by Keri Lake
Breathing hard through my nose, I exit the showing room, down the hallway, through the foyer, and out the front door of the funeral home. Gripping the staircase handrail, I suck in deep breaths in an effort to calm my pounding heart.
Breathe, Isa. Just breathe.
Opening my eyes on a long exhale, I find a familiar face standing before me.
“Hey there, Isa.” Mayor Boyd stands with one foot propped on the staircase, his hand resting on his thigh. “How are you?”
“I’m good. What are you doing here?”
“I just, uh … I saw in the paper that Jenny passed. She was a student of mine. Back when I taught high school.” As he talks, my mind replays the pictures of him I found in my mom’s yearbook. “Haven’t seen her in … decades.”
“She moved around a lot.”
“Yeah. I heard that.”
An awkward pause hangs between us, and I hike my thumb over my shoulder. “You want to … go inside? The service is over. Everyone’s just doing the final respects thing.”
“No, no. I don’t want to intrude. I am curious, though. How do you …. How did you know her?”
“She was my mother.”
“Your mother?” There’s an edge of surprise in his tone, and he clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “That’s interesting. I don’t suppose she had anything good to say about her favorite government teacher.” The laugh that follows is goofy and awkward, and somehow inappropriate for the mood.
“Um. We didn’t get along very well when she was alive.”
“Ah, that’s too bad.” He rolls his shoulders back and clears his throat again. “Say, I don’t suppose we could--”
“Hello, Isa.” The voice that interrupts is a deep rich sound that tickles my ear, and I lift my gaze past Boyd, to where Lucian stands behind him. Decked out in a perfectly tailored, crisp, black suit, he’s almost hard to look at, and my body instinctively responds, in spite of the bad terms we left on. Tucked in the pocket of his suit is a black rose that’s actually fitting for Lucian. Even at a funeral, though, he doesn’t belong in this town.
Boyd cranes his neck, and in doing so, stumbles back a step, chuckling as he catches himself. “Well, speak of the devil …”
I frown at that, not recalling any mention of Lucian in our conversation.
With one hand shoved in the pocket of his slacks, Lucian steps toward me, his other hand running across a day’s worth of stubble that draws my eyes toward the scar at his jaw. My heart literally aches at the sight of him.
“I’ll just … let the two of you have a moment of privacy.” Boyd steps down onto the sidewalk, twitchy and rolling his shoulders back, like he’s uncomfortable around the looming darkness that stands behind him. “Isa, we’ll catch up later.”
Ignoring him, I keep my eyes on Lucian, as he ascends the staircase. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard about your mother. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
Crossing my arms, I peel my gaze away from him, noticing his car at the curb. The same car we almost had sex in, when I swore Lucian Blackthorne was the most incredible human being I’d ever met in my life. “I’m fine. I take it the roses were from you?”
“Yes. You look good.”
“It’s only been a week since I saw you last.”
“And I’ve thought about you every minute of every day since. It’s fucking maddening, the way you’ve infected my brain.”
I don’t bother to tell him that every night I’ve awakened in cold sweats, calling out his name. I’ve imagined his hands on me, his lips on mine, the lack of breath, the pounding of my heart, all the chaos that explodes around me when I think of him.
“Yeah, well. Too bad I don’t have a clue who the hell you really are.” I spin around to leave, but at the tight grip of my arm, twist to face him. “Let me go.”
“You’re the only person in the world who really knows me.” He gives a sharp tug that yanks me forward, and I fall into him. “Everything I’ve shown you is what I am.”
“I want to believe that. Believe me. I want to think I’m the only girl who cracked the Devil of Bonesalt. But I don’t think you’re that stupid, Lucian. I don’t think you’re that careless, to let some local girl into your world.”
He doesn’t respond to that, and instead traces a finger down my temple, his touch almost unbearable, as much as I’ve missed it. “I want you to come back. Come back to me.”
He cups my face and plants a kiss to my forehead, and I swear it takes every ounce of strength not to wrap my arms around him and get lost in his embrace. I want to, so badly. These last few days, I’ve felt lost, drifting. I’ve yearned for someone to pull my strings and ground me, to hold me down and keep me from losing myself.
“Whatever you need, just ask and it’s done,” he says.
“I need time.” I’ve spent the last few days convincing myself that Lucian killed Franco simply to protect me, without any other motive. That he isn’t the devil who tortures people for pleasure. “And answers.”
“Fair enough. I’ll give you time. But this thing between us? It’s happening, Isa.”
“We’ll see.” I glance back toward the funeral home, where I can see movement through the window of the viewing room. “I better get back.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Taking hold of my chin, he presses his lips to mine, and my head prods me to hang on tight and not let go. Instead, I break the kiss and step away, and if I thought my head was spinning before, I’ve gone full-on tilt-a-whirl.
He descends the staircase, the ease of his stroll like a man who can show up to a funeral without a care in the world, and leave as if he’s stolen the last sip of air.
I want to follow after him with blinders to what I’ve become privy to--the lies and truth that clash inside my head.
