Page 53 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

Kevin stepped in front of the mirror. Black jacket, charcoal-gray pants, deep-purple shirt, black tie with pencil-thin gray stripes—exactly like the picture he’d found on Google images.

“You look totally handsome,” Katie burbled.

He couldn’t remember the last time she’d said anything remotely nice to him. Further proof that she was totally wasted.

But he knew he looked good. That was his biggest problem.

Not yet sixteen, he was already six feet tall—two inches shorter than their father. He’d also inherited their father’s strong jawline, expressive hazel eyes, and engaging smile, but while Alex Dunn used his good looks to charm his way through life, Kevin was uncomfortable with the fact that female heads turned when he walked into a classroom. Faculty included.

Of all the skills Kevin Dunn had yet to master, the most intimidating was how to deal with women.

He turned away from the mirror and went to the window.

“Chill out,” Katie said. “They’ll get here when they get here.”

She plopped down on his bed. “Guess what else I found in Dad’s office?”

“I don’t care.”

“Dad wrote a eulogy for Mom,” she said.

“Jesus... Katie.”

“It was just sitting there in his computer, so I read it.”

“How did you get into Dad’s...”

“Oh, Kevin, don’t be an idiot. I figured out his password three years ago. It’s I-Love-Katie-Best.”

Kevin ignored the dig and went straight for the trespass violation. “You’ve been looking at Dad’s private stuff forthree years?”

“Not the work stuff. Just things about the family. ’Specially emails between him and Mom. I like to keep tabs on what they know about stuff we do.”

“We?” Kevin snapped. “Yeah, they would really freak out if they knew I brought two books back late to the library last month. You’re the one who gets stupid drunk with your lacrosse team—Oh, shit. Here they come.”

Katie tottered to the window as the procession pulled up. Two motorcycle cops, Chief Vanderbergen’s SUV, two long black Cadillac limos from Kehoe’s Funeral Home, a fire truck festooned with flowers, a Heartstone ambulance draped with black bunting, and, bringing up the rear, at least twenty more bikes—all Harleys—Grandpa Finn’s crew.

The crowd on the street had doubled. Almost every one of them—friends, neighbors, reporters—were recording the moment for posterity.

“Cool,” Katie said.

“Not cool,” Kevin, shaking his head. “We can’t even die like normal people.”

“We’re not normal, bro. We’re Heartstone royalty. Maybe by the time you’re my age, you’ll finally understand that.”

Kevin gave her the finger. They were twins, but Katie never missed an opportunity to rub in the fact that she squeezed through the birth canal seven minutes sooner than he did. And she’d been pushing him around ever since.

She pressed her face to the window. “You know, you’re right, Kev. It’s not that cool. If I were running the show, I’d definitely have had a marching band, lots of balloons, and a clown car.”

Kevin couldn’t help himself. He laughed. And then, staring down at the somber motorcade, the laugh caught in his throat and turned to sobs.

The sound that came out of him started as a low moan, built into a mournful cry, and crescendoed into a heart-rending wail.

“It’s not fair!” he screamed in a hoarse whisper. “It’s not fair!”

Katie reached for him, and he let his heaving body fall into her arms.

“I didn’t know I was gonna cry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

---