Molly grimaced. “I don’t really want to talk about my parents.”
“And I don’t want to talk about anything related to Chris or his death or my family or—”
She managed a laugh. “Okay. Yes. I talked to them right before I left for South America.”
“Shall I explain what ‘anything related’ means?” He gave her a mock glare.
“Sorry. Anyway, I call them regularly. It’s a duty.”
“And?”
“And Dad is on disability, has been for five years. He’s a total cliché. Lazing around the house while Mom works her ass off, or so she says, at the dry cleaner. All they do is complain about each other.” She didn’t bother trying to keep the bitterness from her voice. Brady knew the score. Had always known.
“And ask for money?”
“And ask for money. Of course.”
“Do you give it to them?”
“Sometimes.” She looked out the side window, not wanting his judgment. “Christmas, birthdays, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day. Never just money.”
“You don’t owe them anything,” Brady said gently enough that she turned back.
“I do. Not much,” she acknowledged. “But they did enable me to get through college.”
“You got through college on your own,” he corrected firmly. “Hard work and top grades. Scholarships.”
“And financial aid because they were such losers.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Well, they did spawn one hell of a kid. I don’t know how you turned out so great.”
“I do.” She waited until he looked at her, one eyebrow lifted. “It was you.”
He turned back to traffic, looking uncomfortable. “My parents, you mean.”
“All of you. If all of you hadn’t given me an escape, showed me what a real family could be like, that it was possible to be a different kind of person, I’d never have become who I am.”
She thought about that as they drove on, Brady now intently following the GPS instructions. In truth, the Fitzpatricks’ influence was as deep and pervasive as her parents’. They’d lived as neighbors the entire time she was growing up, and early on, the mothers had been friends. Or at least friendly acquaintances, with their kids only a few months apart in age and play dates so easy. Her own mother probably had been decent when Molly was an infant and toddler. She didn’t remember, but pictures showed her smiling and doting, only looking hard and cynical and tired of life as the years wore on.
Molly only really remembered the fighting, though. That her parents were still together was her life’s greatest mystery. She couldn’t blame either of them more than the other; they just clashed, repeatedly and unstoppably. Maybe they loved each other, maybe it was habit or codependence. Who knew? The bottom line was that the older she’d grown, the more time Molly had spent at the Fitzes’. And the more they became her true family, no matter what Brady said.
And then she chose the same college Brady went to. It had a great music program, but if he’d gone somewhere else, Molly wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have followed him anyway. And though she had other friendships, spent years away from Brady and his family, toured the world and had her own career that had nothing to do with them, she’d still wound up in a new career inexorably tied to Brady’s and Chris’s.
True, they’d never come through her shop, never used her as a conduit, hadn’t known—until now—that she was one. But she never would have been SIEGE without them.
Being SIEGE meant having a greater purpose, doing things that served the world at large, not just herself or culture or the arts or the soul, depending which perspective you took on the musical world. But it had also kept her connected to Brady, when their relationship had been stretched to the barest of threads.
Was that bad? Wrong? Would a psychologist label her choices unhealthy?
Brady cursed. “GPS should stand for ‘Great Piece of Shit.’ ” He stabbed at a button. “This can’t be right.”
Molly brushed his hand aside. “I’ll do it.” She navigated menus back to the main route. “Take the next right, and the building is on the left.”
“Fantastic.” He blew out a breath. “You’re awesome.”
She sat back, smiling. Screw psychology.
The building where they were to pick up the body was a hangar near a private airstrip, which further confirmed Molly’s belief that Chris had been out of the country when he was killed. She didn’t know why that mattered so much. Most fieldwork was done outside of the US, after all.
Brady parked and shut off the car, but sat staring at the ugly building. Molly could imagine what he was thinking—that it was an ignominious place for his brother to be resting. That he didn’t want to face the proof, the irrefutable evidence that would make it all real. That no brother, especially a younger one, should have to deal with something like this.
“I’ll go,” she started to say, but he spoke at the same time.
“We can’t put a casket in this car.”
He said it matter of factly, but with a hint of surprise that made Molly want to roll her eyes.
“I know that.” She held back the “dipshit.”
“Then—”
“The funeral home is meeting us here,” she admitted. She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask, at least not this soon. She didn’t want to start up the “Then why are we here?” discussion again. But Brady just nodded, still staring at the sheet-metal structure in front of them, his hand on the keys but unmoving. Molly waited patiently, letting him work up to it. For her part, she was itching to get in there…but just as willing to put it off forever.
They sat for a few minutes, the only sound their breathing. Molly went into a kind of Zen state, her brain powered down, her senses full of the scent of the man next to her, the size of him filling her car. Not in a sexual way, just full awareness of his presence. She let herself connect with him while they sat there.
A plane buzzed into view, coming in for a landing on a strip beyond the fence enclosing the hangar, and Brady drew in a deep, sharp breath. “Okay, let’s go.”
She started to get out of the car and halted, one foot on the ground, when Brady grabbed her hand. He didn’t say anything, only squeezed and let go before shoving open his own door.
