Two Feet Under: The Mortician's Daughter, Book 2

by C. C. Hunter

  “No we don’t.” And then, “Wow. You’ve been painting more. You’re great. Look at that.”

  It hits me that maybe I was wrong and Hayden is right. Talking about it could just hurt him more. I glance over at my work, seeing it from a distance for the first time. A sad feeling of déjà vu hits. “Mom painted the same one.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I remembered.”

  “Do you have any of her paintings?” The question is a quiet one, but it causes a big reaction in my mind.

  I jump up. “I don’t know. I mean, we had a bunch of paintings hanging in our old house. I’ve been wanting to hang some of them.” I suddenly smile. “They could be hers. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  He grins. “Because then you wouldn’t have a reason to think I’m so brilliant. And pay me back in kisses.”

  I lean in and kiss him. “I don’t need a reason to kiss you.”

  • • •

  “You want to go with me?” Waiting in the lunch line, I tell Kelsey about hanging flyers about a girl who needs an organ transplant.

  “How do you know her?” Kelsey asks.

  “I saw her picture in the paper.”

  “Okay.” But her tone’s heavy with afterthought.

  “Okay what?” I pay for my chicken fingers.

  “It’s just . . . strange that you’d get involved.” She hands the cashier her money. “But it’s admirable. My friend’s a crusader.”

  “Right,” I say. “So you wanna come? Crusade with me?”

  She bites down on her lip. “I can’t today. But tomorrow I will.” Kelsey tells me her mom finally made an appointment with a doctor. “We’re going this afternoon.”

  “You’re going with her?”

  “Yeah. I had to fight her to let me, but she gave in.”

  “So she’s made up her mind to . . . keep it?”

  Kelsey frowns. “She says she’s still weighing her options.” Kelsey’s tone says those options are weighing on her as well.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want her to keep it.”

  Kelsey and I have just set our lunch trays down when I see Jacob walking toward us. Jacob looking angry. He stops. “We need to talk,” he says.

  “About what?” I ask.

  “Talk in private.” His words, loaded with anger, come between clenched teeth.

  “Wow, talk about feeling like a third wheel,” Kelsey says.

  “Fine.” I stand up to go with him. But the seriousness in his voice says I’m not going to like this.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jacob asks me as soon as we walk out of the cafeteria, leaving the not-so-good smells and lunch noise behind us.

  Right outside the doors, he stops and glares at me. I’m sure this is about me going to see Hayden, but I’m not sure exactly what he’s implying.

  “I can’t go see him because he’s your friend?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not talking about Carter.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “Selina Rodgers told me you’re hanging out with the Free Bloods. Are you nuts?”

  I was so not expecting this. “I . . . I’m not . . .”

  “So she’s lying?”

  My first instinct is to be upset at Selina. But I know her intentions were good, not to cause trouble. But this is trouble. “No. I just . . . I know someone who had a brother in the gang, and he wanted to get a message to him.”

  “Carl?” His tone when he mentions my ex-boyfriend makes the name sound dirty.

  That’ll work. I don’t answer.

  “Now he’s putting your life in danger. He’s an idiot. And you’re . . . an idiot. I can’t believe I fell for an idiot!” His voice rises, and I feel a few curious eyes move our way.

  “I’m not going to see them again.” All of a sudden I feel the cold climb up my spine. I know we’re not alone, but I can only deal with one issue at a time.

  Jacob rakes a hand through his hair. “Do you know how many women get raped by them? Ask Selina. She just gave me the statistics. And guess what? They killed her twin brother, too. Stay away from them!”

  He leaves me in the atrium of the school entrance.

  I stand there in a bubble of embarrassment.

  “They didn’t do it,” a voice says beside me. And it’s the young guy who was in my car the other day. At least now I know who he is. Selina’s brother. “The Free Bloods didn’t kill me. She’s playing the blame game.”

  “Who did?” I ask, and just like that he disappears.

