldn't face her.

The engine roared to life, and I floored the gas pedal, speeding away from the farm. I didn't know where I was going, didn't care. I just needed to get away.

The road stretched out before me, endless and empty. My hands gripped the wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

My mom.

The woman who'd raised me, who'd kissed my scraped knees and made me pancakes on Sundays. She'd killed Josephine. She'd destroyed my life.

And for what? Some twisted, sick fantasy?

The tears came without warning, blurring my vision as I sped down the highway. I wiped at my face furiously, trying to shove the emotions back down.

I didn't know where I was going. All I knew was that I couldn't stop. Not now. Not yet.

The road stretched on, endless and unforgiving, and for the first time in my life, I felt completely and utterly lost.