Page 2 of Dead Love
He wrinkled his brow. “What are you saying?”
“What else is there to report?” My tone was biting; I had endured enough of law enforcement in the last week to cover a lifetime. “You could be serving the citizens who need you. Instead, you’re wasting your time investigating someone who OD’ed.”
“A bullet. Cuts. Drugs,” he sighed. “Why so many options?”
“He must have been very determined.”
“What are you hiding, Erickson?” the officer asked, glaring at me. “You seem awfully reluctant to scrutinize your brother’s death. Apathetic, even.”
“Trust me, officer. We all mourn in different ways,” I said. I tipped my imaginary hat, mocking him. “Catie will be back in a few minutes. She can take care of anything else you might need.”
Without another word, I headed up the winding path between the grave markers to the trees that lined the edges of the property, separating my house from the funeral home. I unlocked the door to my house, then fixed dinner for the only housemates I had left. When it was ready, three rottweilers came trotting into the kitchen. I kneeled down to pet them. They sniffed at me, noticing the dirt on my clothes, and huffed away. I could have changed, but I wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
Restless, I drove to the downtown area, where children with holey sheets, witch hats, and superhero jumpsuits ran down the sidewalk, shoutingtrick-or-treat!to each shop owner. I parked down one of the side streets, then walked past the jack-o'-lanterns and stringy cobwebs decorating the storefronts. I crossed the street, to the scenic viewpoint; it was one of my favorite haunts. I leaned my back on the railing, observing. Directly across from the viewpoint, was Poppies & Wheat, the town’s only flower shop, with its typical wreath decorated with orange and red flowers, and a single giant pumpkin carved into a rose outside.
Three figures strode down the sidewalk. The sheriff wrapped his arm around his wife’s back, an older woman with her brown hair twisted into an elaborate updo. She owned the flower shop, and though my late brother used to do most of the business negotiations, I still spoke with her from time to time. But behind them was a young woman I had never seen before, the daughter everyone knew about, but few had seen. Wearing the same ankle-length black and orange dress as her mother, her hairstyle identical, she was her mother’s mini-me. But her leafy-green eyes gleamed in the light, full of longing that made her stand out, even as she hovered behind her parents.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you two about,” the young woman said.
The parents continued talking, and the daughter walked quicker, trying to catch up to them. The door to Poppies & Wheat jingled, opening and closing for them. In the window, the assistant manager moved to the side, letting the family take over. The daughter gave a small, timid speech, while the mother’s face contorted until she stormed out of the room. The sheriff’s eyes widened with each word he spoke. The daughter’s wrists shook as she tucked hair behind her ear. Her stare fevered, her eyes full of tears.
Part of me wanted to mock her;oh, how tragic, her paradise was ruined, all because mommy and daddy hadn’t given her everything she wanted.But a thought stopped me: the people she lived for, turned away from her. I knew what it was like to look at your family and know that they didn’t give a shit about you.
I stared down at the mouth of the stream pooling beneath the viewpoint, the water glimmering under the full moon. Part of me wished I could destroy their perfect family: a florist mother; the sheriff father; the sheltered, likely virginal, daughter. My brother and I had seen our parents die before we were teenagers. And when our uncle took us in, mentoring us to take over his business, it became even more clear that we were the anti-family. Two orphans, being raised by a mortician.
For a perfect family like theirs, it would be easy to pick them apart. To steal the heart that kept them together. To watch them crumble like ashes. Passion burned inside of me when perfection was destroyed like that.
A stream of trick-or-treaters trailed behind me, one whispering, “Is he a dirt monster?” My brother would have been amused by that. I had forgotten I was covered in dirt.
I turned to head back to my car when the jingle of the flower shop’s door carried over the street. Footsteps dashed across the asphalt, then two hands slammed into the railing. The young woman—the daughter—panted frantically, like she didn’t know what to do with the emotions boiling up inside of her.
I shouldn’t have given her a second thought. She wasn’t anything to me. But I didn’t care about what she wanted or needed, only that those tears on her face were delicious, wrought full of pain. I couldn’t stop myself from staring. Those full quivering lips. A thin, breakable neck. Thick, bushy eyebrows, so young and full of promise. Cheekbones blushing deeper the longer she endured my gaze.
She turned to me, wavering.
“Is that your costume?” she asked, her voice hesitant. A grin flitted across my face. I was in my thirties, and yet, she thought I was dressing up for Halloween. How innocent.
“I was working,” I said.
“What do you do?”
“I dig graves.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. Heat pumped through my veins. I loved rubbing that in people’s faces; it was a useful tool to intimidate others. Her dense brows furrowed, then her forest eyes searching me intently, the tears finally stopping. She shifted her weight, uncomfortable with the silence. I should have asked her a question, but I wanted to see what she did under the pressure to speak.
“I didn’t know they still dug graves by hand,” she finally said.
“Most don’t.”
She let out a soft breath, then pulled out the ties and pins from her hair until it all fell down her back in long curls, past her hips, like strings of rope.
“Maybe I should just cut it all off,” she muttered.
“That will show them.”
She glared at me, and I lifted my brows. Caring about hair so much was ridiculous. Maybe if my brother hadn’t died a few days earlier, I wouldn’t have been so callous. But right then, I really didn’t care.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
