It amuses me to think about Jessica on the run, always looking over her shoulder, moving from one cheap motel to another, forced to use cash and take under-the-table odd jobs. That’s the fate she deserves for her testimony against my mom. And who knows, maybe she’ll actually sober up; maybe it’ll help her in the long run. She certainly won’t have the means for the drugs she’s taking now.

As for her kids, well, as much as it pains me to admit it, I’m actually with Travis on this one. Jessica’s not fit to raise a ferret, let alone a child. And if Travis raises them they’ll turn into horrible little fascist monsters, and that’s bad for everybody. No, Mercedes and Braden will be better off once their parents are out of the picture.

If I choose not to bring Lander down perhaps he’ll be the one to raise them.

But I have to bring him down. He’s one of the bad guys. He just told me as much.

It’s simpler this way. I really need to be happy about this.

I pull out a copy of Lander’s phone bill and study the numbers. I’m happy about this. Of course I am. This is great.

I take the bill and put it down on the desk. I should make a copy with Lander’s printer and give it to Travis. I don’t know if there’s anything incriminating in here, but if I show it to Travis and he tells me to follow up on something, then I will know. And I can just keep fueling the flame between the brothers. It will be a betrayal of Lander’s trust, but that’s what I’m here for, right? He’s the bad guy and I’m the necessary evil. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

But I don’t want to give this to Travis.

I lean back on the desk and put my head in my hands. There have been times in my life when I’ve felt stupid and self-destructive and all sorts of other things, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt weak.

How have I come to this? I made assumptions about who these people are, and across the board I’ve been completely accurate in my predictions. I got it all right. I’m right. How can I be having a hard time accepting that?

Again I take a deep breath and force myself to remember. I remember my mother crying. I remember her protestations of innocence that no one listened to. I remember what she looked like when I called her a killer and a whore.

I don’t deserve a happy life. I can’t forget that.