Evening was settling over the house, though the only way Matthew could tell was the gradual chill that clung to the wooden walls. It was a pox, the cold. He had looked outside on occasion as well; the black clouds had a stranglehold on the light over their house. It was possible the rest of the world was devoid of light, though that seemed silly in his mind. The world rarely acted in the same way as a singular house on a small plot of land. Such places were inconsequential to the turning cogs of the world’s progress.

Still, he knew there was something odd about the way night had refused to give way to day. Even when there was a small break in between the dark clouds, and a bit of sunlight slipped through, he grew concerned that day would never make itself known again.

Arthur was sitting in the corner of the living room. He was reading a leather-bound book, which Matthew assumed he had brought with him. The cover was decorated with ornate designs – flowers it looked like, looping and curling in over themselves. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking; he had been sitting in the corner for so long, Matthew thought he had died with his eyes open after a while. As if to respond to his internal thoughts, Arthur looked up at Matthew over the brim of his book and nodded. Matthew returned it and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, looking down the long hallway that led to Jackson’s bedroom.

His brother was still refusing to speak with him, something he expected at this point. There was a part of his mind telling him not to be surprised if, after the storm finally let up, he was thrown out on his ass alongside Pa’s corpse. He could see it in the way Jackson looked at him – the glares he would throw at him in the morning like javelins, the sharp tone in his words when he spoke to him, the way he would take Mary into another room to whisper privately. His time living in the house was limited; it was more a matter of when he was exiled, rather than if.

What would Pa think about that? Was Jackson even feeding him? Matthew had asked him a couple of times, and Jackson had either refused to answer or had lied to him. Of course it was lies. He doubted Jackson actually went into Pa’s room. Even if a Mexican was stabbing Pa in his sleep and brandishing the bloody knife in the air, Jackson would turn a blind eye and shrug his shoulders. He might even buy him a drink or make him a meal.

Saddled with fear and weighted down by unaired concern, Matthew walked down the hallway toward Pa’s room. It seemed dark and terrifying, more so than usual. Probably was the darkness outside. It made the shadows on the walls appear longer than they actually were, and when an oil lamp would flicker or sputter blue light would flash through the house with an eerie rhythm. It wasn’t ever anything more than just his own imagination, though.

Matthew noticed a rank stench wafting its way through Pa’s door when he approached. Some of it smelled familiar – sweat, blood, illness, death, all co-mingling in the air. A noxious poison. There was something else, though – something different. Metallic, like an old revolver barrel that hadn’t been taken care of in a long time.

“Pa?” Matthew asked. He reached his hand out to the glass doorknob and grasped it. The cold surface bit into his palm with icy teeth. “Pa, you okay?”

No response.

Pa was not the kind of man to make someone wait. If he wanted you to come in, he’d tell you. If he didn’t, he’d make his opinion known. Either way, he was not a man who allowed silence to put words in his mouth.

“Pa, I’m comin’ in!” Matthew yelled. “Make you’self decent if you ain’t!”

He twisted the knob; it turned without any resistance. Maybe Jackson could do one thing right – build a damn door.

“Pa, what’s goin’ on?” Matthew said as he pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. He was closing the door behind him, his eyes focused on the floor, when his heart plummeted into his stomach. His entire body went numb, and pained shock forced an almost inaudible grunt from the deepest bowels of his throat.

Splayed out on his bed with a pool of crimson around him was Pa. His face seemed peaceful and his eyes were closed, but sticking out of his neck was a long, sharp knife. The blood on his body was mostly dried, though the most saturated parts of the bed were still damp with crimson. One of his hands was draped over the side of the bed, pale fingers pointed outward, at the end of which were elongated droplets of blood that had dripped toward the floor.

Matthew pulled his hand up to his mouth as the tsunami of shock and horror washed over him, pulling him under the surface, throwing him around the undercurrent, and spitting him out just as he was on the verge of losing breath.

None of it made sense.

Who killed Pa?

Nobody had left the house in days. Someone in the house must have done it.

Matthew looked closer at the knife without moving. Fear and sadness paralyzed him to the spot just in front of the threshold. Even from the distance he was at, he could tell whose knife it was.

Jackson’s.

