Page 2 of Never Die for a Sinner
In fact . . . I don’t feel anything.
The man who made my life a living hell is dead. He murdered my mother, tried to murder my sister-in-law, and otherwise fucked over every single person he came into contact with behind their backs with a smile on his face.
I’m glad the fucker’s dead.
So why do I feel so fucking hollow?
“William was a good man. He was dedicated to his work. Loved his family . . .”Or what we could provide him.“His children will miss him dearly, and it’s with that I want to say a closing prayer.”
Oh, great. The fucking customary prayer that comes at the end of every service. Dad was never a religious man. In fact, I’m not sure any amount of praying could save him from whatever hell awaits him on the other side.
Still, it makes people feel better because they want to send off their loved one with as much hope as possible, no matter how shitty that person was.
My sister still refuses to believe it. My aunt is beside herself, faced with the fact that her brother-in-law murdered her only sister and tried to destroy her family.
I watch them bow their heads, refusing to do so because he doesn’t deserve it. Death isn’t an eraser. It can’t wipe away your sins, no matter how you died.
I look out over the crowd, spacing out from whatever the preacher is saying. My gaze lingers on my brother, who stands across the tent from me, his gaze locked on mine. His wife hasher head lowered beside him out of politeness, but Christian and I are on the same page.
Dad almost succeeded in taking Mila from Christian for good. He used our brother’s mental illness to unleash a monster on our family that nearly killed us all. It actually succeeded in destroying our mother.
The man was a fucking asshole.
Let him be an asshole while he burns in hell.
Christian is the first to look away, to the little blonde beside him, when she raises her head at the end of the prayer. He takes her hand and presses her fingers to his lips, and she softens only for him.
If you’d asked me five years ago if I thought my brother, FBI asshole extraordinaire, would be this fucking whipped for a woman half his size, I would have laughed in your face.
But when I look at the brunette beside Mila, whose soft green gaze finds mine across the tent, for the first time in my life, I’m finding myself jealous.
And I fucking hate it.
The Oak Ridge Lodge sits atop a cliff overlooking the valley below the Mount Baker National Forest. It’s beautiful this time of year, but I grew accustomed to it a long time ago.
The Cross Estate rests on the same three hundred acres as the Oak Ridge lodge, and right now, I’m avoiding it like the plague. Parties were never my thing. They were Bella’s, my sister. The dinner after my father’s funeral is just another excuse to celebrate the life of a dickhead who didn’t deserve it.
Call me crazy, but I have no desire to pretend any longer.
“Levi?”
I grit my teeth before I turn over my shoulder to find Bella standing at the edge of the terrace. She’s the youngest of the Cross siblings, and the only girl, but she holds her own. Running the lodge and otherwise being a holy fucking terror in Prada, day in and day out.
We used to be close, but now, I’m finding I’m not close with anyone. Maybe Christian, but he only gets as close as I’ll let him. Bella may as well be a stranger.
“What are you doing? It’s freezing.”
I shrug.
“I’m fine.”
She winces, and I can tell she’s trying to be gentle. Everyone has. Walking around me like I’m made of porcelain. Like I really give a fuck if the old bastard is dead.
He deserved to die. No one gets a free pass. Not me. Not Christian. Definitely not William Cross.
“Don’t be like this. Please, come inside.”
Fuck that. And listen to my Great-Aunt Marjory try to set me up with my cousins?
