In the Blood by Sara Hantz Page A

Jackson, Art.
    Favorite TV show: The Simpsons, especially Homer.
    Best friends with Jacob and Chris.
    Benjamin Franklin’s third victim.
    Dead.

Chapter Twenty-five
    I’m so crazy mixed-up. It’s only been a few hours since I realized what might happen, yet it seems like a lifetime. My head’s pounding, my fists are clenched, and it feels like I’m about to internally combust. And the thing that I keep coming back to—the one question I need answering—is did Dad warn me because he’d worked out for himself that I was going to end up like him and his dad?
    And if he had figured on all this, then why the fuck did he still have children?
    Why?
    For fuck’s sake, why?
    The pent up resentment and anger inside of me is so intense I don’t know what to do with myself. Actually, I do. A drink. That’s what I need. A long, emotion-dulling drink. I stashed the vodka from my bedroom in the garage after I found Amy hiding in my closet the other day.
    I go back to the garage and head straight for my toolbox. I yank open the bottom drawer and pull out the bottle. Opening it, I take a long swallow.
    “Jed?”
    Shit. It’s Summer. I pull the bottle away from my lips, but not before some drips down the side of my mouth. While hurriedly screwing on the cap, I wipe my mouth on my arm and then lean into the Buick and slide the bottle under the seat.
    As much as it tears me up, I can’t be friends with her now. If there’s a chance I’m going to end up like Dad, then I have to distance myself from anyone who matters to me. Even Amy, eventually. But, for now, it has to start with Summer. I’ll have to tell her to stay the hell out of my life. It’s for her own good, not that she’ll accept that, knowing Summer. But I know what’s best. And it’s best for her, for everyone, if I’m kept at arm’s length.
    God, I can’t even imagine the look on her face if she ever found out I was doing the same things my father and grandfather did.
    Better her to think I’m an asshole than a pedophile-in-waiting.
    “What?” I snap, watching as Summer saunters up to the trunk, smiling.
    She stops dead in her tracks, shock momentarily etched across her face before she smiles again.
    “I wanted to see how you were feeling after yesterday.”
    “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    Summer frowns. “What’s happened?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “What’s happened since yesterday when we talked to now when you don’t want to?”
    “Nothing.” I shrug.
    She walks down the side of the car, her short skirt swaying from side to side, then peers through the window and leans right in. Within a couple of seconds she pulls out the bottle, which she waves under my nose. I snatch it from her, and throw it back into the car.
    “Drinking won’t help,” she says, recovering her composure and placing her hands on her hips in defiance.
    “And you know that how?”
    If there was a law against do-gooding, she’d get life.
    And more to the point, what does she know about the need to drink? Her life is so perfect. Dad, CEO of a national company. Mom, at home looking after her and her younger sister. Two vacations a year, one skiing and the other to the Mediterranean. The epitome of a Disney family.
    “It’s been nine months since you found out about your dad, and you’ve gone from being a straight A student to barely passing. I know yesterday was tough for you, but you’ll get through it. You have to think of the future.”
    Ha. The future. Like she has any idea what she’s talking about.
    Like I’m ever going to be anything more than the son of a murdering child predator.
    Oh, wait, unless I actually become one of those murdering child predators.
    Fuck my life
    I have no future. Not now. Not ever. And the sooner people begin to accept that, the better it will be.
    “My grades or my drinking have nothing to do with you. You’re not my mom.”
    How can a seventeen-year-old girl exhibit such parent-like qualities? It’s not