The handle was unique, one-of-a-kind, with a scorpion carved into the wood. He was sure, if he pulled the blade out of his father’s chest, he would see the engraved, baroque pattern on it.

Pa had bought him this knife, too. Some night when he had been drunk, which was many nights after Ma died, he had gone into town and bargained with one of the local shop owners. Talked him down from five dollars, Pa would always say. The fires of jealousy had bloomed in Matthew’s stomach as he thought about the fact that Pa had tried so hard to get on Jackson’s good side when Jackson had only ever cared about hating him. Once Ma died, Jackson didn’t even try to hide it, either. He would volley insults and swears, and Pa would be forced to teach him a lesson. Yet every time he did, he’d end up feeling bad. He’d find some present and bring it to Jackson, telling him he was never going to drink again, that he was done with the poison. Sometimes he made a show of it by dumping out amber liquid from a glass bottle onto the floor. Other times, he would create some elegiac speech about how he was a prisoner to the sauce.

Anger was burning in his stomach and Matthew suppressed it. It wasn’t Pa’s fault that Jackson never listened, nor that his brother seemed more content running off to start a life of his own than to help his own blood.

It wasn’t Pa’s fault. It wasn’t Pa’s fault. It wasn’t Pa’s fault.

Matthew looked at the knife again, staring at the hilt, at the scorpion that had been hand-carved into the hilt.

It was Jackson’s. There was no doubt about it. Someone may have stolen it from him – even in the depths of his anger he didn’t think Jackson would actually murder Pa. Jackson wasn’t man enough for that. He was more content whining to Mary than actually solving problems. That left only one suspicious person, one man who had arrived in the dead of night and immediately made his way down the hallway to the wash room (or so he said). One man who Jackson seemed to have no problem taking in, despite knowing nothing about him. Why was he missing a part of his calf? Maybe he tried to kill someone else and they fought back?

It was Luis. There was no doubt in his mind. He could even have stolen the knife from Jackson’s room. How long had he been in the washroom tending to his wounds? How long had he spent alone before Jackson checked on him?

Matthew’s heart began to beat faster. He needed to tell Jackson. He needed Jackson to hear him. He needed his brother on his side for once.

He looked, with sorrow in his heart, at his Pa. Yet, he still looked peaceful. That was a small silver lining, at least. Hopefully he was killed in his sleep, without a struggle. Quick and easy for a man who had always fought hard his entire life.

Matthew turned and opened the door. He would figure out what to do with Pa later.

For now, he had a mission.

When he exited Pa’s room, closing the door behind him with gentle precision, he noticed there was someone standing nearby. He narrowed his eyes, pushing past a haze of tears, and noticed who the figure was.

Luis.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “With your father, I mean. I heard he was sick.”

Matthew held the boiling rage he had deep within his gut, pushing himself back from the brink of murderous rage. He nodded, though the movement seemed too mechanical. Did Luis notice? Probably not. Why was he asking? What was his game? Murder my father, then try and be my friend? Matthew thought.

“He’s fine,” Matthew said.

Luis smiled. “Good to hear.”

Matthew pushed past the man before he could say anything more. He was on a mission. He had to convince Jackson. He needed to show his brother that he was right all along, that letting people in without asking them who they are or where they’re from is a dangerous impulse. Jackson would resist at first. He would say that Matthew was lying, as he always would. Then he would show Jackson Pa’s corpse, and his brother would have no option but to understand the gravity of their situation. They could keep the girl here, maybe, though Matthew was unsure whether she could be trusted, either. But the man had to go. Luis. With his sneering smile and his prodding questions. He had to go.

Jackson was in the kitchen with Mary. They were speaking together in hushed voices, but they didn’t stop when he crossed the threshold. It wasn’t about him. Or maybe they were getting bolder, more careless. Mary looked him up and down as he approached them, and Jackson gave him a cold glare, but Matthew was undeterred.

“Jackson, I need to show you somethin’,” Matthew said.

“I don’t care, we’re settin’ up dinner,” Jackson said. He turned back to Mary and they continued to talk. Something about rations and portions and who would get which bits of food. The rage began to bubble in his stomach again, and Matthew reached out and touched his brother’s shoulder.

