CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The miniature chess set looked too elegant for the little table in Tony Bartlett’s shabby motel room.
Each piece was a warrior in a war Tony had been fighting since his brother’s death.
Outside, the June night pressed hot against the single window, its glass smudged with the residue of previous tenants’ breaths and fingerprints.
Tony’s eyes flicked between the board and the empty chair across from him, where Jay sat waiting.
Though dead for five years, Jay’s presence was as real to Tony as the peeling wallpaper and the hum of the struggling air conditioner.
“Your move,” Tony said, his voice barely audibles above the mechanical whir.
Jay didn’t respond—he never did, not with words that anyone else could hear—but Tony saw his brother’s fingers hover over a knight.
Then he obeyed his brother’s will by decisively sliding it forward in an L-shape that threatened Tony’s bishop.
The move was aggressive, like all of Jay’s plays had been tonight.
Tony studied the board, the same travel set they’d carried on countless adventures throughout Virginia’s landscape.
Before they got it, they used to improvise create makeshift chess boards and pieces with whatever they found at hand—with floor scratches and stones and such.
This set’s magnetized pieces had survived rock climbing expeditions, overnight camps in the woods, and rain-soaked hikes through dense forests.
The familiar worn edges of the folding board told a history of brotherly competition, of minds equally matched in their understanding of strategy and risk.
“You’re playing like you’ve got something to prove,” Tony murmured, moving his bishop to safety. He glanced up at the clock on the nightstand: 11:17 p.m., June 19th. It was the night of his first failure to fill another shallow grave.
Jay’s next move came swiftly—a rook sliding across the board, setting up a trap that Tony barely spotted in time.
“I know, I know,” Tony said, leaning back in his chair. “I messed up. I couldn’t finish at Quayle Hill. The delivery man got away.”
His twin’s face remained impassive, but Tony felt the weight of disappointment radiating from the empty chair.
Jay had always been the more daring of the two, taking risks that made even Tony’s heart race.
Now, five years after Jay’s fall, that daring had hardened into something colder, more demanding.
“I’m sorry,” Tony added, his voice catching. “But you know I’ll make it right. Tomorrow. I promise.”
The air conditioner sputtered, momentarily falling silent before resuming its labored breathing. In that brief pocket of quiet, Tony thought he could hear Jay’s voice—not audible, but present in his mind, urging him forward, reminding him of their pact.
Tony returned his attention to the board, moving a pawn forward in defense.
Jay countered immediately, his queen advancing with lethal intent.
Each piece Jay moved seemed charged with the anger Tony imagined his brother felt—anger at being left alone on that cliff face without their lucky charm, anger at the system that had failed him, anger at Tony for not yet bringing that system fully to justice.
“I don’t understand why you’re pushing so hard tonight,” Tony said, rubbing his temples. The room’s dim lighting was giving him a headache, or perhaps it was just the intensity of Jay’s gaze from across the board. “We’re on the same side, remember?”
Jay’s queen took Tony’s knight, and suddenly the board looked different—vulnerabilities opened up that Tony hadn’t noticed before. His brother had always been better at seeing five moves ahead, at planning for contingencies Tony couldn’t anticipate.
In Tony’s mind, Jay’s voice finally came: Would you like to concede?
“What? No. Why would I?” Tony frowned, scanning the board for a way out.
Checkmate in five moves.
Tony’s frown deepened as he studied the arrangement of pieces. Jay had maneuvered him into a corner with such subtle precision that he hadn’t even noticed it happening. His king was already trapped, the paths of escape closing with each move Jay had made while Tony was distracted.
He traced the potential moves with his finger, hovering over pieces but never touching them. One move, then Jay’s counter. Another desperate shift, another crushing response. No matter how he played it out, his king would fall in five moves, just as Jay had said.
“You’re right,” Tony said finally, tipping his king onto its side. The tiny magnetic piece made a soft click against the board. “I concede.”
A smile ghosted across Jay’s face—or at least, Tony thought it did. The motel room’s lighting played tricks, shadows shifting with every passing car outside.
What delivery do you have planned for tomorrow? Jay’s question filled Tony’s thoughts. Where will it happen?
Tony reached for the plastic cup of water at one side of the table. “I want it to be a surprise,” he said after taking a sip. “But you’ll be deeply pleased. I promise. This one...” he paused, setting the cup down carefully, “this one will truly avenge you. Once and for all.”
Jay’s expression turned serious, concerned even. Be careful. Don’t get overconfident.
“I won’t,” Tony assured him, beginning to reset the chess pieces for another game.
Each piece clicked satisfyingly into its starting position, order restored from the chaos of play.
“I’ve planned my game many moves ahead, just like we’ve always done.
They may think they understand the pattern now, but they’re looking at the wrong pieces. ”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out their shared treasure—a small brass compass, its surface worn smooth from years of handling. The engraved words “Find Your Way” caught the light as he rotated it in his palm.
“Besides,” Tony continued, “nothing can go wrong as long as I have our good luck charm with me.”
Jay said nothing to this, but Tony didn’t need him to. The compass had been part of their ritual, their superstition, their bond.
Outside, a car door slammed in the motel parking lot. Tony’s head snapped toward the window. But after a moment of silence, he relaxed again, turning back to the chess board and his brother.
“One more game?” he asked, already knowing Jay wouldn’t refuse.
They had played chess together since they were five years old, a couple of years before their mother disappeared, long before their father’s depression and eventual death from mesothelioma.
The game had been a constant in their ever-moving childhood, a portable stability as Carl Bartlett’s work took them from county to county across Virginia.
They had made chessboards and pieces out of whatever was at hand, until they had finally acquired this little travel set.
Jay agreed, and Tony made the first move—pawn to e4, opening up lanes for his bishop and queen. Classic, predictable, but sometimes the expected move was the right one. Jay countered immediately, and as they settled into the familiar rhythm of play, Tony felt a sense of peace wash over him.
Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow would be perfect.
Tomorrow, he would deliver the justice Jay deserved, and maybe then his brother could finally rest. But tonight, in this anonymous motel room with its humming air conditioner and flickering lights, they were just two brothers playing chess, finding their way move by move through the darkness.
Tony’s fingers lingered on the compass before returning it to his pocket. After tomorrow, the game would truly be over.