Page 17 of Sweet Lies

His hand rests on my shoulder before he slides around me, his men following close behind. They nod to me in respect.

Continuing up the stairs, I decide to take a shower. Hopefully, that will ease my nerves. All I know is the sooner this meeting is over, the better I’ll feel.

* * *

I’m reorganizing my room when a knock sounds on my door. Sliding it open, I find Andre peering back at me. He’s not dressed in a suit, but a pair of jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him not dressed to the nines that I do a double-take. His dark hair is unkempt, as if he’s recently woken up from a nap, and it sends unease through my body. I question him with my eyes. Something is off: besides his appearance, he hardly ever comes to my room.

Since the kiss we’d had years earlier, everything had changed for us. If I’d thought he was slipping away before the kiss, that was nothing compared to how he was after. Now, we hardly ever talk. Each of us still watches the other, but that’s it. There have been no more movie nights or late-night talks. I lost my friend in a single moment. A moment I still dream about. He’s always with me, beneath my skin.

“Bec, there’s something I need to tell you.”

For one of the few times in our lives, I hear concern and unease in his voice. He’s always in control—nothing has ever seemed to shake him till this moment. Fear invades my body, and my breath quickens as my mouth goes dry.

“Say it,” I order, surprised by how strong my voice sounds. On the inside, I’m shaking with dread. Only a few things could cause him to be this frazzled, and that would be for Elijah or…

“There’s an officer downstairs. It’s your dad. He was shot and killed.”

I knew the words were coming, but that doesn’t stop my legs from giving out. My knees hit the plush gray carpet, and my mind tries to catch up to his words and their devastating meaning.

Andre kneels beside me and takes my hands in his. “I got the call before the officer arrived. I didn’t want you to hear the news from a stranger. I’m sorry, Bec. They need someone to identify the body. I offered, but they said it needed to be family. I’ll call Claire.”

“No! No. I’ll do it. I can do it.”

Once more, I’m startled by how calm my voice sounds. It’s as if I’m above my body, watching and listening to myself. It’s not me. I’m not there. I’m on autopilot.

“I’ll call Claire and Elijah. I’ll do it. I can do it,” I mutter, repeating myself. I can’t come up with different words.

“Rebecca…” he starts, and I know he wants to argue. I know he thinks I’m the weak one. Not at this moment. I can be strong in this moment for him.I have to be. I can be.

“No. I can do this, Andre. Please believe I can do this,” I plead. I need him to lend me some of his strength.

“I know you can, Bec.”

He helps me to my feet, and I put my mask in place as we go down the stairs. I keep it in place as we ride to the morgue. We exchange no words on the drive. The officer attempts to give me his sympathy, but I silence him with a look. His words weren’t heartfelt; we both know what my father was. A killer, a mob boss of the highest order. In the cop’s mind, it’s one less issue to worry about. To me, my world is coming apart.

“I’ll go in with you,” Andre says as we approach the doors.

“No. I’ll be right out,” I mutter, needing to do this on my own. I feel the mask slipping and don’t want anyone to see my breakdown. I need to stay strong just a little longer for Dad.

The pathologist is an old man with white hair to his neck and wrinkles covering his face. His blue eyes are kind and reflect genuine sympathy, unlike the cop. Everyone comes in his doors in the end.

Death comes for us all. It was only a matter of time.

My dad’s voice washes over me, causing me to shiver. The old mortician nods at me, waiting for me to move closer before opening the swinging metal doors.

I step into the cold gray and white room, where an immaculate white sheet covers the body. I stand by the door for a while, staring, knowing the moment the sheet moves a few inches down nothing will ever be the same.

The longer I stay by the door, the longer I can cling to the fantasy that this is all an awful nightmare.

It feels like hours before I step closer and nod. The sheet moves, and I break. They riddled his body with bullets. There was no way he could have survived—not even the slimmest chance.

In an instant I’m frozen—all the oxygen disappearing from the room as I stare down. My heart beats as loud as an approaching train in my ears. This can’t be real. It has to be a bad dream. But the unmistakable smell of death alerts me that this is now my reality.

I dig through my purse, searching for my phone, cursing all the empty gum wrappers and loose change I have to move out of the way.

Going to recent calls, I cry out at seeing my dad’s name at the top. Claire’s is next. I dial and wait for her to pick up.

“Hey. Can it wait?” she asks.

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