“Can it wait?” Jackson asked, his tone sharp. “I’m busy with somethin’. Protectin’ the house, as you always tell me to.” He turned away again.

Was the rain getting louder? Or perhaps that was just his imagination. No, it definitely was getting louder, more ferocious. And was that the wind screaming? Or was it the emaciated figure he had seen out the window, the shadow, the black blob that even Arthur was scared of. Could it break into their house? Could the river come up and wash them away? No, probably not, but they could run out of food and Pa is dead, Pa is dead, Pa is dead, PA IS DEAD.

Matthew stumbled out of the kitchen, nausea pulling at his throat and stomach with tiny hands, threatening to push acid up through his chest. What if he spewed it on Luis? Would he disintegrate into a crisp? He could hear Jackson laughing at him at how preposterous that seemed. Jackson was always laughing at him.

He pushed the anger, the sickness, the sadness to the deepest pit his stomach had. After a breath and a moment of thought, he realized he wasn’t going to be able to tell Jackson before dinner. He would keep blowing him off. At dinner, though – that was a different story. At dinner he could explain what was happening. At dinner, he could expose Luis for the fraud he was. At dinner, they would be able to right their tumultuous ship and sail toward the horizon of salvation.

Everyone was seated at the table for dinner shortly afterward. Mary had made a very simple stew. Matthew took a bite, his lips slurping against the edges of the wooden spoon. It was mostly flavorless, lacking any sort of punch or power. That was most of Mary’s food – lacking any sort of substance.

Matthew looked across the table at his brother, who was focused on his food. He had said grace before they started eating, and Matthew had kept his eyes open to look at Luis. He said Amen like everyone else and he had even closed his eyes, but Matthew knew he wasn’t a Christian. He couldn’t be.

Only a matter of time.

Jackson has to believe me.

He had brought Jackson’s revolver to the table. He could feel the metal barrel biting into his back, stuck in the waistband of his trousers. He expected he wouldn’t need it, but if Luis put up a fight, he wanted to be prepared.

He began to play Jackson’s words of praise over and over in his head. Or, at least the ones he expected his brother would say.

God, I’m so glad you were lookin’ out for us.

I can’t believe I never listened to ya.

Pa would be so proud o’ you right now.

Jackson glanced over at Luis, who was smiling at his daughter. Nice try, Matthew thought. Everyone can see you for the fraud you are. Is that even your daughter?

To his left sat Arthur, and when Matthew looked over at him he saw a twinkle in the man’s eyes. Something that was telling him go ahead, spill the beans.

His heart was pounding frantically in his chest when he stood suddenly. Everyone at the table looked up at him, and Matthew became acutely aware of how many eyes were on him. He thought about Arthur’s kind face, his smile, the promise he had made. Pa wouldn’t be able to see the money, but Matthew still could. He could live a life of luxury with it. All he needed to do was survive the storm.

His eyes flashed toward Luis, who was wearing a puzzled visage.

“I have somethin’ I want to say, and I want everyone to listen,” Matthew said. Even though his stomach was a torrent of cicadas, his words came out clear and strong.

“Well go ‘head and say it. Food’s getting’ cold,” Jackson said.

Matthew looked at Jackson. For a moment, he felt sorry for his brother. But he couldn’t wait on ceremony.

“Pa is dead,” Matthew said. “I found him earlier today.”

Shocked silence reigned over the dining area. The scraping sounds of wooden spoons against bowls ceased. Jackson stared at him with an odd glare; it was like he wanted to be mad, but couldn’t be.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Jackson asked at last, breaking the silence. “What do y’ mean he’s dead?”

“Exactly what I said,” Matthew said. The jolted fear in his gut was dissipating.

He’s listening!

“Well how’d he die?” Jackson asked, gesturing with the stew-stained spoon. “Y’ can sit down.”

“Go see fo’ yourself,” Matthew said, gesturing toward Pa’s bedroom. “I’ll sit down once you do.”

“This is preposterous,” Jackson muttered to himself, dropping his spoon into the bowl. Outside, the wind was howling, rain pelting the glass with increased force. Was that cracking he heard? It sounded like ice freezing over, only there was no ice.

