Page 53 of What We May Be

Chapter Fourteen

Standing by the cemetery gate, Sean eyed his friend who strode across the parking lot, somehow making the black suit coat over his orange T-shirt and jeans work. Maybe it was the long legs and broad shoulders. Or maybe it was the black cowboy hat that pulled it all together. Or maybe it was just the Emmitt Marshall swagger. Didn’t mean Sean wasn’t gonna give him shit about it. “At least you swapped out the hat and put on a jacket. Though how it took you a half hour to do that little is a mystery.”

“One, I had a chess game to win. And two, it’s hot as balls here. I don’t want to hear it.”

Sean didn’t disagree, especially given the extra humidity from that morning’s rain, but Marsh didn’t get to use that excuse. “Please. You grew up on a ranch in Texas.”

“And I spent twenty years in the fucking desert. Enough’s enough.” He billowed his T-shirt as Sean led him into the cemetery. “I get why my best friend settled in San Francisco.”

“I thought that had more to do with his husband than the weather,” Sean tossed over his shoulder. “What was it you said? Where Holt goes Brax goes?”

“Something like that.” Marsh dipped his chin, hiding his face behind the brim of his hat. “You know where we’re going?”

“Yep.” He’d arrived early, coming directly from the station while Marsh had swung by the motel to “change.” Sean had apologized to the crypt keeper for the other night and asked where Jeff was being buried. That advance work meant he could stay on point now, not letting Marsh off the hook. “They’re good? Your friends?”

“Disgustingly happy.”

Sean rubbed a hand over his friend’s biceps. “Aww, poor Marsh. Always the groomsman, never the groom.”

Marsh lifted his chin, a little of the swagger dimmed. “I’m happy for them. Truly. If anyone deserves happiness, it’s them. But he doesn’t get to beat me at chess.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. While he’d never admit it without a bottle of whisky, and even then, he’d only admitted it once, Marsh had always carried a bit of a torch for his army buddy. But the major had always been in love with someone else to hear Marsh tell it. “Now I just have to get you sorted.”

Sean tripped over his feet. “Wait!” He spread a hand over his chest. “How did this suddenly become about me?”

The earlier smile might not have reached Marsh’s eyes, but his smirk now sure did. “Because I’m that good, Hale.”

“Mr. Marshall?” a suited man called from two rows ahead, sparing Sean from further immediate torture. Standing next to a collared priest, a raised casket, and a freshly dug grave, the funeral director waved them over. Two more of his staff waited in coveralls a few rows back, wiping sweat from their brows, their shovels leaned against a nearby headstone.

“We’re not done with this conversation,” Marsh said to him, making sure Sean knew he wasn’t off the hook. Payback no doubt for the earlier needling. As Marsh stepped forward, hand outstretched, Sean hung back. After a few words with the director and priest, Marsh circled to the opposite end of the casket and removed his hat. Sean joined him, offering silent support as the priest recited a generic service. When the five minutes were over, and Jeff’s casket was being lowered into the ground, Marsh handed his hat to Sean and knelt at the side of the grave, tossing in a fistful of dirt. With his other hand, he withdrew a rosary from his coat pocket and began the recitations in Spanish. When he was done, he stood, crossed himself, and pocketed the rosary.

“You do that to piss him off?” Sean asked as he handed Marsh back his hat. They reversed several steps from the grave, the funeral staff coming forward to close it.

“Mostly.” He swiped a hand over his brow and into his hair, slicking it back before resettling his hat. “That and the whole Catholic guilt thing. Hard to shake.”

“You didn’t think anyone from the town would want to be here?”

“I can’t imagine he suddenly stopped being an asshole.”

Marsh’s reply garnered a disapproving glare from the funeral director, and Sean decided to wait until he and his staff cleared out before continuing.

“From what I’ve seen of this case and heard from Trevor, he didn’t.”

“I asked Mom if she wanted to come.”

“Oh boy.” Sean couldn’t wait to hear the rest of this story. Marsh’s mom was a riot. So was her wife.

Marsh grinned. “She told me she had to help Irina birth a calf, then they were gonna get drunk on Dom and fuck all night long.”

Sean laughed out loud. “I love your moms.”

“They love you too.” Marsh turned from the grave, moving in the direction of the exit. “Speaking of moms, anything further from Marie?”

“Saul’s vitals are weaker, but he’s still hanging on.”

“Doesn’t want to leave his lady. Or you.”

Sean cleared his throat and ignored his stinging eyes. “Once we get this case and things sorted, I need to get up there. She said not to come until after, but—”

“But you want to be there. I get it. Maybe not for that asshole”—he jutted a thumb over his shoulder toward Jeff’s grave—“but if anything were to ever happen to Mom or Irina, I’d be on the first plane out.”

---