  I turn to leave, and when I do I almost run right into Selina. Her arms are folded tight as if she can feel her brother. Well, hell, how long has she been standing there? She’s got guilt tattooed all over her face, so probably long enough to see the shitstorm Jacob caused.

  Her gaze shifts away. I’m starting to walk when she speaks up. “I’m sorry. I . . . I thought he’d just mention it to you, not get bent out of shape.”

  I’m still on the cusp of being pissed at her, but her apology pulls me back.

  She continues. “I just don’t like thinking something could happen and it would be my fault because I told Rick about you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Nothing happened. And I asked you to do it.”

  “You don’t know what you’re up against. They’re dangerous. They killed my brother.”

  “Did you see it happen?” I ask, realizing this is my opportunity.

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know the gang did it?”

  “Because he said he was going to see our older brother. Try to convince him to get out.”

  “But you don’t know the gang did it. It could have been anyone. Stop playing the blame game.”

  She gasps and then blinks. “Why would you . . . ?”

  “What?”

  “My brother always said that.”

  “Said what?”

  “Playing the blame game.”

  Well, shit! “It’s just a saying.”

  Her eyes grow wide. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” I should go. Get the hell away before I screw up more.

  “Candace was freaking out the other day. I heard her tell Jamie that you . . . you could talk to dead people.”

  “Please. You don’t believe in ghosts?”

  “Yeah. I kind of do.”

  Freaking great! “I gotta go.”

  • • •

  After taping one of my last flyers to the bulletin board in a small hamburger shop, I realize I should’ve printed three times as many. After I explained what the flyers were about, businesses from dry cleaners to carpet-cleaning places were willing to post them. Several even taped it to their counters where people paid. I don’t know the odds of someone with AB blood seeing it and volunteering, but I can’t think about that now.

  It’s just like things with Hayden. I just have to believe that he’ll wake up soon and be okay.

  When I get back to my car, I remember that Dad has a copy machine in his office. I know he already left for Dallas, but surely Ms. Duarte would let me run some flyers off. After that, I need to go to the hospital, then I’m going home to open all the boxes and see if any of the paintings we had on our walls in Dallas were actually done by my mom.

  I almost asked Dad this morning before I left for school, but he was so anxious about packing, and about me being home by myself, that I offered him a reprieve.

  I drive straight to the funeral home. It isn’t until I walk through the door that I realize I might run into some other ghosts. And frankly, I’ve got too much on my plate to take on another one. Selina’s brother hasn’t shown up again. But my gut says he will. My gut says I’m going to be hunting down a murderer. But before I delve into that, I’m going to do everything I can to save Annie. Then there’s Hayden. He’s definitely top priority.

  The bell over the door rings, and I hear footsteps, tap tap tapping of high heels, moving down the hall to greet me.

&
nbsp; “Riley?” Ms. Duarte says. “It’s good to see you. I’m afraid your dad already left, but can I help you with anything?”

  I tell her about the flyers.

  “That’s so sweet of you. Of course you can use the copy machine. Do you want me to do it?”

  “No, I can do it. Thanks!”

  As I go down the hall to Dad’s office, I pass a funeral room that has a placard that reads Carlos Brooks. I remember the viewing is today.

  My chest grows heavy, remembering Dad saying he was worried no one would come. Is Mr. Brooks in there? Is he dealing with the thought that no one will mourn him? I push through the doors. It’s dark. It’s cold. But not dead cold.

  The casket at the back of the room is open. A light overhead spotlights the coffin. I only hesitate a second, then I move in, knowing Dad would have made Mr. Brooks look good.

  As crazy as it sounds, I kind of feel like his work on the bodies is his art. He takes pride in making them look good. Look like themselves. Look alive.

  I stop a few feet away. I was right. Dad did make him look good. Sunday-school good. Sunday-school teacher good.

  He’s wearing a suit and tie. Suddenly I recognize the tie. I press a hand to my lips. It’s one of Dad’s old ones. And I know he donated it. No matter how mad I get at Dad, I can’t deny he has a good heart.