“I’ll go check,” Mary said. She stood from the table and shot a glare across it at Matthew. He put his hands in his trousers pockets and waited, watching her walk away and around the corner to the hallway.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Matthew said.

“You didn’t need to make it this big deal,” Jackson said. “We’re at dinner and you’re actin’ like you’re reenactin’ a damn play.”

A few moments later, Mary came around the corner. Her eyes were wide open with shock, but Matthew could not detect whether she was afraid, sad, or angry. She moved silently back to her chair and sat down. Jackson looked at her and she nodded.

“It’s true,” Mary said.

“Oh my God,” Arthur said, putting a hand to his mouth. “What happened?”

“He was murdered,” Matthew said. “By someone here. It’s Jackson’s knife in his chest. I can tell by the handle.”

“What is this nonsense?” Jackson said. “You sayin’ I murdered Pa?”

“No,” Matthew said. “As much as y’ hate him, I don’t think you’d kill him.”

“It’s true about the knife,” Mary said to Jackson, keeping her voice low. “It’s in his gut. There’s blood everywhere.”

“What are you tryin’ to say?” Jackson asked. “You tryin’ to say someone stole my knife and stabbed Pa just ‘cause? Nobody here even knows Pa ‘sides his blood. Fewer wanna actually spend time with him.”

“How long were you in the washroom th’ night you arrived, Luis,” Matthew said, turning his head toward the Mexican. He savored the delicious fear in his face as he realized what Matthew was insinuating.

“Hey, I didn’t do anything,” Luis said. “Ask Jackson – I was tending to my wounds and comforting my daughter.”

“You sure were back there a long time,” Matthew said. “An awful long time to bandage a wound.”

“Are you serious?” Jackson said. “You’re serious, aren’t ya? You think this kind fellow and his daughter went into Pa’s room to kill him the night they arrived? Why?”

Matthew’s confidence faltered. “Well, I don’t know-”

“’Cause it didn’t happen. In fact, it might be one o’ the dumbest things you’ve ever said, which is sayin’ somethin’.” Jackson turned to Luis and put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry ‘bout this,” Jackson said.

“What’re you apologizin’ to him for?” Matthew yelled. “He killed Pa! He killed Pa, God damn it and you’re doin’ nothin’ as usual.”

“What evidence you got that he killed Pa?” Jackson said. “You got anythin’ beyond my knife? We’re assumin’ it’s my knife too and not just a knife that looks similar to mine. So let’s hear it, what else ya got?”

“He’s the only one that was spendin’ any time down there!” Matthew yelled. “I tell ya, he killed Pa!”

“Yellin’ don’t make your conspiracies more true,” Jackson scoffed.

“It’s true,” Arthur said, his voice ringing out across the table.

Silence regained its control over the table for a minute as everyone reacted to his sudden words. Jackson had turned his head to look at Arthur, a surprised sheen in his eyes.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Jackson said. He kept his voice low, though Matthew could tell he was concerned. His crazy brother, that was one thing. Easy to brush off. A stranger with no real skin in the game? That was something else. Matthew smiled.

“It was the middle of the night, and we were all in a frenzy after Luis arrived. You were in the kitchen with your wife, and Matthew was by himself in the corner. That’s why I thought it was odd that I saw a shadow emerge from your father’s room, close the door, and enter the washroom. Unless you have another guest we’re not aware of Jackson, it could only have been one man.”

“Jackson, I didn’t do this,” Luis said. He was inching closer toward his daughter.

Fool, he thought. I wouldn’t hurt her.

“So you saw a shadow?” Jackson said incredulously. “And we’re not even getting to the part where Luis somehow stole my knife durin’ all o’ this.”

“I’m just saying what I saw,” Arthur said. “I have no reason to lie.”

“For all I know it could have been you,” Jackson said, shaking his head. “Fact is, Pa was a despicable, evil man who only cared about hisself. World’s better off without him, and after the storm’s up I’ll find some pigs to toss him to.”

“You take that back,” Matthew said, his voice low and trembling. The rage was beginning to boil again, hotter than ever, hotter than the fires of Hell itself.

