“Okay,” she says softly.
I take a long breath, then blow it out through my teeth. “Sorry,” I grit out.
We stand there in silence for a moment.
“Do you want me to get Stan?” she finally asks quietly. “You don’t seem . . .”
Her voice trails off, and I frown. “I don’t seem what?”
Again, my tone is rougher than she deserves, and she licks her lips, recalculating. Her spine straightens, but she doesn’t move away. “You don’t seem like you should be alone right now.”
Stan is thirty feet away, talking to two other guys in uniform. They’re doing the guy version of sympathy, clapping him on the shoulder.
I knew her longer, I want to shout.
Mom would shush me and tell me to be more respectful.
I don’t miss her yet. It doesn’t even feel like she’s dead. It feels like she’s on vacation or something. I keep thinking I need to store all these thoughts and memories for later, when she gets back.
I look back at Charlotte. “No. Leave him.”
“Is anyone else here for you?”
I laugh humorlessly. “None of this is for me. I feel like I’m crashing a stranger’s funeral.” I sound like an angry freak, and I rub my hands down my face. “I don’t know anyone.”
Now I just sound pathetic.
“Is that your tie?” she says suddenly, and I realize she’s looking at my pocket. “Too hot?”
“I couldn’t tie it,” I admit without thinking, and then I feel like a real moron. What kind of guy can’t tie a tie? And then brings it with him, like he’s waiting for someone to get around to helping? I glance away, embarrassed. “She bought me the suit. Made a big deal about matching it—”
I have to stop talking. Pathetic has reached a new level. I want the anger back. Anger was better than this tight, choking feeling in my throat.
Charlotte tugs it out of my pocket and threads it between her fingers. “May I?”
It takes me a moment to figure out what she’s talking about. She’s too short to get the tie around my neck without my cooperation. I could refuse. I could grab the tie and shove it back in my pocket and send her scurrying back to her people.
But it’s a needed distraction, and I find myself ducking down, letting her loop it over my head, enjoying the soft feel of her fingers as she tucks it below the collar of my shirt. She’s close, and I catch her scent, something clean and citrusy.
“People are staring,” I murmur.
“Let them stare.”
“Is this a service you provide?” I say, intending to tease, but my voice is too broken for that.
But she’s kind, so she takes the bait and runs with it. Her eyes are on the knot as she threads the fabric. “Absolutely. Tying ties, buttoning jackets . . . you should see me pin on a flower.”
I almost smile, but then her hands make the final loop. Satin slides against cotton, and then the knot hits my neck. Quick and sudden and tight. I can’t breathe.
I jerk the fabric out of her hand without thinking.
My movement is too sudden. She stumbles back, catching herself against the wall.
I gasp, pulling at the knot of fabric. It’s barely tight, but I can’t stop myself.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” I choke out. This is insane. I need to get it together. The knot finally gives an inch. Air can’t seem to make it into my lungs. “It’s not even tight.”
I suck in a breath and sound like an asthmatic. I run a hand down my face. This is not getting it together.
“You all right, Char?”
It’s another cop in dress uniform, talking to Charlotte but looking at me like I’m a purse snatcher or something.
No, looking at me like I’m a murderer.
This guy’s young, not much older than I am. His hair is military short, almost blond, and his eyes are just looking for trouble. I swear to god he’s holding his hand near his gun, and I’m tempted to fake him out, just to see if he’d pull it.
Knowing my luck, he’d shoot me.
Right this instant, I’d welcome it.
“I’m fine, Danny,” Charlotte says. “This is Thomas. Stan’s new—”
“I know who he is.” Of course he does. Everyone in uniform probably does. I’m sure some of them still think I did it. But Danny takes the edge off by putting a hand out. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
I shake his hand. “Thanks.”
His grip is solid, almost too tight. He doesn’t let go, and I can tell he’d hold fast if I tried to pull free. “You want to tell me why you put your hands on my little sister?”
