by Tiya Rayne
“I’ll give you time alone,” he says before turning away.
I never take my eyes off of my sister. I only hear the door close behind me, letting me know I’m alone with Albany.
For a second, I study her. Except for the red whelps around her neck, she could be sleeping. There’s a slight bruise on her jaw as if someone had struck her, but it’s obvious the cause of death is strangulation. The finger size wounds around her neck give it away.
I push a stray piece of her hair out of her face. The body has been washed and cleaned.
“I’m sorry.” The words are only slightly louder than a whisper. “I was supposed to protect you. I promised you that I would keep you safe, and I failed.”
A sob rips through me. My body shakes as the tears flow down my face.
“We were supposed to grow old together.” My words are jumbled as I speak. “We were going to retire to Jamaica and get our grooves back like Stella. We had plans, Albany. We had….” I release another sob as I realize I’m angry with her.
I have no right to be, but I can’t help myself. She left me. In a world that has already dealt us a shitty hand, she left me behind.
“Why, Albany? Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? Why didn’t you fight to stay with me?”
My demand is selfish, and I know it, but I can’t help the way I’m feeling at the moment. I’m alone. There’s no one else here for me. I never branched out and made any real friendships, and I don’t do relationships well. I have no one else left in this world with me and I feel absolutely alone.
“Are you all right?” The voice comes from out of nowhere and has me nearly jumping out of my skin.
“What the fuck?” I squeal as I turn around with a hand clutched to my racing heart.
It’s him, mystery guy. What I couldn’t see from afar is the danger that he exudes. Up close he has this aura like a caged animal right before it attacks.
My warning bells are going off like a fire alarm. There’s no mistaking this man isn’t a good man. What’s even more frightening is the way he basically slipped in on me without making a sound.
“Jesus, are you fucking Spider-Man? You need damn bells on your shoes.”
I curse a lot when I’m nervous, angry, or sad. My sister was the first to point this out to me. Right now, scary ass Spider-Man makes me extremely nervous, especially how those eyes seem to focus right on me.
It’s like he’s looking directly into my soul. And the way he tilts his head is unnerving. He smiles, flashing dimples and straight teeth.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice is like cognac. Strong and smooth.
“Yeah, well, announce yourself. I could have been carrying.” My words seem to make him smile wider.
“Your sister?” he asks tilting his chin toward the gurney.
I sigh and turn back around to face Albany.
“Twin,” I answer.
I feel him step beside me. My basic fight or flight instincts tell me this is the time to run. It screams that I’m with a dangerous man. Funny, this feeling wasn’t as intense with the cop. Not even after he grabbed me.
“Identical or fraternal?”
I look up at him. Clearly, one glance and he can tell Albany and I are fucking identical. However, he isn’t looking at Albany, his eyes are on me. Damn, he’s intense.
“Identical.” A genuine smile lights my face as I think back. “Most people couldn’t tell us apart when we were younger. We had fun with that.”
Jesus my emotions are all over the place. He nods his head and I turn back to my sister.
“She didn’t deserve this,” I say more to myself than to him. “She was a bleeding heart. Always wanting to help people. She was reserved and quiet, but the moment she thought someone was in trouble, she would come out of her shell to help in any way she could.” I laugh at a memory that pops in my mind.
“When we were kids, one of our foster parents had a strict no pets policy, but Albany found this injured baby kitten that she had to help. I knew it would end badly, yet I could never tell her no.
“So, against my better judgement I helped her hide the cat so she could nurse it back to health. When our foster mother found out…”
I allow my words to trail off, not wanting to think of those times. Not now. Not here.
“Your story tells a different version from the Albany I knew.”
His reply catches me off guard and I turn to look at him. He knew my sister? I take a step back. The smile on his face dips a little.
“Who are you?”
“A friend of Albany’s.”
“Not good enough, I’m going to need a name,” I demand.
As I said, Albany never talked about relationships when we got older. We both had our issues with the opposite sex. Where my problems manifested into trust and commitment issues, Albany chased after love.
She was often hopping from one boyfriend to the next, but when we graduated, she took a break from boyfriends. I assumed she was tired of dating and wanted to give it a break.
It wasn’t until a few years ago she started to mention a name again. At first, she would bring him up in passing. Telling me something funny he said or some news she had heard through him.
Eventually, the name became more frequently used. When I began to ask her about him. She would always laugh it off and give me some vague ass answer about him not being for her.
I assumed she had a crush on him because of how much she bragged and boasted about him. She brought him up so much I felt like I was dating him. Then everything changed about five years ago.
I don’t question that the man standing before me is my sister’s crush. “You’re Walker, aren’t you?”
This time his smile lights up his face in a way that transforms his dark dangerous features to almost charming. I say almost because nothing will ever disguise the danger radiating off of him.
He holds out his hand for me to shake. “Kilian Walker.”
“Brooklyn Creedmoor.”
