The Endless Road to Sunshine - Nicky James Page 0,60

Morgan had been charged with eleven counts of first-degree murder and had earned the Kingston Strangler nickname. During all those silent months in between, the police had gathered more and more evidence, building their case and linking Morgan to several unsolved murders spanning a number of years.

A front-page article that had been printed eight months ago caught my eye. A small black and white picture showed Morgan Atkinson, pre-arrest, with his arm around another guy. They were sitting on a park bench somewhere. It looked to be summertime since the trees were full and flowers in planters in the background were in bloom. Wind rustled their hair. Their intimate connection was obvious in the way they leaned against one another and touched.

It wasn’t a clear picture, but the smiling face with a trimmed beard and longer hair was definitely my history professor. The caption underneath read, Was Suspected Serial Killer Morgan Atkinson Acting Alone?

I read the article, noting all the speculative evidence presented by the journalist. Even with the addendum stating that the police hadn’t found any reason to believe Jason had participated, it was damaging. No wonder Jason had had no choice but to escape.

I set the paper aside and dug deeper into the box, finding several more articles that focused on Jason instead of Morgan. It seemed that for a short time in February and March, he’d been in the spotlight. Many citizens were convinced the police should have investigated Jason’s involvement more and that they’d dismissed him too easily.

Only a handful of the articles contained pictures. Most were blurry or had been taken from a distance—Jason escaping inside a house or a building that looked like his old university. Jason with his face shielded as he raced toward a familiar hybrid car.

Two photographs were of a younger-looking Jason that some reporter must have dug up online. They were clearer, and despite the age difference and the small changes he’d made to his appearance, it was him.

Had he not told me the truth, this would have tipped me off. No wonder he lived in fear of people finding out. Anyone curious enough could easily piece it together.

I kept digging. The articles from mid-April onward were primarily focused on Morgan and his trial. There was still the odd mention of Jason, but more than once I read that he’d refused to comment and had turned down interviews.

I’d collected a large stack of newspapers by the time I was finished. Replacing the lids on the boxes, I set them back in order against the side of the garage where I’d found them. I carried the pile I needed for school out to my car before returning inside to say goodbye to my mom.

Jakobe was in the kitchen when I entered, his head in the refrigerator, probably looking for a snack even though brunch had ended less than half an hour ago. I popped my earbuds out and let them dangle around my neck.

“Hey. Where’s Mom?”

Jakobe snagged a can of Coke and turned, hip checking the door shut. “Reading in the living room. Are you leaving?”

“Yeah. Take care, okay? Get that homework done. Call me if you want to hang out. For real. You can come chill at the apartment anytime.”

“So I can hear about your bedroom adventures? I’ll think about it. Don’t hold your breath. I gotta go do homework.” He made air quotes around the last two words and gave me an all-knowing smirk.

“Shithead,” I said, laughing.

“Putz.”

“Douchenozzle.”

“Ass licker.”

“Fucking right I do.”

Jakobe shuddered dramatically. “Gross.”

I snagged him in a headlock and gave him a decent noogie while he yelped and fought to get free. We were both laughing by the time I let him go, and Mom stood in the doorway to the kitchen, smiling at us both.

“Are you leaving?”

“God, he better. He’s making my virgin ears bleed.”

“You poor thing. Go do that homework before I pop your cherry with my words.”

“Knobgobbler,” he yelled as he headed to his room.

“Nothing I like better,” I called after him. “I tried to tell you about last Monday, but you wouldn’t listen.”

When I turned back to Mom, her brow was quirked.

“Can we pretend you didn’t hear that?”

“I’m afraid it’s permanently etched into my brain now.”

“I’m still a bit of an oversharer. I’m working on it.”

She tugged me into a hug, rocking us side to side. “I can handle it. Just be smart in your… adventures.”

“Is that your subtle reminder to always use condoms? We’ve had these lectures. I don’t need a refresher. I