Oh. Now I get it.
Charlotte is looking worriedly between the two of us. “It’s fine, Danny—he didn’t touch me.”
“I saw him shove you.” His grip tightens. “You’d better watch yourself.”
His tone grates against my nerves and reminds me why I don’t like cops.
“He didn’t shove me,” Charlotte says.
“Watch myself?” I say to him. “It’s my mother’s funeral.”
He gives a little laugh, and he lets go of my hand, somehow making it feel like a shove. “Yeah, you look really broken up about it, taking the time to rough up a girl.”
My hands are in fists again, anger weaving its way through the less aggressive emotions. This narrow stretch of shade has turned too hot, almost stifling. I can smell my own sweat.
I hate this suit.
Danny’s watching me, his eyes almost predatory. I’ve gotten in my share of scrapes, and I can read the signs. Dangerous potential rides the air. He wants to hit me.
My mother’s voice is like a whisper in my head. Behave yourself, Tommy.
I force my hands to loosen. Danny’s right, in a way. I did shove her. I shouldn’t have put my hands on her. Someone spends five minutes being kind, and I act like a caged animal.
It takes a lot of effort to back down. “Sorry,” I say, turning away from them. “I didn’t mean to cause a problem.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to find my sister dead in her bed. Get me?”
Something snaps inside of me. Anger splits into fury. My fist swings.
I’m strong, and years of being the new kid taught me how to throw a punch. It’s stupid, and reckless, and my mother’s voice is screaming in the back of my skull.
Tommy! He is a police officer!
It sucks that he’s a cop, too, because he knows how to deflect a punch. He catches my arm and slams me into the wall of the church. My hand is pinned behind my back and I inhale brick dust. The tie drags on the bricks, too, pulling tight against my neck.
I am such an idiot.
He’s enjoying this. We’re the center of attention now. He’s probably hoping I’ll fight him so he can continue playing the badass.
I don’t want to fight him. This is her funeral. Her funeral. My throat is tight and my eyes are hot. Reason catches up with action and I’m swimming in a special blend of humiliation and shame.
I will not start crying right now. I will not.
Charlotte is smacking her brother, it sounds like. “Danny! Danny, stop it! What is wrong with you?”
Hot breath finds my neck, followed by a little shove. The bricks scrape at my skin. I expect him to hold me here, to suffer the judgmental stares of the crowd that I can hear gathering. Or maybe he’ll tell Stan to keep me in line, or something equally demeaning.
Instead, he speaks low, just to me. “Did you get off on it? Think about it in the shower this morning? All hot and bothered for killing your mother?”
Rage flares, hot and painful, blinding me with fury. I jerk back, trying to break his hold, knowing it’s futile.
But suddenly I’m free. My head is buzzing, and he’s on the ground, yelling. Clutching his head. Charlotte is standing back, glancing between me and him, her breath quick.
Did I hit him? What just happened?
Before I can get it together,
a hand falls on my shoulder, pushing me back against the wall. I feel metal against my wrist.
I freeze. Another one of these jerkoffs is cuffing me and talking about assault on a police officer.
Now Danny’s on his feet, talking about resisting arrest. He grabs my arm and drags me away from the wall. The crowd grows.
We’re heading for a police car.
I’m going to miss the funeral.
CHAPTER TWO
CHARLOTTE
I still can’t believe Danny arrested him.
It’s his mother’s funeral.
Ben leans down and whispers. “Easy, Char. You’re going to break a nail if you keep clutching the pew like that.”
“I want to break Danny’s neck.”
“He’s just looking out for you.”
Ben is my favorite brother, and his tone is sincere, so I don’t glare at him. “He doesn’t need to look out for me. Thomas wasn’t doing anything wrong. He just lost his mother, and instead of standing here grieving, he’s getting fingerprinted at central booking.”
“Shh!” Grandma leans around my mother to give me the evil eye. “Charlotte, have some respect.”
