Dishonoring Jack

Chapter Thirty Two

As evening waned to night, Jack knew she couldn't go home, but she also couldn't stand at the scene of the massacre, blood soaking the ground where Titus's body had lain and Clyde's body lying lifeless on the ground. Max and Margaret might return, and Jack did not have the energy to fight them again. Still, she couldn't return to her own house and listen for the sound of Donovan's motor revving as he prepared to leave.

Jack wandered away from Margaret's house, her body cold and bruised as the October winds swept over her. Images passed before her eyes every time she closed them. Donovan on his knees, bloodied and bruised. Titus falling to the ground. Julius shaking his head. Hannah's grief-stricken face when she saw Titus's body. Everything was all wrong.

How had this happened? The Slates weren't supposed to win. Titus was going to arrest them and take them to prison or have them hanged. Donovan and Jack were going to have a future beyond the present. Everyone was going to live happily ever after. But life had never turned out as Jack had expected. When she was young and naive, Jack had expected to marry Roy, travel the world, and come home to a farm and family.

Jack's feet led her back to Irvington, but she couldn't bring herself to go to the Benjamins. While she knew that Corrie would understand, how could she face Hannah after everything? Perhaps Jack hadn't been the one to shoot the gun, but she felt just as responsible for Titus's death. She was the one that had convinced him to help Donovan. She was the one that had begged him to help her find Donovan when he went missing. She was the one who failed to shoot Max Slate before his bullet found Titus's chest.

No, Jack couldn't go to the Benjamins. A part of her wanted to crumple into the street and sob, but she was fresh out of tears and her own weakness made her nauseous. She passed the Benjamins' and went instead to the Walkers'. Perhaps she could gain some solace from Christina's calming presence. Perhaps she could convince Oliver with her testimony to finally prosecute the Slate brothers. Perhaps.

Jack climbed the front steps to the grand house and used the brass knocker to bang on the door. She didn't care who she awoke. The entire town needed to know of the tragedies of the evening. The door opened a crack and Jack caught sight of a white shift and a woman with her hair held in a cap.

"Jacqueline? What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?" Anita hissed and Jack resisted the urge to scream at her.

Anita opened the door, her green eyes squinted and glassy. When she saw Jack, her eyes widened. Anita opened her mouth to speak but no sound came forth.

"Can I come in?" Jack asked, pushing through the door anyways.

"Jack, what happened?" Anita asked, aghast. "The blood..."

Jack looked down at herself for the first time since the events of the evening and found her dress smeared with blood and dirt and her white hands covered with the crusted liquid. She must look like an apparition from a child's worst nightmares.

"Titus...he's..." But suddenly Jack found she couldn't speak. The events were blaring through her mind with intensity as if she were reliving every moment.

Anita jumped into action, taking Jack's filthy hand and leading her into the house. "It's okay, you don't need to see anything. Let's get you cleaned up."

While normally Jack would have protested to any kindness shown her by her sister, she was too weak and exhausted to care and Anita's certainty let Jack's defenses fall. Anita led her sister to the bathroom and turned on the tap in the bathtub. The sight of the luxurious porcelain tub nearly made Jack weak; she hadn't bathed in one in years and the idea of washing off the blood and grime and guilt of the day was too much to resist.