Page 45 of Draven

“Louise?” I call out.

She glances over her shoulder. “Go home,” she says dully. “There’s nothing more you can do here.”

I watch her retreating back, rubbing a fist against the ache filling my chest.

Why do I feel as if I’ve lost her?

Chapter 16

Louise

In the week since Kiera’s death, fall has taken a firm hold of the eastern United States. A keen wind tears orange and golden leaves from the branches of trees fighting a losing battle against nature, and blustery showers arrive on the regular.

I stare out of the window of Kiera’s childhood bedroom. The hole her passing has torn through my heart won’t be soothed no matter what I do. I’ve never felt pain like it. In the daytime, I keep busy. Funerals take a lot of organization, and despite my parents impressively holding it together, I try to take most of the weight on my shoulders.

The nights, though, are a different matter entirely. I barely sleep a wink, my mind running pointless scenarios of what ifs. When I do sleep, my dreams are full of Kiera, and I wake with damp cheeks, a sore throat, and an emptiness inside me I have no idea how to fill.

I haven’t seen Draven since leaving him behind at the hospital the night Kiera died, and nor has he called me. No doubt, in his eyes, he did what I asked of him: he found my sister. Knowing Draven, he will have already moved on to his next case, the brief blast from his past fading into a distant memory.

As each day passes, I swing between blaming him for storming in there in typical Draven fashion, and feeling oddly grateful that, because of him, Kiera died a free woman. If it hadn’t been for Draven, I wouldn’t have known about Arjan Shala, and we’d never have discovered where the women were being held. If he hadn’t led us to that grubby, disgusting warehouse, all those women would have been sold to the highest bidder and living a life of unimaginable horror.

“Lola? The car is here.”

I glance over my shoulder and offer a faint smile to my mother. “One more minute?”

Mom nods before closing the door with a quiet click. I check my appearance in the full-length mirror beside the dresser, smoothing a hand down the front of my black suit. Dark colors always make me look drained, almost ill. I prefer brighter, more vibrant choices in my clothes, but then again, I am drained, so my clothing suits my mood.

“I miss you, Kiera,” I whisper. “I won’t rest until we catch those bastards. I promise I’ll fight for justice. For you. For me. For all those other women.”

With a final glance around the room, I leave my sister’s bedroom, knowing it’ll be a long time before I can bear to be in here again.

Mom and Dad are waiting at the bottom of the stairs, their faces showing the immense strain they’ve been under.

“Ready?” Dad asks, holding out his arm for me to link mine through. With Mom on his other side, the three of us walk out to the waiting vehicle that will take us to the church.

Neighbors have gathered, some with genuine sympathy, others to simply feed off another’s pain and thank their lucky stars it isn’t happening to them. Dad hangs back, allowing Mom and me to get in the car before he follows, closing the door behind us. The heavily tinted windows shut out the intrusive stares from the gathered crowd.

“Okay, love?” he asks, squeezing my hand.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I’ve cried enough tears to fill a bathtub. Dad’s softly spoken words are at risk of causing the floodgates to open once more. I refuse to be a burden today. I want to be their rock, not a crutch for me to lean on.

It only takes fifteen minutes to arrive at the church. The pastor waits outside with his hands crossed over his middle, and bible in hand, his expression holding just the right amount of compassion. He must have perfected that look over the years.

I’m not one for church, nor for burials, but my parents are, and this day is about helping them come to terms with losing their youngest child, not my beliefs. After taking my turn to shake the pastor’s hand, I go inside. I almost lose my composure when my gaze falls on Kiera’s coffin displayed on the altar, somehow holding it together only for the sake of my parents.

As I walk up the center aisle, I catch sight of several of my coworkers sitting in the pews. Even Rick has made the trip down from Newark. A few of them give me tight smiles while others simply nod before returning their gazes to the bench in front. I spot my boss, Gary Shelton, about halfway down. He gives me a civil nod, then avoids my gaze.

Apart from one phone call to offer his condolences, my boss and I haven’t spoken. No doubt, after today, he’ll expect me to return to my duties, and in a way, I’ll be glad to. Work will be my salvation, and a way of throwing myself into solving crimes, taking filth off the streets, and contributing, in some small way, to making the public safer.

I’ve almost reached my seat when my gaze falls on the one person I don’t expect to see.

Draven.

Seeing him feels like a concrete block sitting on my chest. A mixture of shock and elation claws its way to the surface. He hasn’t conformed to a suit—I wouldn’t expect him to—but he’s tied back his hair and trimmed his beard, and he’s put on a black dress shirt beneath his customary leather jacket. His eyes bore through mine. For that split second, it could be only him and me standing in this church, wondering what to do.

I pause mid-step, unsure of my next move.

Then the moment passes, and he’s behind me, out of sight.

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