  I also notice that the tattoo that ran up Mr. Brooks’ neck is covered. Knowing Mr. Brooks, I know he’d have wanted that. But I wonder how Dad would know that?

  I say a little prayer for Mr. Brooks, and for Annie, and then I head out.

  When I push the doors open, Ms. Duarte is standing there and jumps.

  “Oh, Riley. I thought you were in your father’s office.”

  “I was going there. I just . . . Dad mentioned he had a client who might not have anyone to come see them. I thought I’d pay my respects.”

  She smiles. “You’re just like your dad. Always thinking of other people. The funeral isn’t until tomorrow. I know he made tons of calls in the hopes of connecting with someone who knew him. He must have reached someone, because already one person showed up for the viewing.”

  “Other than me?” I ask.

  “Yes.” She waves to the book on the small table.

  I move over to it. And I almost gasp when I read the name. Ramon Velez.

  “Let me know if you need any help making copies,” Ms. Duarte says. “The machine needs a few minutes to wake up.”

  “Okay.” I stand there just a second and let myself hope that Ramon showing up here might mean he’s reconsidering.

  Then I head to Dad’s office. I start the copier and wait for it to warm up. I move over to his desk and realize the room smells like Dad. For the first time, I realize I’m going to miss him these next two days.

  The copy machine makes a chirping sound. I go to get up and when I do, I accidentally hit the trashcan with my foot.

  It makes a clinking sound like glass hitting metal. I look down. There’s a small garbage bag tied in a knot. An ugly thought hits. I reach down and untie the bag, praying I’m wrong.

  I’m not. Tears fill my eyes as my chest goes lumpy with hurt again.

  In the bag are four different bottles of alcohol. Four empty bottles.

  “Shit!” I say. “Why are you doing this to yourself, Dad?”

  • • •

  I leave the funeral home and go to the hospital. The clinking sound from the trashcan keeps echoing in my head. I try not to think about it and concentrate on the hospital visit. I’m hoping to run into both Hayden and Mr. Brooks. It’s not visiting hours, so I go to Annie’s room first. As I ride the elevator up, I pull my phone out and consider calling Dad. But to say what? Is this really a conversation I want to have over the phone? The elevator opens, and I walk out.

  I see Mrs. Nobles, Annie’s mom, and Annie walking down the hall. Beside them is Mr. Brooks. All three of them look up at the same time. Two of them look as if they’ve lost their best friends. Crazy how the least sad of the three is the sickest.

  “Riley.” Annie’s voice rings bigger and healthier than she looks. Her color is all wrong, yellow wrong. Even the white in her eyes carries the hue and makes the purple circles under her lower lashes more noticeable.

  When I get closer, a familiar comforting scent fills my airways. Hayden was just here. Mrs. Nobles moves in. “Are you putting out flyers about Annie?”

  “Yes.” I’m unsure how she knows, and suddenly unsure if I should have asked her before I did it. “I just thought—”

  She must read my emotions. “I’m thrilled. We’ve been so focused on social media we didn’t even think of doing it. How crazy is that? But I got a call from the owner of my dry cleaners asking if there was anything else they could do besides posting the flyer. They said a young woman was passing them out.”

  “I just printed off some more. I plan on going back out tomorrow and getting them posted.”

  “But there aren’t very many people with AB blood,” Annie says in a nonchalant tone she might use to report that the cafeteria is out of red Jell-O.

  “There are more than you think, and we only need one.” You can hear Mrs. Nobles’ soul grasping for faith in that one sentence.

  Mr. Brooks frowns. I meet his gaze, then shift my eyes to the elevator, hoping he understands I want to talk to him. I know the fact that his brother showed up at the funeral home doesn’t mean he’ll reconsider helping Annie, but at this point I’ll take what little hope we can find. And he looks as if he could use some, too. In fact, I wish I could tell Mrs. Nobles.

