Yes, this fitting irony. This will accomplish two things at once.
He's dug through years of photographs and to his own surprise Jake Jr. is in almost a dozen of them, maybe there was something the boy picked up on he wasn't telling himself.
So fit, so smart, and yes he did do everything to make sure the lad passed. Even giving him work in the summer and a place to sleep in the garage room because Jake had been so adamant he did not want to go home to Mum and Dad. He's met them once, and they seemed so cold, sort of ironic because they'd named the boy after his father, and there was mention of an older brother also, something elusive there because it always seemed to come up as an afterthought.
Sydney surrounds himself with these photos and to be quite sure, he must not be thinking right, after all he has a shrew and several wastes of life to look after, but his secret hobby is World-War II and now he puts this to use.
It's a Walther PPK, cold and black in his mouth while he starts the text.
"What we had was great, and I'm sorry for doing this to you," it says.
Even though there was nothing they had this will do wonders. Curse the boy for reading his mind like a psychologist. And the things Sydney could have shown him, the places, Roma, Wien, Muenchen, Berlin, all of which fell on tired deaf ears with the shrew who thought London was an exotic adventure. Yes, Jake would've liked those places, and wouldn't have minded playing as a nephew to Sydney for the tired eyes of society.
But that was never to be. And now he could exact revenge on the boy, filling his little life up with questions by police that might make him question everything he thought he knew so surely, even make the little fucker wonder why at sixteen he still slept in the same bed with his older brother, wonder about it all.
And suddenly the PPK tasted so great and he almost laughed at the thought of his blood on the Send button and wondered if they would return it to him.
Like so much in life, it just took one push.