by Cassie Wild
Firemen shouted back and forth. My breath caught in my chest as three of them abruptly burst through the front door.
“What are they…” Dread filled my throat.
The two in front carried something with them.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. I took a step back and encountered the solid presence of Wylie’s body. He brought his arms up, wrapping them around me.
Somebody next to me took my hand.
“Tish…”
I recognized the voice and glanced over. It was Mary Sanderson. She ran the bakery that supplied the bookstore with pastries and donuts in the summer.
The store’s gone…
She gave me a sad look, and I blocked out the knowledge I saw in her eyes.
“No,” I said again.
I wanted to turn away, but my entire body felt frozen in place. Mesmerized, I watched as the two firemen came to a halt with their burdens.
Tears burned my eyes, making it almost impossible to see.
I didn’t want to see this.
I didn’t want to know this.
Spinning around, I buried my face against Wylie’s chest.
His arms came around me. I shuddered, a hard sob rising up my throat. I swallowed it back down, certain that if I made even a single sound, I’d start screaming and never stop.
This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. I’d just seen them a few hours ago. I’d gone downstairs before leaving for my date with Wylie. I’d given them each a hug and a kiss.
Dad had grumbled under his breath when I told him I was going on a date. “When’s that boy going to do the right thing and marry you?”
Mom had swatted him on the arm, chiding in her soft voice, “You hush, you old grouch.”
The tears broke free, and still, I fought the sobs.
Somebody said my name. I didn’t recognize the voice. But I already knew I didn’t want to talk to whoever it was. Keeping my face buried against Wylie’s chest, I shook my head, like a child tucked away under her blankets, convinced that if she didn’t come out, the monster from her nightmares couldn’t find her.
“Honey. It’s one of the cops,” Wylie said, his voice soft. “You have to talk to him.”
“No,” I told him stubbornly. I didn’t have to. I didn’t have to do anything. I…I couldn’t.
Mom…
Dad.
The tears came harder, and this time, I wasn’t able to hold back the sob, either.
It took a very, very long time to stop crying.
Three
Sean
Harp music filled the air.
I recognized most of it.
Isabel’s favorites.
I’d never be able to listen to another one of these songs without feeling this ache inside. That ache had overtaken me, swallowed me so completely, it felt like that was all that existed.
My head hurt like a bitch, and I was itching for a drink. I needed one bad, but I was determined to get through Isabel’s fucking memorial sober. Once I got through this, though, I didn’t plan ever being sober again.
A voice caught my attention, low and gentle. I shouldn’t have looked, but I couldn’t stop myself. Looking over, I saw Briar, and right next to her, Cormac.
She’d insisted that he had nothing to do with the bomb, and even Dad backed her up, telling me that if Cormac had been involved, he never would have come forward and told the family about his prior involvement. But I didn’t buy that shit.
Cormac had been working for the Castellanos, and they’d wanted to hurt the family. I knew with absolute certainty that the fucking bomb had been meant for me.
Somebody came up to me. Operating on autopilot, I looked over and saw somebody who looked vaguely familiar. Finally, recognition pierced the veil in my brain, and I recognized her as one of the women who’d worked for my dad for years. She held out her hands, and I let her pull me into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Sean.”
The thick, choking cloud of her perfume went straight to my head, and I thought I might get sick.
Swallowing back the bile that churned up my throat, I got the urge under control by sheer will. There was no way I was going to spend Isabel’s memorial on my knees in front of a fucking toilet.
She pulled back and peered at me in wide-eyed concern. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I just…I’m not too good at being with anybody right now,” I said, managing to keep all the ugly things I wanted to say trapped inside.
“Of course.” She patted my shoulder. “If that’s what you need, then that’s what you need. You choose how you mourn, Sean. Don’t let anybody else tell you what you should and shouldn’t do, especially now.”
She squeezed my shoulder once more, then backed away, a gentle smile on her face.
The kindness was something I didn’t deserve. Unable to face it, I jerked my head around.
Too late, I found myself staring at the photo memorials at the front of the of the room—the ones I’d been avoiding for the past two hours.
A hot, ugly knot of emotion lodged in my throat. I tried to dislodge my feet. It was like they’d turned to stone. Finally, I was able to move them, but instead of being able to walk away, I found myself walking closer.
There were pictures of our wedding, pictures of her from childhood, pictures of her in productions, both solo and with the troupe. I stopped in front of one. She’d had a small solo in a piece a few months back—her first. She wore all red, a long, full skirt that had flared around her hips as she pirouetted. I’d been in the front row for three of the performances, and although she hadn’t been able to smile as she danced her part, the way she’d glowed when I met her backstage…
The red of that dress pulsed in my brain, and when I closed my eyes, instead of the dress, or the memory of her solo, I saw the fire. The flames punching up into the air, debris flying outward.
“We don’t even have a body to bury.”
I squeezed my eyes closed at the sound of that voice. Guilt sank thick, jagged talons into my soul and laid me open as I turned to face Mirana Castellanos.
