my brother’s keeper

Below is the first chapter of my debut novel, My Brother’s Keeper, a dark psychological thriller named a Mystery/Thriller finalist in the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers’ Colorado Gold Rush Literary Awards. The winner will be announced Saturday, October 3, 2026. This novel’s release date depends on whether I get an agent at the conference. Being a finalist makes that very, very likely. Stay tuned…

Gist of the story

After killing his identical twin brother in what he insists was self-defense, bestselling author Morgan Sheldon finds himself trapped in an Albuquerque interrogation room, forced to unravel decades of violence, obsession, and buried family secrets. But the deeper detectives dig into the brothers’ past, the harder it becomes to determine who was protecting whom—and whether anyone is telling the whole truth.

CHAPTER ONE

Out in Left Field

********

MORGAN

2:22 a.m. Thursday, January 13, 2011

Albuquerque, New Mexico

I didn’t want to kill my brother.

But I did.

If my father, Andrew, were here, he’d say, “You were supposed to be your brother’s keeper, not his killer! What the hell were you thinking?”

            And I would tell him, “I wasn’t.”

            Of course, all of this is hypothetical. Dad doesn’t even know my twin is dead.

            But the cops sure do. They’re trying to charge me with first-degree murder, though I’m not sure why. It’s a straightforward case of self-defense. My brother had a pistol. We struggled, and it went off. End of story.

            Why can’t they see I had no choice?

Maybe they do, but they just don’t care. It’s no secret most cops hate paperwork. Hell, I bet it’s easier to charge me with murder than to admit I acted in self-defense. Less paperwork. More time for Dunkin Donuts and bad attitudes.

Heh.

It still doesn’t explain why I’m locked in this interrogation room—alone. When the cops first brought me in, they said I was being detained for questioning. Two hours later, they still haven’t asked me jack shit.

Looking at my dreary surroundings, it’s not too hard to figure out why.

Every element of this interrogation room feels designed to wear me down, break me, and make me confess to a crime I didn’t commit. The surveillance camera watches me relentlessly. Across from it, the one-way mirror reflects my miserable expression back at me. And the cherry on top? Prolonged isolation. It’s no wonder my bladder’s about to burst.

I’ll admit it—I’m tempted to ‘confess’—especially if it helps me get out of this shitty place sooner.

But I won’t.

When I was a kid, my father often used baseball metaphors to teach valuable lessons. One of those lessons was about perseverance.

“Baseball and life, son. There ain’t a lick of difference between ‘em. Life is just a series of curveballs; all you can do is keep swinging. Even if it’s the ninth inning and you’re down by a lot, you keep swinging. No matter what. You only strike out in the game of life if you give up.”

That’s all this is. Another damn curveball. Time to strike these fucking pigs out.

I rise, one bad sneeze away from pissing myself, hobble to the mirror and tap it.

No response.

“Hey, assholes! I know you’re watching. I need to take a leak. Any chance one of you geniuses can let me use the restroom?”

            One long minute passes.

            Nada. Nil. Nothing.

            “Suit yourselves.”

            I unzip my fly and piss in the corner. Somebody slams a fist against the glass within five seconds.

            I grin.

            So those dipshits were watching.

            As I shake out the last few drops, the door swings open, and Detectives Alex Kimble and Hector Montoya enter.

            “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Morgan?” Kimble barks. The fat man’s plaid suit strains at the seams, as does his patience.

            Good.

            “Marking my territory.” I zip up my fly. “Careful, you might get wet.”

            Kimble points to the chair closest to me. “Sit down.”

            I comply, ten pounds lighter and smugly satisfied.

            Kimble steps aside to let Montoya enter. Unlike his buffoon of a partner, the thirty-something Montoya is all business: shaved head, trimmed goatee, lean build, and a well-pressed suit. I admire his aura of professionalism; it suits the by-the-book, anal-retentive prick I suspect he is.   

            Kimble takes the middle chair closest to me, while Montoya takes the one at the opposite end of the table. Before either speaks, I demand, “Why have you kept me here for the past two hours?”

            Montoya sets a manila folder on the table. “We’ve been gathering evidence we plan to ask you about. See if it supports your self-defense claim.”

            “Does it?”

            “Right now, I can’t say.”

            “That’s bullshit, and you know it.” I meet Montoya’s gaze and hold it for what feels like a lifetime. “I deserve to know if you’re charging me with murder.”

            Kimble flips open a notebook, his eyes cold with calculation. “True self-defense stories usually stay consistent. Yours doesn’t. That should tell you which way the wind is blowing.”

            I lean back in my chair. “Did they teach you that line at detective school, or did you practice it in front of a mirror?”

            “Evidence steers our investigation, not your attitude.” Kimble’s eyes narrow. “Now, are you gonna talk or not?”

He wants me to strike out so he can slap on the cuffs. In the past, I accepted these ego-driven challenges from other windbags like him: bench-press competitions, slugfests, and beer pong games. You name it. I did it.

            But not today.

            The stakes are too high.

            I shrug. “I already told you what happened.”

            “We’re not done, Sheldon,” Kimble says.

“I’m not speaking anymore without my lawyer.”

            “That is your right, but you’ll still be detained until we’ve decided,” Montoya says.

            “How long will that take?”

            “For potential murder charges, typically up to twenty-four hours.”

            “Or forty-eight if a judge grants us an extension.” Kimble’s lips curled into an infuriating smirk. “So, you see, Mr. Bestselling Author? Your ass ain’t leaving anytime soon.”

            Mr. Bestselling Author, huh? That son of a bitch went straight for the jugular. Fine. Two can play at that game.

            “Oh, that’s great.” I clench my fists. “More sitting around only increases my chances of getting a waistline as big as yours.”