I turn around and head back inside the funeral home.
The ashes of my mother fill the urn that sits on my lap, while Aunt Midge drives us back to the house.
“She would’ve hated every second of that, your mother. Not one for attention.” Tears still weigh heavy in her voice, like she might break again.
“I never liked the attention, either.”
“You’d be surprised how much the two of you had in common.”
“Like what?”
“Piano, for one.”
I frown at that, staring down at the brass urn. “My mother played?”
“She sang and played and danced, and was smart and athletic. She was everything I wasn’t, and I spent years battling the jealousy.”
“Is that why you kept letting her in? Why you couldn’t turn her away?”
Staring toward the windshield, she shakes her head. “When you love someone, it’s hard to unlove them. They make mistakes, they do things you hate, things you don’t agree with, things that drive you absolutely mad, but when it comes down to it? You still love them. You can’t help it. I suppose that’s why I never really grasped the concept of Hell and the devil. The idea that God, or Jesus could turn his back on the ones he loves so much, just doesn’t make sense to me. Even if you murdered someone, Isa. I might be deeply disappointed, but to stop loving you? That’d be impossible.”
Her words somehow penetrate deeper than ever before, and I can’t help but think of Lucian.
“Aunt Midge, if I did something terrible, but I did it to protect you, could you forgive that?”
“Did you do something terrible?”
“No. It’s just a hypothetical.”
“Of course I’d forgive you. That’s what I mean. There is nothing stronger than love.”
I wonder, if she knew that I was talking about Lucian, would she answer differently. “How do you know if you love someone?”
She glances down at the urn in my lap and back to the road. “When you try to imagine a world without that person, and can’t, then you know it’s love.”
For a week, I’ve tried to forget about Lucian, and I can’t. I’ve tried to ignore the images of his face.
The sound of his voice. The smell of his skin.
I can’t, and it physically aches to think that I may never see him again, in spite of what he says.
We arrive back at the house, where a strange car sits parked at the curb. I peer through the driver’s side window at Mr. Goodman, who waves back at me.
“What the hell is this?” Aunt Midge says beside me. “How’d he find out where I live?”
“He’s an investigator. It’s what he does.”
“Or did you tell him.”
“I didn’t.” Once the car rolls to a stop in the driveway, I climb out and hand the urn off to Aunt Midge. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“This guy gives you trouble? Scream.”
“I will.” I wait for her to hobble inside the house before making my way toward the car. “If you’re looking for the yearbook, I lost it.”
“I understand. No need to trouble yourself. I just felt that, with the information you were so willing to give, I owe you this.” He holds the envelope out toward me. “For what it’s worth.”
Staring down at the package, I hesitate a moment, before snatching it out of his hands, anxious that he might change his mind.
“I heard about your mother, and I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. What is it you were looking for in the yearbook?”
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
“That your mother could’ve possibly come in contact with the devil himself.”
Frowning, I stare back at him with an even stronger need to know what’s inside.
I open the envelope and slide out the document contained within. Unfolding it reveals the intake form, which looks like it was written in my mother’s handwriting. Eyes scanning down the page, I find the field I’ve searched for my whole life. The one that reveals who my father really is. The one she intentionally left blank on my birth certificate.
Sickness churns in my stomach as I stare at the name scrawled across the page there.
Patrick Boyd.
Chapter 58
Lucian
I’ve come to the understanding that everything in life comes down to a rule of threes.
For me, the rules have always been simple:
Never give into temptation
Never show your cards
Don’t fall in love
With Isa, I broke all three. At least, I’m fairly certain I did. I’ve never actually felt this kind of love before, but I figure wanting to kill anything and everything that comes within close proximity of her must count for something.
And seeing Boyd approach her at the funeral home somehow whisked up an inexplicable rage inside me. As irrational as it may sound, I could’ve easily snapped my former father-in-law’s neck like a dandelion, for being so close to her.
I stroll up to the park bench, flicking away my half-smoked cigarette, and take a seat opposite the man at the other end. Staring out over the sea, I drink in a moment of peace before the shit-storm of questions begins.
“Thank you for reaching out to me, Mr. Blackthorne.”
“I didn’t. My associate reached out to you.”
“Yes, Mr. Rand?” He clears his throat, shifting on the seat as if he’s got a bad case of hemorrhoids. The guy reminds me of a cross between a true gumshoe and the lonely IT worker who masturbates to tentacle porn, decked out in his short sleeve plaid shirt and gray chinos.
“I’m a private investigator--”
“I already know who you are, and what you’re looking for.”
“And you agreed to this meeting?”
I keep my gaze ahead, not bothering to give him the satisfaction of staring at my scars. “I have my reasons for doing so.”
“Fine. I won’t waste your time with formalities. I want to know who the members of Schadenfreude are.”
“No you don’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Knowing puts you at grave risk. Consider it a favor that I keep you in the dark. By telling you, I’ll essentially place a big-ass bullseye on your back, and all that hard work you’ve put into this case? Gone.” Lips pressed to a hard line, I shake my head. “I’m not naming members.”
