by Skyla Madi
Brayden opened the door to the garage as Mikey switched the engine off. His son smiled—another reason to be thankful.
“Hey, Dad,” Brayden said, yawning.
Mikey dismounted his Harley. “Hi. Getting kind of late, don’t you think?”
“I’m not tired and I’ve been waiting to play that game on your phone. You promised me I could play it when you got home.”
“Where’s your phone?” Mikey asked, reaching in the pocket of his leather jacket.
“I don’t have that game on mine.”
Mikey sighed. “Here you go.” He handed his cell to Brayden; he couldn’t say ‘no’ to him this week.
The younger Hardin’s face lit up. Mikey followed him into the house. Brayden went straight to his room.
“I want that back in a half hour,” he called to his son.
“Okay. It won’t take long.” His bedroom door swung shut.
He plopped down on the couch.
Andrea looked up from the book she was reading. “You all right?”
“Yeah. I guess.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “What am I going to do? My life is falling apart.”
“Why is your life falling apart? I thought you’d be happy.” She changed her course when he raised his eyebrows. “I mean, not about Brayden losing his mother, that’s horrible, but about having more time with him. Not having to worry about losing him or sending him back to his mother.”
Mikey kicked his boots off. “Yep…it’s fantastic. Who’s going to watch him while I’m working? During school, that’s not as big an issue, but right now…and Grace dumped my ass. Although I deserved it.”
“I can help you out with Bray until you can make other arrangements. Believe me, I don’t mind. I wanted to cut back my hours at Cocoa anyway.” Andrea earmarked the page she was reading and tossed her book on the coffee table. He eyed the cover. Pictured on the front was a musclebound man in a kilt and a woman with a loose bodice and waves of dark hair. “What’s this about Grace?”
“I lied to her.”
Andrea settled back in the chair. “About?”
“Brad didn’t tell you?”
“He told me some things. Said you were arrested in connection with those murdered women.” She chuckled. “Gimme a break, as if you’d kill anyone.”
“Cynthia told the police I might have something to do with it. Both murders.”
“Are you moonlighting?”
“Not me, but someone is.”
Andrea laughed, although it wasn’t that funny.
“To be honest, I’m starting to get a lot worried. Like, who in my life is next?”
She leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“I knew the victims. Oh, God. This is the worse fucking—God.”
“Who was the guy who attacked Grace? You think he had anything to do with the murders?”
“Shit. Yeah, it’s got to be him, but no one can find the guy.” He needed to make a phone call. “Brayden! I need to use my phone. Bring it here.” His son’s bedroom door creaked open and footsteps shuffled over the carpet.
Brayden sidled up to the couch and handed Mikey his phone then slunk away.
Mikey scrolled through the recent calls. “Bray…shit.” He brought up Hunter’s number. The call went directly to voice mail. He skipped any pretenses when he left a message. “Wanted to give you an update about the day, uh, Chelsea Rand was at my shop you asked about. Cody Pollard was also there that day. Thought there may be a connection or something. I dunno. Wanna help.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Mikey
On the morning of Cynthia’s funeral, Mikey overslept. Father and son stayed up way past the point of exhaustion. Brayden had decided he needed to get all his crying done beforehand. The alarm clock had been set, but he’d hit snooze half a dozen times. At 9:35 AM, Marie called as Mikey emerged from the shower.
“Hello, Marie, sorry, I—”
“Where are you? You were supposed to pick me up twenty minutes ago.”
“I’m running late. I’ll be there.”
She sighed. “You know I wanted to get to the funeral home early before all the people got there.”
What other people?
The obituary had only run in the previous day’s paper and he doubted there’d be a lot of attendees.
“I apologize. Brayden had a bad night.”
“Aw—just get here.” The woman, in fact, may have a soft spot for her grandchild only, though not her dead daughter. This was evident in the purchasing of the cheaper coffin. Marie Dove could certainly afford the more expensive casket.
“I’ll be there as quickly as I—”
Click.
Mikey held the phone away from his ear and continued to talk at it. “It’s only a couple minutes from the hotel.” He tossed his iPhone onto his bed. The suit he put on was the only one he owned and was purchased for the last funeral he attended, three years ago.
Brayden knocked on the door.
“Hold on a minute. Did you put on the clothes I laid out for you?”
“Uh huh. We have to go. Grandma’s probably already waiting for us.” The door creaked open and Brayden shuffled into the bedroom. He rubbed his puffy eyes.
Mikey observed his son’s posture. The usual energy level Brayden displayed was absent. “Ready?”
“I guess,” Brayden said, wrapping his arms around his father’s waist. Mikey squeezed him back.
“Let’s go.”
Get this over with.
Mikey’s left knee bounced the entire ride over to Marie’s hotel. She was standing with her hands on her hips in the Embassy Suites lobby when they arrived. Although, she was shorter than him, she was still able to look down her nose at him by raising her chin. Her dyed hair and makeup were flawlessly done. For a woman in her sixties, Marie still had a youthful appearance from a distance. Up close…not so much.