  “Can you come color with me?” Annie slips her small hand in mine.

  “Yeah, I have a few minutes.”

  We go back to her room, and Annie’s mom goes for coffee. Mr. Brooks stands way in the corner. His coldness still causes the temperature to drop, but it’s bearable.

  As I’m coloring an elephant with polka-dotted pants, Annie looks up. “How is your friend?”

  “My friend?”

  “The one that’s here in the hospital?”

  “How . . . ?” Then I remember telling her mom about Hayden. “He’s doing okay.”

  “He’s really nice,” she says.

  I stop moving the crayon on the page. “Yeah, he is.” I consider my next words. “You’ve met him?”

  “Uh huh. He said I’m going to be okay.”

  I smile, thinking of Hayden encouraging Annie.

  “He said that he loves you.” Annie grins and reaches over for a different crayon.

  “I love him, too.”

  Annie’s mom walks in. I hang out, color, and chat about Disney movies for about ten minutes. Then I hug everyone goodbye, give Mr. Brooks the nod to follow me, and I leave.

  When the elevator closes and it’s just me and Mr. Brooks, I ask. “Can Annie see Hayden?”

  He nods. “I think so. I can’t see him, but every now and then she talks as if someone is there.”

  “She talks to you, too, doesn’t she?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “That I love her. That I’m trying to help her. She somehow knows she can’t talk to me around her parents.”

  “She’s smart,” I say.

  “I know.” His voice catches. “She’s down to having just a few days again.”

  I tell him about his brother showing up at the funeral home.

  “Do you think he’s reconsidering?” Hope adds cadence to his question.

  “I don’t know. But it’s a possibility.”

  “Should we go see him again?”

  I considered it on the ride over here. “My gut says it might be better to let him contemplate it. We left the newspaper there. He knows how to reach out if he changes his mind.”

  “Yeah. Even as a kid, he never was one you could push. He’d think things through before making up his mind about things. It could take him fifteen minutes to figure out what pair of socks to wear.” His tone is both sad and reflective.


  Not knowing what to say, feeling a bit hopeless myself, I stare at the elevator doors. Mr. Brooks looks at me. “Is something else wrong?”

  “Nothing about Annie.”

  “Then what’s it about?” he asks.

  I almost say it’s fine, but I realize he’s just trying to help me the way I’m trying to help him. I skip my concern about Annie pulling through, and about Hayden, and tell him my other issue. “My dad.”

  “His drinking?”

  “So you’ve seen him?” I hug myself from Mr. Brooks’ cold.

  “He’s got a serious problem,” he says.

  “I know, but he refuses to see that, and I don’t know how to make him face it.”

  “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Every time you talk to him about it, he stops drinking for a while. He actually poured out two bottles of vodka at work the other day.”

  “He did?” I grasp for the hope that gives me.

  “Yeah. He brought another one the next day, but he wants to stop, Riley. I know it’s hard for you to see him like this. And coming from someone who was addicted to drugs, I can tell you it’s hard on him, too. I’m not saying to stop pushing him. You have to push. What I’m saying is don’t give up on him. And I know this might be hard to hear, but he’s gotta hit rock bottom before he’ll admit anything.”

  “That’s just it. He’s hit several times. He lost two jobs in the last two years. And what if the next hit on the bottom ends up killing him?”

  “Hopefully it won’t.” He pauses. “Has he ever tried counseling?”

  “Are you kidding? Dad doesn’t believe in talking things through. He’s the silent brooding type who believes words are a waste.”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “It’s just . . . when he drinks, he pulls out that wedding picture of him and I’m assuming your mom and just stares at it. I don’t think he ever got over losing her.”

  “I used to believe that, but now it almost seems like he’s angry at her.”

  “Anger is part of grief, believe me when I say I felt it in the beginning when I grieved my own death.”

  “Yeah, but it’s been almost fourteen years. How long before he moves past that?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe it’s not just grief? Maybe there’s more to your mom’s death than you think?”