Chapter 12: Ghosts and Coffee

The Brownhardt was quiet for once. Jaxson rinsed the last of the breakfast dishes and set them on the drying rack, the smell of dark roast coffee hanging in the air like a warm blanket. The July sunlight filtered through tall windows, catching the chrome edges of his sleek modern kitchen. Minimalist, elegant, and far too expensive for a building that creaked every time the wind hit it. But the apartment fit him—sharp lines, muted tones, and not a single thing out of place. He took a sip of coffee and leaned against the counter.

On the dining table sat a teddy bear, its fur soft brown and worn in just the right places. Scott had left it there—he always did. The bear given to Scott from Jaxson on his first Christmas in the apartment, something small and sentimental the boy pretended not to care about yet never left behind.

Jaxson picked it up and smiled faintly. Little brother, he thought, or at least, the closest thing he ever had. He knew he would do anything to protect him. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was familiarity of their similar situations. Mayb misery truly does love company. All he knew is that he was the only family he had and he wasn’t losing him.

He walked down the hall, pushed open the cracked door to Scott’s room. The young man was still asleep, one arm flung over his face, breathing steadily. Safe. Shelter from a world that liked to chew boys like him up and spit them into alleys. That mattered. It mattered more than he would ever admit out loud.

A memory slipped in—uninvited, sharp, and too clear.

He was small, maybe seven. Dustin—ten years older, twice as mean—pinned him on the living room carpet and punched his stomach over and over. The hits stopped only when the front door burst open and Martin Geary strode in, smelling like gasoline and late nights.

Martin grabbed Dustin by the collar, slammed him against the wall so hard the picture frames rattled.

“What the hell are you doing to your brother?”

Dustin spat back, “He ruined everything. If he never showed up, you’d be gone and Mom and I would be happy.”

Martin’s voice was ice. “You lay your hands on him again and you won’t have hands anymore. You hear me?” Martin let go of Dustin and Dustin ran out the front door.

He turned to Jack—calmer, gentler.

“Starting this week, you’re learning how to defend yourself. Against people like him. Against anyone.”

And from then on, Jaxson went everywhere Martin went—even on nights that ended in county jail, bail offices, and bad coffee. He met many interesting people and learned he would get more information in a room by being quiet and listening then he would get any other way. A hard knock at the front door snapped the memory clean in half.

Jaxson set the bear down carefully, smoothed his expression back into something unreadable, and walked to answer it. Standing in the hallway were Detective Marla Simmons and Detective Rory Wallace. Both looked tired. Both tried not to show it.

Jaxson leaned against the frame, voice smooth as polished steel. “Detectives. If this is about the warehouse, all questions must go through my attorney, Derek Castleberry.”

Marla lifted a hand. “It’s not about the fire.”

Jaxson sighed theatrically. “I still prefer my attorney.”

Rory smirked, eyes drifting past Jaxson into the immaculate apartment. “Funny. People on the street say you’re a guardian angel. Doesn’t look very angelic, refusing to help.”

Jaxson’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Well played, Detective Wallace. You may come in. I’ll decide what I share.”

They stepped inside—and stopped. The apartment was modern, sleek, cold in its perfection much like it’s owner in his silk pajamas and high brand house slippers —glass surfaces, silver fixtures, minimalist art, polished floors. Just polished elegance that didn’t match the dingy hallways outside.

“Coffee?” Jaxson asked motioning to the dining room table, already walking toward the kitchen. Marla nodded. Rory nodded faster.

Jaxson returned with a tray—cups, cream, sugar—set it down like he was hosting senators, not police.

Marla didn’t bother softening her voice. “We talked to Bibi Harris last night. She said you knew Alicia Wilson.”

Jaxson stirred his own coffee slowly. “Barely. I found her outside Faces. Hungry. Scared. Too proud to admit it. When I offered her a hundred dollars, she took it. Pride is fragile when hunger isn’t.”

“So you didn’t know her well?” Marla pressed.

“No. But I know her type. I used to be those types.”