“About time. I can’t believe you’re making us late to my own daughter’s funeral,” Marie said loud enough for several other hotel guests to hear.
Mikey wanted to hide. Sweat rolled down his temple. His face flushed. “Let’s get going then,” he muttered. God, he dreaded today.
They settled in the car. On the short ride, Brayden remained quiet and stared out the window. Marie made a point not to keep silent.
“How long does it take to get there?”
“The same amount of time it did Tuesday morning.”
Marie covered her chest with her hand. “Well, excuse me, you don’t have to be smart.”
Mikey glanced at her. “I wasn’t.” He was. The light turned red ahead of them and he stopped short. He checked on Brayden in the rear view mirror. His son jerked forward, but still continued looking out the window.
“Have you written the eulogy?” She fanned herself even though the A/C blasted cold air.
Eulogy? Are you out of your mind?
“I’m sorry?”
Marie sighed. “For Brandon’s sake.”
“Brayden. And no, I didn’t write a eulogy.”
“You prepared nothing? You should have prepared something.”
“Why didn’t you?” He flipped on his turn signal.
“Well, I’m her mother.” Her well-I-never tone suggested she thought what he said was outrageous.
“All the more reason. You were closer to her than me. We were divorced, remember?”
“You could still say a few nice things about her.”
I could, but they’d be lies.
He exhaled through his nose. “Marie, it’s best I don’t.”
Mikey made the final turn into the Rose and Son’s Funeral Home parking lot at five minutes to ten. Five cars were parked, one of which was the hearse.
“Did they run the obituary? They must not have put it in the paper. I’ll have to have a word with Mr. Rose. There should be more people here. Don’t you think?” Marie said.
“It ran,” he told her. “It’s not quite ten and not everyone comes to the viewing.” Mik
ey got out of the car, went around, and held Brayden’s hand.
Inside the mortuary, there proved to be even fewer guests than the five cars suggested. Even Mikey felt badly about the low turnout. Cynthia hadn’t remarried and her family all lived out of state. Why in the world would Marie be surprised so few people were there? She should be happy anyone showed up at all. He considered ducking into the restroom to call Brad and Andrea and bribing them to come.
His eyes went round as plates when he saw the open casket at the other end of the room. He’d been told Cynthia’s head had been bashed on the tile in her bathroom. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.
Brayden tugged on his jacket. “Dad…can we go up…there? I wanna see her.”
God. No.
“Sure, but why are you whispering?”
“I thought I was supposed to.”
“You can talk in a normal voice,” Mikey told him as they walked toward the casket. The march up the aisle was the longest trek of his life. Only a few rows of chairs lined either side of the aisle. A couple of wooden chairs clattered together when he tripped over his own feet and nearly fell. Brayden gaped at him.
“I’m all right.”
Next to the casket on a pedestal lay the peace lily bouquet for Brayden to put inside the coffin. The arrangement of pink roses Marie had insisted on covered almost the entire half of the gray box. A wreath with a banner that read, ‘Mother’, sat on an easel to the right.
Mikey looked everywhere he could except at Cynthia. However, Brayden gripped the lip of the coffin and peered at his mother.
“Are you sure this is Mom? This doesn’t look like Mom.”
The question forced Mikey to look at her. He could only take quick glances at the body. Brayden was right. Cynthia had looked better, and not because she was dead either. Her head seemed to be resting too low and the pillow had been fluffed in a bid to raise it. Heavy makeup was slathered on her face, likely to cover bruising. Great effort and care had gone into concealing a gash on her forehead, but the skin was split, making the attempt futile.
“What happened to her head? And why does she have so much makeup on?” Brayden asked.
“I’m not sure. Sometimes people don’t look the same when they’re dead. The funeral home does the best they can.”
“Well, they didn’t do a very good job.”
The voices of several new arrivals carried from the back of the room. Mikey took the opportunity to focus his eyes someplace other than his ex-wife’s dead body. He recognized a few of Cynthia’s friends and their husbands and a couple of people he didn’t know. They were likely co-workers since they appeared to be dressed more for an office than a funeral.
“Dad, do you think Mom died because you got divorced?”
Mikey glanced down at his son, who still stared at his mother. “Divorces don’t cause people to die.”
“I know that. I meant if you were together, would she have died?” Brayden removed his hands from the coffin and stepped backward.
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Brayden took a deep breath. “If you were at home with her, maybe she wouldn’t have been murdered.”
“What? Where did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” He glanced up.
“That your mother was murdered?” The last word came out as a whisper.
“Grace told me—oh, I shouldn’t have—she let it slip. She didn’t mean to tell me.”
Terrific.
He’d planned to tell his son what happened eventually; he didn’t want him getting scared.
Mikey ran his hands through his hair. “When did you talk to her?”
“I didn’t…” his son looked away, “it was before…”
He cocked his head to the side. “Brayden? Tell me the truth. When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“I didn’t call her, honest.”
“I know you’re lying.”
“I know. Sorry. Are you mad?”