They walked together to the glass entry on the side of the building, Brady’s stride strong and fast, as if he was now determined to get it over with. She hurried to keep up, the pulse in her throat beating an urgent rhythm.
A man in a dark suit that fit his ramrod spine perfectly met them inside the door, which opened onto a large storage area. The walls were corrugated metal, the floor concrete, the room full of parts and equipment and boxes and pallets.
“How may I help you?” the man asked with an air of already knowing, but not comfortable with that knowledge.
“I’m Brady Fitzpatrick, here to pick up my brother’s…” His voice trailed off. Molly slid her hand into his and he gripped it hard.
“I…see. I’m very sorry, sir, if we’d known you’d be coming personally, we wouldn’t have— We’d have— We thought the funeral home was making the transfer.”
“They are.” Molly stepped forward. “We’re overseeing. Can you show us where the casket is being held?” The word somehow didn’t seem as morbid as “coffin.”
“Of course. If— Again, I’m sorry. These aren’t exactly the accommodations—”
“It’s fine,” Brady interrupted, his voice tense but not accusatory. Molly knew it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d arranged a plush room or a special “mourners” entry. Prettying up the atmosphere didn’t change anything.
They followed the facilitator—because that was what he had to be—around the end of an aisle of metal shelving and down a corridor between a baggage truck and more shelves. At the end, a simple oak casket sat on an expandable wheeled cart next to a cargo access door. Brady’s step faltered, and Molly stopped next to him, propping him up a little with her shoulder.
The casket was basi
c rectangular with a rounded top and carved edges, iron handles on the side. The wood on either side of a half-folded flag draped across the middle gleamed in the diffuse light from high windows. Several feet of open space surrounded it. For respect? Or ease of movement? Whatever the intent, the result was loneliness, abandonment.
Molly’s throat swelled and her eyes stung. Pain stabbed her left hand where Brady’s grip had tightened even more.
“There is some paperwork to be signed,” the facilitator murmured.
This was her chance. “You go ahead,” she told Brady. “I’ll stay with him.” He hesitated. Go, go, go. She waited with a façade of patience for him to nod and follow the other guy toward what looked like an office on the other side of the hangar. Perfect.
As soon as they were halfway across the building, Molly hurried to the coffin. She laid her hands on the lid and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and focusing her awareness. But there was no sense of connection, or grief, or finality. There wasn’t anything but smooth wood and the faint hint of pine furniture polish.
Hurry. Her eyes popped open. Right. They’d be back any moment, and the funeral home would be here in a few minutes, too. She checked for hinges, found them, and hurried around to the other side of the oak box. They’d said he couldn’t be viewed, they couldn’t have an open casket, so she braced herself and took a deep breath before tentatively trying to lift the lid. Of course, it was locked down. There was no visible latch, so she felt along the edge for a release. Her left hand came up against a small metal rectangle, but it had no button or lever. Crap. She so didn’t want Brady to catch her at this.
Crouching to see the mechanism, she cursed under her breath. There was a small hole in the side. Not a regular lock for a specific key, though it might as well have been. It needed a hex key. She had a multi-tool on her keychain, but Brady still had it with him. She straightened and looked around. Maybe there was something here. She dashed over to the closest shelves that looked like they held tools and parts. Her throat caught when she tried to swallow. She dug through a pile of things she didn’t recognize, looking for a hex key or something similar, opening a couple of boxes and finding a ratchet set and regular screwdrivers, but no hexes.
“Come on,” she muttered, peering through the open shelves to see if Brady and the facilitator were coming back yet. Coast was still clear, at least as far as she could see in the crowded space. What the hell would she say if they caught her? The wheel was bent. No, that would be too obvious. Her zipper was stuck. Ridiculous. There was nothing she could say to explain her behavior.
“So just get on with it and don’t get caught. Dammit!” she growled to herself.
Maybe she could do this at the funeral ho— Wait. There. A dirty blue vinyl sleeve, back in the corner. She stretched to reach it, her fingertips scrabbling for a hold before they caught on the edge and pulled the holder close enough. Yes! She grabbed the whole thing and dashed back to the casket. Still no sign of Brady or the other guy, or anyone else, for that matter—but she had to keep alert. A countdown ran in her head, making her fingers want to fumble the keys. She squinted at the hole and chose a key that looked like it would fit, sliding it carefully into the hole so it didn’t scratch the finish. Too big. She tried the next one down. Still too big. Dammit! She bit her lip to keep her breathing from getting too fast and loud, and chose the next one down. Ahh, just right. She twisted, and the latch released.
Molly shot upright and shoved the lid up, more concerned with getting the task done than with what the task actually was. So when she looked down into the white satin-lined interior, she wasn’t thinking about what she expected to see.
But it certainly wasn’t empty space.
Chapter Seven
Brady stood in the cluttered, fuel-smelling office, fighting to keep control. The papers he had to sign for the transfer contained so many clinical, final words they were like nails being hammered into his chest. How many times was he going to be hit with the finality of his brother’s death before it was really final? Almost worse than that, whenever the nails drove into him, all he wanted was Molly.