She doesn’t glance at Ben, despite the fact that he started the conversation. Shocker.
It’s not like our discussion matters anyway. The most depressing thing about this funeral is that there’s not much mourning going on. No one knew Marie well enough, and Stan is at the front, away from the crowd. It’s like we’re all going through the motions.
Ben shifts closer and drops his voice. “He started the fight, Char.”
“No, Danny started the fight.”
Ben sighs, but I can tell he agrees with me. “The kid made it physical. First with you, then with Danny.”
The kid. Ben is five years older than I am, but you’d think he was sixty-three instead of twenty-three. He never would have arrested Thomas. He never would have let it get to that point. He would have shaken the guy’s hand and offered him a kind word. He probably would have invited him to stand with our family. Ben is the kind of cop who carries peppermints in his pockets for scared kids and remembers the name of everyone he meets. He’s the brother I run to when I need a shoulder to cry on.
Danny is the brother I avoid, and he’s the last person I would have wanted witnessing that moment beside the church. He takes everything a little too personally. He just graduated from the police academy. Ben says he’ll calm down once he realizes that the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay isn’t exactly a hotbed of police activity. More than once, Ben has defused a situation after Danny lit the spark.
“Danny provoked him,” I say.
“How?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t hear what he said.” I can imagine it was horrible. Almost everything that comes out of Danny’s mouth is. “But I know he provoked him.”
Ben shakes his head. “I don’t care what he said. It’s not an excuse to hit someone.”
“I didn’t see Thomas hit him.” I’ve run it through my head a dozen times in the last hour. Danny shoved Thomas into the wall, leaned in to speak, and then he was suddenly on the ground. Thomas didn’t throw a punch—unless he’s the Flash or something. I didn’t see a hand swing.
Maybe he threw his head back? Cracked Danny in the forehead? Would that be enough to throw someone to the ground?
“Why were you talking to him, anyway?” says Ben.
It’s a good question, and I don’t have a ready answer. I keep my eyes forward. The priest is giving a blessing and the scent of incense is thick in the air.
I think of Thomas standing outside the church. He was unfamiliar, with thick, dark hair that fell somewhere between edgy and hipster. When I got close, I noticed the high cheekbones. The strong jaw. The lean frame.
The eyes clouded by distress.
If I say any of that, Ben will accuse me of being a romantic. “I was being polite. I didn’t know who he was.”
“You should stay away from him until this is all sorted out.”
“He didn’t look guilty, Ben. He looked like he wanted to punch the wall to keep himself from crying.”
“I’m not kidding, Char. Don’t let your hormones cloud your judgment.”
Now I do glare at him. I might actually be gaping. I fight to keep my voice at a whisper. “Did you seriously just mention my hormones?”
“Save the attitude.” Ben’s face is stone serious. “I’m looking out for you, too.”
It’s not like Ben to play the heavy. I frown and try to reevaluate the interaction with Thomas. No matter how I replay it, Danny comes off as a real prick.
Ben leans closer, until I catch a hint of his aftershave. “I know that breaking into a detective’s house when he’s working the night shift, killing his wife, and then leaving without taking anything, all while her son sleeps down the hall, sounds pretty unlikely.”
His tone catches me by surprise. “You think he did it?”
“A lot of people think he did it, Char.”
When I pulled the tie tight, Thomas reacted like I’d tried to strangle him. Grief? Or guilt?
Grief. Had to be. “You all think he killed his own mother?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone did something horrible.” Ben shrugs a little. “Besides, would you rather think there’s a murderer sneaking in bedrooms and strangling people?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time for that either.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his lips flatten into a line, and I wish I could take the words back. He’s remembering Lilly Mauta.
Well, he’s remembering her murder. He never laid eyes on Lilly until her mother called nine-one-one three years ago. It was Ben’s first call as a police officer. His first dead body. He didn’t sleep for days. It takes a lot to rattle him—but that did it.