“Okay. Then, what is your role?”
“My role is obscure. I’m neither subscribed to their philosophies, nor bound by their laws. I’m a floating entity, tied only to them through a long lineage of loyal membership and shitty genetics.”
“You’re saying you don’t agree with them, but you follow them, anyway.”
“If that blows your skirt up, then I guess that’s what I’m saying.”
The sound of him huffing is laughable, like a toddler who’s been denied candy. Even if he has a clue what the group was about, there’s a skyscraper of an iceberg beneath the surface that’ll take him decades to chip away. “You agreed to this meeting for an exchange of information, and so far you’ve given me nothing.”
“Perhaps because that’s exactly what you’re searching for. Air. A void. The pause of an inhale. The space between one sentence and the next. Even if I gave you all the information you’re looking for, you’d never find them. They’ve spent years perfecting the art of hiding what they are.”
“Okay …” He shakes his head with a mirthless chuckle. “What’s the point of this, then?”
“I’m glad you finally asked. The real puzzle in all of this is what happens to Isa.”
“Isa? What about her? What does she have to do with Schadenfreude?”
“Or better, what doesn’t she have to do with it?” A quick glimpse at him, and I cast my gaze back toward the endless sea. “The future of this collective lies with me. When I’m gone, they have no funding. No research. No validity to their bullshit.”
“Yet, you don’t subscribe to their methods, at all.”
“Have you been paying attention, Mr. Goodman?” A sailboat sits on the edge of the horizon, nothing but a dot on the line. A point of convergence. Reference. Direction in a vast sea. The more I stare at it, the more it seems to encapsulate my thoughts. “Beyond Isa Quinn is a black void for me. A point on the horizon that I can’t see past. If you want answers, I suggest you pay close attention to her.”
A beat of silence follows, before he clears his throat. “Are you asking me to follow her?”
“I insist you follow her.”
“To what end? You haven’t given me anything valuable.”
“I have. By admitting what’s most valuable to me. But if that’s not enough, I’m willing to double whatever you’re currently being paid to be a pain in my ass.”
He snorts and rubs his forehead, as if a headache is blooming there. “Fine. You consider her valuable. Then, I’ll keep a close watch on her.”
“Good. And should you need to contact me, here is where you can reach me directly.” I slide a business card across the bench, which he accepts by sliding it toward him.
“Thank you, Mr. Blackthorne. I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 59
Isadora
The small Tupperware container filled with my mother’s ashes sits in the sand beside me, as I tip back a bottle of Boone’s Farm I stole from Aunt Midge’s stash.
I’ve taken just a small bit of the ashes to scatter into the ocean, the one place I know my mom would love to be. The spot is a small cove where Aunt Midge brought me to swim, when I first arrived in Tempest. Away from all the tourists and meddling eyes, a small piece of heaven that belonged only to us.
“Do you remember the night, when I was eight years old, you and I ran down to the ocean? We plopped in the sand, and you let me try strawberry Boone’s for the first time. You told me it was your favorite, because it reminded you of hot summer nights and sunsets in Tempest Cove. And afterward, we stripped down to our underwear and jumped into the waves for a night swim.” Staring into the bottle of pink alcohol, I smile. “I think that was my favorite moment with you.” The setting sun casts vibrant colors over the surface, as I tip back a sip of the drink and slam the bottle into the sa
nd beside me.
I swipe up the container of ashes and dig open the lid, careful not to spill any of the contents prematurely. With my blue jeans rolled up to my calves, I wade into the water, letting the waves crash against my ankles. Arm outstretched away from me, I sprinkle the ashes into the shallow waters around me, and watch as they gather on the surface, the bigger fragments sinking to the sand.
In seconds, a school of tiny minnows gathers around me, nibbling up the small ashes of my mother’s remains.
The fucking fish are eating her.
Within minutes, I’m surrounded by small fish feeding off the tiny bits still floating around, and laughter cracks through my chest. I bend forward, laughing so hard, I’m afraid I might piss myself. For five straight minutes, the hysterical laughter pounds through me, and I let it take me under.
Mom would’ve laughed, too, I’m certain of it. If there’s one thing we did share, it was humor for the macabre. Dark humor, for which she was bold enough to laugh when others might keep quiet. Perhaps that’s one thing I loved about her.
In seconds, the dust of her remains is consumed, and the school disperses back out into the deeper waters.
Sighing, I stare out over the ocean, thinking how incredible it would be to end up in the tiny bellies of fish. To forever be part of the sea.
About three quarters of the bottle remains, and I toss what’s left in one of the nearby trashcans, then gather up my shoes from the sand. For the last hour, I’ve sat here, contemplating what to do next, now that I hold all the missing pieces to the puzzle.
Back when my mother was pregnant with me, Boyd was apparently working toward his first run as mayor. He had a wife, a daughter, an entire life built around the facade of a well-respected man. An affair with one of his students who ended up pregnant would’ve blown all of that to bits. It would’ve annihilated his opportunities in politics, and possibly his marriage at the time.