“You know it’s true!” Jackson said. “Pa was the kind o’ man who’s shoot ya in the back and make it your fault somehow. I can’t count how many times he’d pull out his iron and put it in my face just ‘cause I snuck out at night.”

“He did that to discipline you!” Matthew yelled. “Because you were spendin’ so much time goin’ behind his back and breakin’ rules!”

“What, you want me t’ be sorry I didn’t follow his rules? Well guess what, I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry I didn’t wanna follow the rules of the man who beat Ma,” Jackson spat. “I’m not sorry that I didn’t wanna love the man who told me how disgusting and awful we were every time he had a drink. I’m not sorry that’s he’s dead. In fact, I’m kinda happy ‘bout it. Nobody in this family’ll have to feel disrespected anymore. Mary won’t have his lecherous eyes leerin’ at her when she brings him food. I won’t have to hear no more moanin’ about folks in the farm stealin’ our crops. I won’t have to hear no more o’ his racism, his disgustin’ thoughts, or his malformed opinions.”

Matthew was crying. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it. Jackson kept going and going, his mouth a constant storm of hatred and anger. He spoke faster than Matthew thought was possible, and every slight against Pa dug under his skin.

“Jackson,” Mary said. She put her hand on his.

“No, he needs to hear this!” Jackson yelled. He stood from his chair and leaned over the table. His eyes were burrowing in to Matthew’s, twisting around like bayonets in flesh. “I’m sorry Mary, guests, kids, but my brother has lived with this lie long enough! This is it, Matthew! You got a choice. You wanna keep thinkin’ like Pa, followin’ Pa, decidin’ your life’s path upon where Pa would want it to go? As long as you do that, you got no place in this house. Actually, as soon as that storm lets up I’m gonna throw you out myself. You make me sick. So get your fuckin’ act together and be a man.”

Matthew became acutely aware of the hot tears on his cheeks, of the pain in his heart, of the fear climbing its way up his throat. Throw out? He knew it. Jackson was trying to get rid of him. Trying to throw him to the wolves. Now that Pa was dead, there was nothing he could do to stop Jackson from having his way. Everyone was on his side. Not even Arthur was speaking up anymore. He was all alone, and shadows were running past their window and someone murdered Pa and nobody cared!

“You got somethin’ you wanna say?” Jackson said. “You got some apologies you wanna make? Or maybe you just wanna walk right out that door right now and not look back?”

“Jackson, I’m sorry,” Matthew said. His lips were trembling; his hands were shaking.

“Sorry for what?” Jackson pushed. “Tell me what yo’ sorry for.”

Matthew didn’t respond immediately. He looked at his brother as darkness began to curl itself around his heart. Outside, the rain was pelting against the windows and the wind seemed to be speaking as it slipped between the window cracks.

“Jackson, do you love me?” Matthew asked. He felt like a child; his voice had gone from confidence and power to timidity in a matter of minutes. That was what Jackson did to him.

“Do you want me to be honest with you, Matthew?” Jackson asked.

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

He paused. Matthew could see him thinking about what he was going to say. He wanted to feel some sort of happiness, some sort of warmth. He was drowning in the darkness and Pa was dead. Jackson sat down in his chair and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table.

“T’ be frank, no – I don’t love you, Matthew. And I’m gonna be happy when you’re gone.”

There it is.

There’s your truth.

He will never love you.

Matthew sniffled and looked down at his feet. He was still standing and he didn’t know why. He looked over at Luis, who was frowning. He couldn’t tell whether he was feeling pity or sadness. Maybe both.

He glanced over at his brother. Hatred was burning in his eyes. Jackson wasn’t going to listen. Jackson would never listen. Jackson would listen to himself and hurt everyone around him without caring.

He will never love you and Pa is dead.

Matthew reached around to his back and pulled the revolver from his waistband. Before anybody could move, he pointed the barrel at Jackson’s head, pulled the hammer back with his thumb, and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot exploded through the small cabin. Jackson’s head jerked backward as his eyes popped open in shock. Blood spurted out the back of his head in a horrifying, crimson wave, followed by bits of skull. His head then fell forward and hit the table with a sickening crack. His entire body slumped onto the floor as blood continued to flow from the gaping wound in the back of his head.

Next Chapter: Mary