Rory leaned forward. “And Tami Paulson?”

“A bar in the Hyatt. Years ago. We talked. She came to Spirit of Hope a few times. Linda Park has a way of making strays feel less stray.”

Rory was eyeing some pastries on the kitchen island. “Danish?”

“Cheese or cherry?” Jaxson asked, already standing.

“Cheese,” Rory said, embarrassed but committed.

Jaxson disappeared into the kitchen. Marla took the opportunity.

“What about Melissa Stockman, Brody Miller, and Patrick Sheehan? Did they regularly attend Spirit of Hope”

Jaxson returned, handing Rory a plate with a perfectly plated Danish. He sat, sipped coffee, and spoke evenly. “We don’t attend Spirit of Hope. We depend on it. There’s a difference.”

Marla almost softened. “Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s the only church that doesn’t care how we look or who we sleep with or what our pasts are.”
He leaned back. “Melissa worked at The Smoking Gun. Her sister Pamela manages the Taj Mahal.”

Rory nodded. “Haldoran’s?”

Jaxson nods in agreement. “And the boys—Brody and Patrick—sold themselves for a fix. I warned them. But desperate men don’t listen.” Jaxson paused. “I would suggest talking to the dancers at the Smoking Gun, or the hustlers at the parks Liberty Memorial, Penn Valley, Rosedale, Swope, etc.”

Marla’s pen didn’t stop moving.

“You seem to know everyone,” she said.

Jaxson’s eyes cooled. “Someone has to. If we don’t look out for each other, no one will. Certainly not the city.”

Rory crossed his arms. “You sound like you’re running a charity.”

Jaxson smiled faintly. “I run survival. It’s less glamorous.”

A knock interrupted the tension. Jaxson stood and opened the door.

Derek Castleberry stormed in, voice loud, suit immaculate, blue eyes exhausted.

“Good. You’re here. We need to—” He saw the detectives. “What in the hell is this?”

Jaxson introduced them politely.

Derek’s voice sharpened. “You question my client without clearance again, and we have a real problem. I told Detectives Whitaker and Mendez—any conversation goes through me.”

Marla raised a hand. “This isn’t about the warehouse. We’re investigating missing persons and some deaths that might be connected together.”

“I don’t care if you’re investigating the Easter Bunny,” Derek snapped. “You still call me.”

The detectives apologized, gathered their notes, and stood.

As they reached the door, Jaxson gave a small nod. “I hope you find Tami and Alicia. Linda worries about them.” He smiled faintly. “She worries about all of us.”

The door closed.

Silence.

Derek turned, exasperated. “Why didn’t you call me? Why do you always do this alone?”

Jaxson poured him a cup of coffee. “They asked questions. I answered. Calmly. Politely. As I was raised.”

“Don’t be cute,” Derek snapped. “The Mayor’s office called me this morning. They want to know your ‘official statement.’ Now the Freeman Ministry is contacting me, too. They want a meeting. What the hell do you have to do with a televangelist?”

Jaxson’s expression didn’t change. “I have no connection to them. There is only one ministry I trust—and it’s Spirit of Hope. The rest… are predators dressed in scripture.”

Derek sat heavily on the couch. “I need real answers, Jaxson. Not riddles. Not philosophy. Just truth.”

Jaxson considered, then nodded once.

Derek took a breath. “I found out your father was released from prison. Months ago. He’s been living in a halfway house in Kansas City. Did you know?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think that mattered?”

“It does not. Not anymore.”

Derek leaned forward. “Did he come here? Did he contact you?”

Jaxson looked out the window, voice calm but sharpened with something unspoken. “He does not know me. They all forgot me long before I forgot them.”

Derek sighed, long and heavy. “Well… there’s something else. He missed curfew at the halfway house. He’s considered a fugitive now. If he crosses your path or makes contact, you tell me. Immediately.”

Jaxson looked out the window, toward the city stretching below. “Of course,” he said quietly. But the look in his eyes said something else: Some ghosts aren’t finished yet.

© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.