Most of Isabel’s family avoided me or spoke to me as little as possible. I hadn’t gotten the impression that Mirana was actively avoiding me, but she’d spent most of her time quietly sitting in a chair close to one of the photo memorials, holding a handkerchief and gazing at the pictures of her youngest child.
Now she stood next to me, and as much as I wanted to run away, I couldn’t.
“I know.”
Her eyes, as dark and beautiful as Isabel’s had been, searched mine. “I’ve spoken to the police. They can’t tell me anything. They have no idea who is behind this. And your father…Seamus has told me that while your family has a few enemies, they are small. None who’d dare something so vile as to kill an innocent woman.”
I cleared my throat. “She was in my car, Mirani. Whoever it was…” I had to force myself not to look at Cormac. Only family loyalty and lack of proof kept me quiet. “Whoever it was, they were after me.”
Her lashes fell. The hot, bright burn of anguish was worse than if she’d slapped me.
“Darling.”
Her spine stiffened at the sound of her husband’s voice. She lifted her head, her gaze lingering on my face for a moment before she looked over at Basilio. He placed a hand on her spine.
I didn’t miss the way she’d stiffened, although she didn’t pull away.
“Why don’t you sit?” he suggested, his voice soft and warm.
“I’ve sat enough. My daughter is dead. If I wish to talk to her husband, I will.” Her voice was pure steel.
She looked back at me and nodded, then started to turn. For a few seconds, her gaze lingered on Basilio. “I’d hoped perhaps Laya would come. But it seems not even death will bridge that particular gap.”
Laya was Isabel’s sister. I knew there was a rift between her and her family, but I hadn’t even thought about her since this had all started. Isabel would have wanted her here.
Une
ase settling over me, I looked back and forth between the husband and wife, but Mirana said nothing else as she turned and walked away, her shoulders up and back, chin lifted.
Basilio dismissed his wife and directed his attention to me.
“I’m glad to know you at least take responsibility for the disaster that killed my Isabel,” he said, voice cold.
I said nothing, holding his gaze.
He leaned forward slightly. “You can bullshit my wife, but you cannot fool me. Your family must know something.”
“I’m not much more than a grunt,” I told him. I didn’t even care enough to pretend otherwise. “Declan handles most of the day-to-day business. Chances are, Dad didn’t trust me enough for more responsibility. Then there’s the fact that Brooks has been trying to talk him into giving the family…business up. Dad was even making noises about being interested in going legit. But I don’t know shit. You need to talk to Dad or Declan. Hell, even though Brooks is out of it, he probably knows more than I do.”
His lip curled as he stared at me.
“So my daughter married a man with no spine. Hard enough to know she’s gone, but you probably won’t even fight to find justice for her.”
He stalked away.
My gaze slid once more to Cormac.
He met my eyes somberly and didn’t flinch under the death stare.
His nose was still slightly swollen, his left eye was black. It wasn’t enough.
He’d taken my fucking wife. A few bruises just weren’t enough.
“It wasn’t him.” Brooks joined me and rested a hand on my shoulder.
I shrugged him off and put distance between us, not wanting to even look at him, but I made myself. “I don’t want to hear it,” I said coolly.
“He couldn’t have done it,” Brooks said, moving in more closely. “You two arrived at the same time.”
I sneered at him. “You think Marcos couldn’t have arranged to pay somebody off? Cormac could have facilitated the whole damn thing.”
“That’s not a stupid man over there,” Brooks said, angling his head toward Cormac. “And our sister wouldn’t date a stupid man. She wouldn’t fall in love with a stupid man. There’s no way he could pull off that kind of deception long term, and he knows that if we found out, we’d kill him.”
I snorted. Turning away, I said, “Believe whatever the fuck you want—”
Brooks grabbed my arm. “It doesn’t make sense for it to be the Castellanos.”
I went to tear away, and his fingers tightened until it felt like he was squeezing bone.
“Stop,” he added. “Do you want everybody in here paying attention?”
“If you’d fucking let me go—”
“Sean.” He said it in the same tone he used back when we were kids, when I’d be gearing up to throw a stupid tantrum—and I’d thrown a lot of them after Mom had died.
That tone, combined with the look in his eyes, punctured the veil of anger. Punctured it, but while I stopped fighting him, the rage didn’t disappear. I just…stopped fighting.
His grip on my arm eased, and his eyes softened. “I know you’re hurting. Fuck, I can’t even begin to imagine how much. But is this what Isabel would want?”
“Fine,” I said, biting the response off. “I’ll hold it together. For her. For now.”
He let me go.
But as he went to turn away, I added, “But once this is over…if I ever see him again, all bets are off.”
Brooks’s mouth tightened. He didn’t say anything though.
In all honesty, there was nothing he could say.
Somebody had arranged for there to be liquor service at the visitation.
I had no idea who that dumb-ass was, but if I ever found out, I just might beat him into a pulp.
Of course, it could be a her, and if that was the case, I was just going to have to be miserable.