I had laid eyes on Lilly lots of times. She lived half an hour north of here, but her parents drove her down for ballet lessons. We weren’t friends, but we were ballet classmates.
Her murder is still unsolved.
I already know from my brothers that the murders were dissimilar. We don’t get a lot of violent crime around here, so the two cases drew a comparison immediately. Two killers, no question. Lilly’s death was slow and sloppy. A night of teen passion gone too far was the leading theory.
This one was clean and precise and deliberate.
Well. From what I’ve heard. No one is discussing the details of the case with me.
“I don’t think he did it,” I say to Ben.
His eyes flick skyward. “That clears him, then. I’ll get the Sergeant on the radio right now.”
“Hey. What are you two whispering about?” Matthew leans between us.
At twenty-eight, he’s my oldest brother. He’s sitting in the row behind us because his kids tend to sprawl. Jenna and Lexi are eating goldfish crackers and scribbling in Disney Princess coloring books while Matt’s wife tries to keep them quiet. The youngest, Madalyn, is nine months old and heavy-lidded, her head crashed on Matt’s shoulder. Her chubby fingers are fiddling with the bars on his uniform.
He’s a cop, too. He doesn’t work with Ben and Danny on the county force—Matt is a state trooper. Mom says it was his way of rebelling against Dad, who pushed so hard for him to follow in his footsteps and join the local precinct. If so, it’s a stupid rebellion. Becoming a state trooper is about sixteen times more difficult than joining the local force. Besides, he’s still a cop, even if his uniform is tan instead of blue.
Then again, that’s very Matthew. He’ll do what he’s told, but he’ll do it his way.
“How I can’t wait to smack Danny,” I whisper back.
The baby starts to fuss, and he bounces her a little, shifting her to his other shoulder. “He’s just looking out for you.”
My mouth forms a line. They must have a big brother script.
My father is on duty this afternoon, or I’d be getting it from him too.
The baby fusses again, and Alison, Matt’s w
ife, starts moving coloring books off her lap.
I reach out, hoping to save her the trouble. “I’ll hold her. I need some baby snuggles.”
Madalyn protests when Matt hands her over, but I’ve been babysitting these girls since they were born, and I can usually get her settled better than my brother can. She’s quiet and warm against my shoulder in a heartbeat. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and her pacifier makes a suck-suck-suck sound near my neck.
“You’re so lucky you don’t have brothers,” I whisper to her.
“What was that?” says Ben. He bumps me with his hip, so I know he heard me.
I ignore him.
The service is shorter than I expect. Stan is the only person to get up and say something about his dead wife. That makes sense, I guess—she and Thomas only just moved here. Still, it seems like someone else should make a speech. Didn’t she have any friends who would come to town for the funeral? Is everyone here for Stan?
It seems like it. The church is full of uniforms, and I know almost everyone. Stan is well-liked and well-known. He and my father play poker once a month at the VFW hall. We’re a close-knit community, and we band together in times of suffering. The turnout here isn’t surprising.
I wonder if Thomas had planned to say something. Now he won’t get a chance.
My grandmother pinches my arm. “Charlotte!” she hisses. “For heaven’s sake, girl, stop looking so pained.”
Grandma thinks girls should wear dresses and smile sweetly and take care of the menfolk. If you ask her age, she’ll tell you she’s on the bad side of eighty, but she acts like she was born in the eighteen hundreds. My grandfather, her husband, was a police officer, too. With that kind of legacy, you’d think they’d be encouraging me to join the force after graduation. No way. Not in my family. According to my grandmother, feminist is a dirty word invented to placate women who aren’t pretty enough to find a husband. She used to be tolerable when she lived in the independent living facility on the other side of the county, but she moved in with us last year. I thought she was going to write Ben out of the will when she found out he was taking me to the shooting range once a month.
I keep the targets—full of bull’s-eyes—on my wall just to mock her.
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