The worry in his son’s eyes broke his heart and he melted. Mikey tilted his head back and sighed. “No.” He’d be angry if everything wasn’t so depressing; his son’s mother had died, Grace left him, and Cynthia’s mother was more concerned about the cost of the funeral than her daughter’s murder. Not once had the woman mentioned the subject.
He heard Marie squawk from the back of the room but ignored her. Mikey wanted this time alone with his son.
“Bray, see the flowers on the little table over there?” He pointed at the peace lilies. “Those are for you to place next to your mom. They were her favorite.”
Brayden retrieved the bouquet. “You remembered. I thought you forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
Shit.
“No, I remember, Mom’s wedding bouquet had peace lilies.”
Brayden smiled. “Uh huh. Can I put them next to her now?”
“You can do anything you want.”
His son’s face brightened.
“Let me clarify, most anything. At least today,” Mikey told him. He sensed Marie lurking nearby.
Brayden edged closer to the body with his father shadowing him. “Where should I put them, Dad?”
Mikey dared a glance into the coffin. “I think—”
“Her hands. We could put them in her hands.” Brayden looked up at Mikey, hopeful.
“I don’t know. I don’t think we can—”
“We can do that,” Mr. Rose chimed in from behind them. Brayden smiled despite his red-rimmed eyes. Mikey flattened his lips into a thin line. His son’s face startled him. He’d failed to notice his son had been crying. He felt like a selfish ass.
Mr. Rose asked them to step back while he pulled a gold velvet drape around the casket. “This should only take a few minutes,” he said discreetly.
Mikey pivoted and found Marie speaking in hushed tones to Detective Harry Hunter. What was he doing here? Harry nodded at him; Mikey shook his head and rolled his eyes. He thought about going over and asking him if he was proud of himself, however, that wouldn’t accomplish anything and was beyond inappropriate. He decided to insult him in another way and ambled over.
“You could’ve bought a new suit.”
Harry looked down at himself. “What’s wrong with my suit?”
Marie gave Mikey a dirty look. Brayden looked back and forth from his father to the detective.
“What are you doing here, Detective?”
“Paying my respects to the family.”
“All right. In some small way I appreciate that. Even if you do have an ulterior motive.”
Harry chuckled low in the back of his throat. “Can I speak to you privately for a moment? I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“Sure why not? I’m not doing anything right now. Nothing at all.” Mikey motioned out in the hallway back toward the restrooms.
The detective spoke quietly and without sincerity, “Sorry for your loss.”
Mikey closed and opened his eyes like a dragon, slowly. “Let’s skip the bullshit pretenses. What do you want?”
“Got your message.” Hunter took out a tiny black notebook with a half-size pen attached to the side.
“And this couldn’t wait till after, oh I don’t know, the funeral?”
Harry got ready to ask a question when Brayden walked up behind him.
“Bray, this is a private conversation.”
“Who are you?” his son asked Hunter.
“My name’s Harry—”
“Harry is Grace’s father.” Mikey got a gleam in his eye as an idea hit him.
Take that Detective.
“Really?” Brayden eyes widened and he flashed a shy smile. “Did she come with you?”
“Um, no, she—uh, I’m sorry, she’s not here.”
Mikey thought messing with the cop would make him feel better. Instead, he wanted to hammer a nail into his brain to match the one in his gut.
“Oh.” The kid looked at the floor. “I thought at least maybe, she’d com
e to my mom’s funeral. I know Dad isn’t seeing her anymore, but I thought she’d wanna be here. She said she’d think about it.”
Disappointment laced his son’s words. Misty tears formed in Mikey’s eyes. The expression on Hunter’s face fell too.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Grace
Grace sat at Natalie’s kitchen table tapping her foot. The smell of garlic and oregano filled the room. She glanced at the clock on the microwave. “Shit.”
Natalie looked up from the pot of her homemade spaghetti sauce she was stirring on the stove. “Haven’t you punished yourself enough, Grace? Just go to the funeral.”
“That’s a bad idea. If I go, I’ll only take him back and end up hating myself for giving in. He lied to me.”
Natalie covered her sauce with a lid and laid the spoon on a paper towel. “Are you serious? You didn’t tell him your father’s a cop.”
“That’s not the point. I only withheld the information. I was going to tell him. Eventually.”
“And didn’t he only ‘withhold information’ like you did?”
“Not the same thing.” Grace stared at the table. Natalie had a point but she wasn’t ready to admit the woman was right.
Natalie put her hands on her hips. “Oh my God. It’s exactly the same, whether you want to believe it or not.”
Grace sucked in a breath. “I wish things weren’t so difficult all the time.”
“They’re not. You just make them that way.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Steam rose from the pot when Natalie raised the lid and stirred her sauce again. “Your father went up there.”
Grace’s jaw dropped and she laid her palms on the table. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He went on police business. But I don’t think that was the real reason. I think he wanted to talk to Mikey. See if he is the man he thinks he is, or isn’t.”
Grace’s brows snapped together. “What does that mean?”
Natalie shrugged. “I think it means he feels guilty.” She turned a knob on the stove and put down her wooden spoon.