Staring at the bar set up in the corner, I tried not to think about how easy it would be to walk over there and get some whiskey, let the smooth burn of it glide down my throat. After a few drinks, this miserable pain would dull a bit.
“Are you going to get drunk off your ass at my sister’s memorial?”
The sound of Duardo’s voice had me stiffening. Face going red, I turned to meet his gaze.
Duardo reminded me a little too much of Declan, but while there were some soft edges to my older brother—albeit well-hidden ones—nothing about Duardo was soft.
I knew too many details about the role he’d played in Daria’s humiliating time with the Castellanos, about how she’d been forced to pay off some debt because a miserable bastard tried to put his hands on her. At first, I’d just wanted Brooks to keep his nose out of it, but as both Isabel and my brother had thrown in to help her, some part of me had come around. Then I’d gotten to know her, and I’d come to regret how coldly I’d viewed the entire incident.
I didn’t like either of the Castellanos brothers, but for Isabel, I’d always been courteous to them.
I could do it one more time.
“I plan on getting good and drunk later,” I admitted honestly. “But I’m not going to do it with an audience.”
His cool eyes assessed me, but under that coldness, there was an anger that actually surprised me.
“My father tells me you have no idea who put the bomb in your car.” A black brow arched up. “Am I expected to believe you have no idea who was after you?”
I swallowed the bile down. “If I did, don’t you think my family and I would have dealt with them by now?”
“I’ve had a few people tell me that you went after your sister’s…boyfriend that night Isabel was killed.” He glanced over, and I knew exactly what—who—caught and held his attention.
Cormac.
“I know him,” Duardo said.
He turned his head abruptly, and once more, we were staring at each other.
“That right?”
“Yes.” Duardo crossed his arms over his chest, an inscrutable look on his face. “He used to live in Miami. He’s a bit of a freelance agent. Does…odd jobs. Collects money. Passes along certain messages. I’ve used him a time or two. So has Marcos. He’s even done work for some of the smaller, um, family entities in the area. Odd seeing him up here. Is he working for the Downings?”
“Not that I know of. But you’d do better asking him yourself.”
Maybe I’d get lucky. Maybe Duardo would do just that, and Cormac would tell him the truth, and Duardo would kill him—or have him killed—for being the one responsible for Isabel’s death.
Duardo lifted a shoulder. “It’s not a big issue. I was just wondering.” His lids drooped. “I assume your sister has finally figured out the big family secret.” Something that might have been regret lit his eyes as he glanced over at one of the pictures of Isabel. “It’s not easy, trying to protect them.”
I stayed quiet.
He looked back at me, and once more, his expression was granite. “Why did you attack Cormac?”
I’d been expecting that, ever since he’d brought the other man up. “He kept me from saving Isabel.”
He didn’t look convinced. “The car exploded instantly. I’ve seen the footage.”
Swallowing convulsively, I looked away. Yeah, I’d seen it too.
Security footage from the bank ATM across the street and a nearby traffic cam. The cops had been hopeful it would shed some light on the investigation, maybe even give them a suspect, but there’d been nothing. Cops eventually concluded that a device had been planted earlier and detonated by remote. They were still checking security feeds from nearby businesses, but I didn’t think they expected to find anything helpful.
“I know,” I said, still not looking at him. “But do you really think I had a clear head?”
Taking in a deep breath, I forced my gaze to meet his and found him watching me with an absolutely blank face.
“I’ll find out, you know,” he said in a flat tone. “She was my sister. We didn’t always get
along, but she was my baby sister, and I loved her. I’ll find out who is responsible. They’ll pay.”
I let some of the rage leak through as I stared him down. “If you find him before I get my hands on him, let me know. She was your sister, but she was my wife. I want a piece of him too.”
A piece of Cormac—and Marcos.
Although I wondered what in the hell Duardo would do when he realized his own fucking brother had been involved in killing his sister. Marcos was behind that bomb, I had no doubt about it. But instead of killing me, he’d inadvertently killed his own sister.
And he was going to pay for it.
Four
Tish
The sun was out, shining so bright, it almost hurt to look at the blue Oklahoma sky, especially with the snow that had fallen the day before.
I’d rather it be ugly, dull, and gray. It would match how I felt inside.
But even as I thought it, I heard my mom’s voice.
Wake up, sleepyhead…the sun is shining, and the sky is blue. It’s going to be a beautiful day.
No, Mama, I thought sadly. It wouldn’t be a beautiful day. I didn’t think any day could ever be beautiful again.
I sat on the bed of the hotel room where I’d been staying for the past week, miserable and empty. I was having a hard time imagining how anything might be beautiful ever again.
Next to me, my phone rang.
I knew who it was without looking and sighed, not wanting to talk to Wylie. After two more rings, it went to voicemail, then the chime for a text went off. I picked it up and skimmed the message.
I’m here. Do you want me to come up?
No. I definitely didn’t.
This cold, sterile hotel room was already small, and it felt even smaller with other people inside it. If he came in, it would be like the walls were closing in on me, and I couldn’t handle that.
Hurriedly, I texted him back.