I lay my hand into his to shake. Electricity shoots through my hand where we touch, and I quickly remove it from his grasp. I don’t know if he felt that or not, he doesn’t mention it or show a reaction.
That urge to paint him takes me over. It claws at me, causing my fingers to twitch. I turn away from him, closing my eyes and taking in a deep breath.
That inner canvas pops up into my head. I use short and quick brush strokes to paint him. I take time forming his eyes, the ones that are so intense they feel like they’re looking into your soul.
I sketch out every dark hair on his head along with the hairline size cut above his eye that isn’t noticeable upon first glance. I paint his entire image out before I can open my eyes. The racing of my heart slows and I can breathe easily again.
With my heart rate back to normal, my head is clearer. This man left my sister. I don’t exactly know what happened between them.
I only know that one day she spoke of him with this schoolgirl-like crush, and the next time I asked about him, she said he’d left. I remember feeling upset for her. It was like he had broken up with the both of us.
“So, you thought to pay your lover one last visit?”
I have many issues. I can admit that. I’m an abandoned foster child.
I mean, clearly, there are issues. One of them is obviously the cursing thing. Another, my sister pointed out, is that I have a tendency to erect walls between me and people. Sometimes before I even get to know them.
Another one of those not so redeeming traits is my inability to deal with my emotions. Or as Albany used to say, I can be a bitch. Even though I know that’s what’s happening, I can’t stop this train wreck.
“You’ve been gone for five years, and not once thought to reach back out, but once your booty call dies, you’re right here,” I say turning to him.
He looks stunned when I mention him leaving. Even if she hadn’t told me he left, I would’ve known. She changed when he left. She grew more reserved, a
lot quieter.
She even sometimes seemed as if she was afraid of something. Even when we laughed and hung out on our special days. The days we set aside for Daiquiris and high-priced meals at Applebee’s, I could still see a bit of the sadness and stress. I think when he left, it took something from my sister.
“Is that what she told you, that we were lovers?”
Honestly, Albany never once mentioned they were lovers. However, I always assumed so from the fact that she spoke so highly of him. I could truly be saying a bunch of bullshit, but my gut tells me I might be right.
I look down at her body. “She didn’t have to tell me. My sister was good at reading people, but I was good at reading her.”
He’s silent for a moment. I find myself looking over to him to see what he’s doing. He’s staring at me. Those acute eyes seem to sharpen on me.
“We were complicated,” he finally admits.
I snort. I knew I was right. “You were fuck buddies.” No need to sugar-coat it. “You liked fucking her but didn’t want to be with her. Which is why you left and never came back.”
“That isn’t exactly what happened.”
I give a nonchalant lift of my shoulder.
“All I have is your version now. Obviously, she can’t give her side of the story. Maybe had you found more value in my sister other than what’s between her legs, she wouldn’t be lying here in this fucking icebox.”
See, a true bitch. I’m lashing out. That’s what my therapist called my bitch trait. I’m hurting, and instead of seeking comfort I want someone else to hurt with me. Who better than the man that broke my sister’s heart?
“Brooklyn,” he says my name so intimately like he’s known me for longer than this moment. When he reaches out to me, I step away from his touch.
“Don’t touch me,” I warn.
He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something else but then stops as he swings his head to the door. I turn toward it too, wondering what the hell he’s waiting on. He takes a step back from me and not three seconds later the coroner comes back in. He looks between us before smiling.
“All done?” he questions me.
I only nod my head as he approaches the gurney to place the sheet back over Albany’s body. I get so caught up watching him cover my sister up that when I turn back around to look at Walker, he’s gone. Once again, he’s disappeared right before my eyes like smoke.
Our encounter stayed with me as I made my way back to my apartment that night.
Chapter 3
Goodbye
Brooklyn
Apparently, my sister was better prepared than I was for her death because she had everything taken care of. She even had a company come in and remove her body from the morgue. Everything was paid for and picked out.
She also planned for cremation instead of a regular burial. We saw a movie once when a woman was buried alive and it scared us both shitless. It didn’t surprise me that she opted for this route.
She and I were never truly religious people. We barely went to church growing up. So, I didn’t think it necessary for a large church service, apparently neither did she because she already had the columbarium picked out. I had everyone that wanted to be here meet me at the cemetery. I hired a local pastor to say a prayer over her ashes to see her into the afterlife.
It’s raining today. The overcast sky matching my somber mood. There were a few people here with me from my job.
Even some of my students showed up. I expected a handful of people. Maybe a dozen or so, but nothing prepared me for the sight that greeted me when I stepped out of my cab.
So many men. Men I had never seen before. They came in all different shapes and sizes.
There were more than fifty of them. None of them spoke or approached me, but they did stare. It wasn’t threatening, it was more like they were hopeful or curious.
Even Detective Long was here among the mourners. He watched me too, but his look was a lot different from the others. I ignored him. I refuse to allow him to make me feel like a suspect in my own sister’s death.