            Kimble’s smirk disappears.

            I smile.

Time to bring this baby home.

            “I certainly hope you’re the brains of this operation, Montoya. If Kimble is...” I let out a slow whistle. “His juvenile insults show how much his weight is affecting his judgment.”

The blood drains from Kimble’s face.

“You worthless sack of shit!”

He lunges across the table at me.

            Home run!

            Montoya—bless his perpetually weary heart—intervenes.

“Alex, stop it right now!”

Kimble ignores him, his sausage fingers drawing closer.

“It wasn’t a request—it was a goddamn order!”

 Montoya’s declaration finally forces Kimble to relent.

            “Get out of here.” Montoya stands, pointing toward the door. “But don’t stray too far. I’ll call you back soon. Understand?”

            Kimble hesitates.

            Montoya’s eyes narrow. “Do you understand me, Sergeant?”

            “Yes, Lieutenant. Loud and clear.”

            “Good. You’re dismissed.”

            Kimble storms out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

Pot, kettle, black.

            “Apologies.” Montoya settles into Kimble’s old seat. “When this is all said and done, you’re welcome to file a formal complaint with the department. I’ll even prepare the paperwork for you.”

            “How about you just let me go, and we’ll call it even?”

            “Afraid I can’t do that.”

            “Then get my lawyer. This interrogation is over.”

            Montoya, his face a granite mask, simply folds his arms.

            “Do you understand me, Lieutenant?” 

“Cute.” Grinning, Montoya unfolds his arms. “I’ll grant your request, Morgan, but there’s something you should know.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t bullshitting you when I said I can’t tell which way the evidence points.”

            “Why, Sherlock?”

            “It’s... conflicted,” Montoya says, his tone devoid of judgment yet heavy with implication. “Some of it supports your self-defense claim, and some doesn’t.”

            My mind races. What the hell is he talking about? What evidence contradicts the idea that my brother’s death was anything more than a tragic kill-or-be-killed situation?

            “Care to elaborate?”

            “I would, but you were quite adamant that we’re done.” Montoya grabs the folder and rises. “I’ll disclose more after your attorney arrives.”

Strike one.

The room suddenly grows impossibly small, the air thinning with each breath I take. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, adding their discord to the doubt playing out in my mind.

“I need to know, Montoya. Please.”

“Exchanging information goes both ways, Morgan. Quid pro quo.” He pauses, letting the silence underscore his point. “Are you willing to answer my questions without your attorney present?”

Strike two.

Doubt seeps into my stomach, cold and heavy, twisting my resolve into a tight, aching knot.

Does he really have something, or is this some sort of reverse-psychology curveball meant to strike me out? Whatever it is, I can’t swing at it. I won’t swing at it! DON’T SWING AT—

I nod.

Strike three.

Montoya arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Waves of exhaustion wash over me. I never thought doubt would be my downfall, yet here I am, defeated by the poison of uncertainty.

My lawyer can handle damage control later.

            Montoya returns to Kimble’s old seat, sets the folder on the table, opens it, and spreads a dozen crime scene photos before me. Each image is more heart-wrenching than the last. 

            There’s my twin brother. Dead. By my hand.

            Montoya watches, hands folded, a fake priest with no absolution to offer. “Like I said, some of the evidence supports your self-defense story. The bruises on both of you and the single gunshot wound to Darrell’s chest. But other things... don’t add up.”

            “Like what?”

            “For starters, how did Darrell get your gun, let alone fire it, as you claim?”

            “I... I don’t know. It all happened so fast.”

            Montoya stares at me, his brief silence tightening the noose around my neck. “I’m not buying it, Morgan. You seemed pretty sure when I first—”

            “I didn’t murder my brother!” My voice cracks, anger a fragile veneer over a deeper, colder fear. “He would’ve shot me if I hadn’t stopped him.”

            “Forensics says otherwise.” Montoya points to a photograph. “That’s Darrell’s hand. If he’d fired your gun, there would be gunshot residue and powder burns. Something.” He slides the photo closer. “But… nothing’s there. Can you explain that?”

The lieutenant’s powers of observation are a sight to behold. A blind man could’ve easily reached the same conclusion. “I got the drop on him before he could shoot.”

“Bullshit. Darrell didn’t fire your gun because he never had it.”

Montoya’s accusation hits like a freight train, obliterating what little resolve I have left. I stare at him, nearly catatonic. I can’t hear anything else he says, but my other senses kick into high gear. The relentless glare of fluorescent lights stabs my eyes. The pungent stench of dried urine assaults my nostrils. The avalanche of guilt I’ve kept at bay for the past two hours finally crushes my heart. The—

BAM!

The good lieutenant slams his hand on the table, keenly aware I’m zoning out. “Did you hear what I said, or do I need to repeat myself?”

“S-sorry,” I say, my voice raspy. “This is a lot to take in. You were saying...”

“Tell me about the location,” Montoya continues, his gaze unwavering. “Cynthia’s Rest. A desolate lot with nothing but a memorial. Why’d you drive Darrell there, Morgan?”

            “I... I panicked.”

            “Panicked enough to take your brother to a place where no one would find him quickly?” Montoya shakes his head. “That shows premeditation, not panic. You need to tell me the truth.”

The enormity of what I’d done suffocates me. The carefully constructed lies crumble. Questions about the truth arise. Was my brother’s death truly an act of self-preservation or revenge? Why didn’t I just come clean from the start? Why? Maybe going back to the beginning will clarify things. Give me answers—honest ones.

            “O-Okay.” My stomach is full of pinballs. “I’ll tell you everything, Montoya, but first you’ll need the whole story.”

             “Fine, if it leads me to the truth.”

            “It will.” I swallow hard. “All of this began in 1982, when we were nine years old...”