Page 179 of The Spider & the Storm

I grabbed my sketch pad and Sharpie out of my backpack, and as I uncapped the marker and told her to go ahead, I thought about the irony of this moment. Luke had been the one to get me my first drawing pad and pack of markers, and there I was, using those very implements to jot down the next step in hopefully laying his body to rest.

Life is so fucking weird, I thought to myself, popping the cap back into place and thanking the woman for helping in whatever way she could.

“Did Luke, uh … did he have any personal belongings or anything?” I took a chance asking, and she sighed into the phone.

“Honestly, if their things aren't collected pretty quickly after the family is notified, all the stuff is usually trashed or pilfered by the other inmates,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm sorry.”

My heart sank even as I said, “Yeah, it's okay. Just figured I'd ask.”

I hung up and dropped the phone to the bed, giving myself a moment to sigh before making the next call. My eyes glanced at the time glowing on my cell phone's screen, and I huffed a bitter laugh. Two hours ago, I had thought my brother was still alive. I'd been on my way to introduce him to the woman I knew so deeply in my bones that I would one day marry, and now, I was just trying to bury him. Or whatever was left of him anyway.

“Fuck,” I muttered, scrubbing my hands over my face.

I didn't want to handle this shit. Luke had handled things last time, when Mom and Dad had died. Well, him and Nana. Now, they were dead … they all were. I was it, all that was left.

The door creaked open, and Stormy poked her head in.

“Hey.” She entered tentatively, cautiously. She closed the door behind her, letting it click shut slowly, while keeping her eyes on me. “How are you doing? No, wait, that's a stupid question. I'm sorry. I'm just—”

“No, it's okay,” I said, outstretching my hand to welcome her in.

“God, Charlie.” She accepted the warmth of my palm encasing hers and sat beside me on the bed. “I know I've said ita million times already, but I am so, so, so fucking sorry. I can't even imagine how you're feeling.”

“Not great,” I answered with a humorless laugh. “But … I think I'm glad I know.”

That was when I noticed the stiffness of her limbs and the thrumming of her pulse. Her phone was clutched in her hand, the screen glowing bright. I asked her if there was something she wanted to say, and she stammered with nervous intent.

“Um … I-I didn’t know if now would be the right time to bring it up, but …”

“Tell me anything to get my mind off this shit.”

“Well …” She blew out a deep breath and lifted her phone, her eyes meeting mine. “While you were on the phone, I googled Luke’s name.”

After all this time, she only decided now to utilize the search engine at her fingertips. After there was nothing more for me to tell, no more secrets between us, and I loved her for it.

She turned the phone’s screen toward me, and a picture of Ritchie looked back. I knew it well. It was the friendliest, least menacing picture the media could find of him. One from his days of coaching the high school football team. His smile was nice enough, but his eyes were as cold as a shark’s.

“W-why are you showing me this?” I asked, fighting the nausea that rolled through my gut at the sight of his face.

“This is him, Charlie,” Stormy whispered, her eyes glistening with tears. “This … this is the guy who … h-he was at that bar. W-when I was sixteen. He … he—”

“He’s not a good guy, Charlie. You have no idea. He’sbad.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, but of course she was. Why would she lie? “Are yousure?”

She nodded slowly, one tear slowly trickling down her cheek. “Believe me, I’m sure.”

My heart lurched into my throat as I looked between the picture of Ritchie and her face, and all at once, a new, special kind of hatred toward him began to grow, along with a brand-new sense of gratitude toward my brother. Who had unwittingly murdered the man who had raped the love of my life long before I knew her name … and only God knew how many others.

God, what were the chances? How the hell was it even possible that I would meet her so many years later and—

“So, um …” She pulled in a deep, quivering breath and removed Ritchie’s face from her phone screen. “Did the, um … prison give you anything useful?”

I cleared my throat and held up the sketch pad resting on my thigh. “Yeah, uh … the number for the police department that conducted the investigation and autopsy. The woman on the phone said they might still have his body, but … I don't know. I kinda think it's a long shot, but I should probably take it.”

She nodded. “Might as well. Just in case.”

I filled my lungs in preparation and snatched my phone from the bed, ready to dial. Stormy asked if I'd prefer she leave, and I told her to stay, needing her to hold my hand and keep me warm when the cruel touch of heartbreak threatened to encase my spirit in ice yet again.

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