When the pastor finally said Amen and they placed the box with my sister’s ashes into the stone wall, people slowly started to disperse back to their cars. I don’t blame them. The sky has opened up and the rain is coming down in sheets.
However, I continue to stand here with rain weighing my tight curls down, watching as my sister is taken away from me for the last time. I don’t know how long I stay here. Even after the columbarium niche has been sealed I remain until my body shakes from the cold.
When I finally turn away from the stone wall where Albany lies, I spot Walker. He stands a few feet away. His dark hair is soaked and clings to his shoulders.
He’s staring right at me. Without thought or reason, I march over to him. He watches my approach cautiously.
I don’t blame him. Our last encounter wasn’t so friendly. The way I’m feeling, this won’t be either. As I draw closer to him, his head tilts to the side reminding me of a bird.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand the moment I’m near him.
I don’t blame him for looking confused. I mean, it’s obvious why he’s here, but as I said, that unreasonable side of me is in control.
“I’m here for the funeral.”
“No, you don’t get to be here. You don’t get to show up now.”
“Brooklyn—”
“No. You left her. You. Left. Her.” By the time my rant is out, I’m sobbing again.
And it isn’t one of those cute cries either. This is a blubbering, snotty nose, ugly cry. The sob shakes my body so hard, I have to bend at the waist.
He makes no move toward me. He remains stoically still, his face an unreadable mask. I know this goes against his normal behavior.
He’s a protector and hates when women cry. It’s messed up that I know that about him, and I’ve only met him four days ago. However, like I said, Albany wouldn’t shut up about him.
I can tell he wants to comfort me, but I think he knows that I won’t accept his comfort. Even despite feeling utterly alone.
When I can catch my breath, I stand up straight, pushing my soaked red curls out of my face.
“Just go back to where you came from. She doesn’t need you anymore.”
I spin around on my heels and storm away from him. I don’t have to turn around to know that he isn’t there anymore. That intense feeling of his eyes boring into me is no longer there. Hopefully, this is the last time I’ll see Kilian Walker. I seriously need it to be.
***
After the funeral, there was no repass. I didn’t feel like socializing. Instead, I went back to my apartment and directly to my art studio slash guest bedroom.
Ever since I got that visit about Albany, I’ve been burying myself in my art. It’s how I cope. Well, that and transferring.
Art has always been my go-to method. From the first time a crayon was placed in my hand, I’ve been drawn to it. Despite the shit that I went through as I child, the love for art remains with me.
When I graduated high school, I went to an art school locally. After getting an art degree and realizing that my love for art didn’t translate into cash money, I went back to school and got a teaching degree. I’ve been teaching art to middle school kids for three years now. However, there’s nothing like spending countless hours in my studio, listening to some soulful music as I allow my muse to take me away.
My stomach grumbles, telling me that it’s time to put down my brushes and get some food. I stand to my feet and arch my back to stretch out the knots. My wild curls are in a puff on top of my head, still damp from the rain. Samson, my orange tabby cat, circles the bottom of my wide leg palazzo pants.
“I know,” I tell him. “I’m going to get us something to eat.”
I switch off the sound of Erykah Badu crooning and send my house into silence. Heading into my kitchen, I walk past my small living room with its brightly colored furniture. I place some food in Samson�
�s bowl and put it in front of him before grabbing some leftover lasagna for me and pop it in the microwave. I head back toward the living room to wait for my food to heat.
“Hello, little painter,” a deep voice says, drawing my attention to my couch and I nearly leap out of my skin.
Sitting there as if he owns it, is a man I’ve never seen before. He stands to his feet slowly and walks over to me wearing a black on black fitted suit. His jet-black hair is cut in a tapered style and his salt and pepper beard reminds me of the actor Jeffery Morgan. They look similar except for the terrifying presence of this man.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I take a step back from his approach. My back hits my little dinette set. I frantically scan my living space for a weapon I won’t find.
“Relax,” he states calmly. “I’m not here for you.”
“Then what the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
The sound of a gun cocking has my attention drawn over scary suit guy’s shoulder to find Walker with a gun pressed directly to the back of the guy’s head. Never have I been so happy to see someone. It doesn’t matter that I just met Walker or that he has a gun, at least I’ve seen him before.
“I’m here for him,” suit guy says so calmly I would think he doesn’t realize there’s a gun pressed to his head.
“Put the gun away, Hawk. We need to talk.”
The suit guy turns toward the couch he had been sitting on and walks back over to take a seat like I offered it to him. My heart is still beating in my throat. Walker’s hand on my shoulder causes me to look up at him.
“Are you all right?”
It’s a simple question that I didn’t know the answer to. Physically, I’m fine, mentally, I’ve been better. Instead of going into that, I nod.
“I need to hear you say it,” he whispers to me.
“Yes,” I answer breathlessly.
He removes his hand and I feel the loss of his touch immediately. Even though I’m more focused on the strange man in my house, I still don’t miss the zing from his touch. He turns toward my intruder, placing his body between mine and suit guy.