He breathed through his mouth, staring to try to keep his eyeballs dry as he scribbled his signature and initials in the designated places. The facilitator stepped forward to take the papers and nudged a tissue box that sat on the corner of the desk. Brady just swiped under his eyes with the back of his hand before striding angrily back to where the coffin stood waiting.
Molly was several paces away from it, near a stack of shelves. Brady frowned at her flushed face and tousled curls. What had she been doing? She met him at the casket, her chest heaving as if she’d been running. He met her bright eyes for a split second before she turned away, and he instantly knew she was hiding something. With the facilitator hovering behind them he couldn’t question her, and just then the overhead door rolled up and the funeral home’s hearse backed up to it.
A few minutes later, the home’s staff had loaded the coffin, signed their paperwork, and driven off. Brady and Molly followed the hearse out of the parking lot, the burn finally easing when he turned the car in the opposite direction.
He drove for a full block before saying a word. “What’s going on? And don’t play dumb.”
Her typical response sounded staged, prepared. “I never play dumb.”
He had to give her that. “So?”
She didn’t answer. He rolled up to a traffic light and glanced at her. She was frowning intently out the windshield, but not seeing what was in front of her. He knew that look. His heart skittered before resuming its normal beat. The light changed and he drove on, deciding that whatever she needed to tell him should wait until he wasn’t driving.
Half a mile from his parents’ house, he turned off into a small park. The lot was mostly empty, only one minivan belonging to the young mother and two toddlers playing on the playground in front of them. The smaller of the two was trying to climb up a short plastic slide. The older brother reached the top, turned around, and slid down, a shit-eating grin on his face, but their mother snatched up the little one before feet came in contact. Their laughter penetrated the car. Brady rubbed the heel of his hand over his breastbone, the ache intensifying.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Oh, Brady,” Molly whispered, still not looking at him. “I wish…”
“What?” Tension locked around him. “You wish what?”
She shook her head, as if the wish was either too obvious or too impossible.
“Molly, for God’s sake, just tell me. You’re killing me here.”
She finally turned, and Brady stopped breathing at the look in her eyes. They blazed, the brilliant blue so full of…hope? Anger? Determination? He realized she’d been so quiet not from despondence or sorrow, but from intent. She was practically exploding with whatever she didn’t want to tell him.
Drawing in a huge breath, she said, “I opened the coffin.”
Horror ripped through him. “Fuck.” He leaned his elbow on the car door and rubbed his hand across his upper lip. “Why the hell did you do that?” He struggled to focus, to keep at bay the images her words generated. Jagged red lines across his brother’s cold, white face, criss-crossed with black stitching. Gaping wounds, cold and hard.
“I had to,” she said, her voice stronger. She turned toward him and drew one leg up on the seat, the other braced flat on the floor. “I’ve had this feeling all along. I didn’t know what it was, couldn’t pinpoint anything that made me, I don’t know, suspicious.” She shoved the jumble of shiny black curls back on her head. They sproinged around her fingers, but the sleekness in front opened up her face in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. He briefly wondered what else she’d been hiding since coming to get him in South America, then dismissed that as a stupid, obvious question.
“And what did you find?” he asked in a low voice, expecting her to describe bullet holes or knife wounds.
“Nothing.”
He went blank. “What?”<
br />
“Nothing.”
“Nothing to support your suspicions,” he clarified. Something in the back of his brain was roaring approval, but he didn’t know why.
“No, I mean nothing. Brady.” She twisted further and grabbed his hands. Hers shook until she tightened them so hard it hurt. “Brady, there was nothing. In the casket. It was empty.”
The roar grew, but his conscious brain wasn’t as quick as his subconscious. “What are you talking about?”
“The coffin was empty,” she repeated with emphasis. “Your brother wasn’t there. Chris wasn’t there. Brady, he might not be dead.”
…
Molly sat on a bench at the edge of the playground, hunching against the brisk breeze that had chased away the woman and kids half an hour ago. She hadn’t taken a jacket when they left the house, and debated calling to Brady to get him back in the car. How much time did he need, up there at the top of the climber?
Probably as much time as she’d let him have. She sighed and pushed to her feet, folding her arms across her chest as she crossed the wood chips to the little ladder. Her average-sized feet barely fit on the toddler-sized steps, so she reached up to the crossbar at the top and hauled herself to the platform. There was no room for her on top of the covered slide, which Brady straddled, staring out across the nearby soccer fields.
“Brady.” She’d been doing that a lot lately, saying his name as entry into his thoughts.
“I’ve been going through the list.” He swung one leg over to sit sideways, not quite facing her, and still staring outward, but at least talking again.
“Me, too.” She leaned on the rail next to the slide opening. “Ways I could be wrong, ways a mistake was made, reasons it could be true.”
“What do you know that I don’t?” He’d put on his agent tone.
She started at the beginning. “The coffin was latched and not easily opened, but not locked. The satin inside looked untouched, but I didn’t really have time to—”
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