Page 8 of Double Bucked

“Aw, it’s our biggest festival of the year! Big draw for out-of-towners,” he explains. “Coming up this Saturday. They reveal this year’s Belleflower Queen and throw a parade.”

I say nothing. Harding takes my lack of input as permission to continue.

“Sorta like a Miss America, you know?” he says. “You get to be the shining star of Belleflower. Big deal here—those ladies get treated like true royalty, I’ll tell you what. No one knows who the Belleflower Queen is until the day of the parade, though. They throw a big party about it. Lovely parade. Really pretty. Y’all should go.”

“I’m afraid we leave Thursday,” I inform him. “We’re just here for the funeral.”

“Ah.” He shakes his head. “Damn shame.”

“Quite.”

Claire is still staring out the window. Quiet. Taciturn.

I put my hand over Claire’s. I thread my large fingers through her small ones, the blocky ring on my ring finger nuzzling hers. She lets me.

The car pulls into the hospital deck. It sinks below to the basement level. The second the wheels stop rolling, Claire opens her door and gets out. I pick up her purse, thank the driver, and follow her inside.

We go in and are met with a woman encased in glass. She informs us that Detective Holden hasn’t arrived yet, but we’re welcome to take a seat. She gestures to hard, plastic chairs lined against the slim hallway.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. Claire’s heel tap-tap-taps against the hard floors. I put a hand on her knee. She stills.

Finally, the doors open. A man in a brown and forest-green uniform steps inside. He has a round belly, a bristle mustache, and a red pocket on his jaw that looks like he cut himself shaving this morning. His utility belt jangles as he walks, and he tugs on his belt as he enters.

“Sorry for the wait, Ms. Preacher,” he says. His voice is hoarse with that deep Kentucky drawl, all lazy vowels and slow tenor.

“Any later and we’d be lying in the coffin ourselves,” Claire says sharply. “Shall we get this over with?”

The sheriff recognizes that I’m the one he wants to talk to, so he extends a hand to me. “Deputy Holden.”

I stand and shake it. “James Calloway. The fiancé.”

He nods. “Listen, as I said on the phone, I don’t think you’ll be wanting to see this…I understand he’s your father, but the way it went down…well, to put it frank, it ain’t pretty. Remember him how he was. Not like this.”

“How he was, was a mean, old bastard,” Claire says. “I’m certain whatever he looks like is an improvement. Lead the way.”

Claire’s tone is tight, businesslike, and leaves no room for anyone to second-guess her. Deputy Holden sways on his boots, as though her words literally knocked him off-balance. But then he fixes his expression, tilts his hat, and says, “Follow me.”

He leads us down the thin hallway. He pushes past double doors marked for Staff Only, and we enter a tiled, sterile room. The air is cold and smells sharply of disinfectant.

A woman in a white coat looks up at us with large, surprised eyes.

Deputy Holden tells her, “Bring out Mr. Preacher, if you don’t mind. His daughter would like to see him.”

The attendant’s eyes flicker over Claire, assessing. Then, she unlocks a silver drawer. It rattles as she pulls it out. Mr. Preacher’s body is a soft lump underneath the white sheet.

She gives Deputy Holden another unsure look, but he nods in the affirmative. She pulls back the sheet.

Even with a dead body in the room, I’m not looking at the sack of skin and bones formally known as Mr. Preacher.

I’m watching Claire.

Her eyes widen when she sees him. Her lips part ever so slightly. Her throat concaves as she takes in a rapid, silent inhale, as though she’s swallowing a scream.

She turns her face quickly. Quietly, she recovers.

“Yes,” she says. “It’s him.”

“If you’d like a moment with him…” Deputy Holden begins, but Claire doesn’t linger. She puts on her sunglasses, swivels on her heels, and pushes back out the door.

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