“No,” I said. It was a lie. I did feel abandoned and took the only way out I had. But I couldn’t put that on Ally.
“Did it hurt?” Ally said. “They said you died of smoke inhalation.”
“No,” I said. Another lie. But I didn’t want to hurt her.
Then I asked her the last question I had in my remaining time. “How did you find me?”
Ally pushed her hair behind her ears. “My senior year at SIUC, I had a class with Chelsea Whitehead. Do you remember her?”
I didn’t. Ally shook her head like it didn’t matter. “Anyway, she asked me if it was true, except I had no idea what she meant until she told me she’d heard a rumor that you weren’t dead that you were”—and this is where Ally used air quotes and a valley-girl voice—“Like, one of those gross undead girls, or whatever.”
I laughed.
“She remembered us hanging out in high school and I guess she thought I’d know. So, that’s what started my quest. It took me some time to track you down. I finally found you in Nashville. My God, I was so nervous when I showed up at the office that day.”
I sat up straighter. “How nervous?”
Ally wet her lips. “I walked into the office with this whole speech in my head, and there you were, trying to do fifteen things at once.”
Yeah, I was a wreck in my pre-assistant days. Brinkley and I had just moved to Nashville.
He’d given me the office, but no real idea how to run it. Worse, I’d just lost my biggest source of support, Rachel. “I think I was vacuuming, making coffee, answering a phone call and trying to file something at the same time.”
Ally smiled. “Something ridiculous like that.”
“You didn’t have the somber, shell shocked look of a client so I just blurted out, “Please tell me you’re here to interview for the assistant’s position.”
I’d made up the position on the spot out of sheer desperation. I had to pay Ally out of pocket for a week before I convinced Brinkley to write it off.
Ally nodded, her eyes widening with recognition. “Yes, and that’s what threw me. I was set to apologize and then you didn’t recognize me. And you were all witty and happy. It took me a minute to realize you’d forgotten everything and then I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.”
“I’m really sorry for forgetting,” I told her.
“It was almost nice,” she said. “Like everything was back to normal. We had a chance to start over.”
The officer took my receiver and put it in its cradle before I could say anything else.
“You’ve exceeded your visitation time,” he said and pulled me away before I could even wave goodbye.
Someone banged against the glass. The guard stopped.
It was Garrison. He looked hot from running. He must have hustled over here to catch the tail end of my visitation. Garrison showed his badge and credentials to the guard and was granted extra time.
I used this opportunity to polish off the last of the chocolate, prying it from the guard’s hand. I grinned hoping that little rebellion wouldn’t cost me later.
He sank into the seat opposite mine and lifted the phone. “We don’t have much time.”
“What’s going on?” I asked. Seeing him like this made my heart race.
“I was counting on a certain person’s name coming up in court, but it seems that money has changed hands.”
I was lost. “I don’t understand.”
“Just listen,” he said, still out of breath. He opened a large envelope and pulled out several pictures. Pressing them against the glass, he pointed to each one to make me look at it. “You told me you saw a picture hanging in one of the rooms you investigated the night you found Ally.”
“Yeah, the guy from my mother’s funeral, Mr. Reeves,” I said. “I assumed he was a church donor.”
“Is he in any of these photographs?” He shuffled the pictures when I asked him to.
I tapped the glass. “That’s him.”
He removed the other photographs so only Mr. Reeves face remained pressed to the glass.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
I shrugged. “That’s Mr. Reeves.”
“This is a picture of Caldwell, one of four Unified Leaders of the Church. He was elected to run the North American division and represent all of its regional needs. His three co-leaders run its worldwide affiliates and are single-handedly responsible for ‘upon-death-head-severance’ practiced in developing nations.”
I looked at the picture again. “But he said his name was Reeves, not Caldwell.”
“That’s not important,” he pushed. “What matters is that you say you saw this man at your mother’s funeral.”
I gestured at the picture again. “He said he knew my parents a long time ago.”
He hesitated. “He didn’t look familiar to you?”
It surprised me to hear him say that. “Yeah, but if he’s the head guy, then he’s been on television, tabloids and all that. He’d look familiar. Or if I met him when I was little.”
He paused and I had no idea what he was waiting for. “What?”
Garrison hesitated as if he wanted to say something more. “Are you aware that your grandmother’s maiden name was Reeves?”
“Grandmother who?” I asked. I didn’t remember any grandmother.
“Your father’s mother,” he said.
“So you want me to believe that this random guy at my mother’s funeral was someone related to my father’s mother?” I asked. “He’d have to be a million years old.”
He gave me another moment to come up with a more logical explanation.
Slowly, very slowly, pieces fell into place. If Mr. Reeves was really Caldwell, Garrison said my father was a high-ranking Church official and Caldwell was at my mother’s funeral…Click, click, click.
“Holy shit.” I sucked air. “You think Mr. Reeves—Caldwell is my—grandfather?”
Garrison looked as though he wanted to hit his head against the glass.
“I’m having a hell of a time finding any old photographs of your father for comparison, but it seems that Caldwell might very well be Eric Sullivan.”
When I didn’t immediately blink or move he was forced to repeat himself.
“Ms. Sullivan, I believe your father is the head of the Unified Church.”
Chapter 27
I was in the closet, crying. Cliché, I know, but when I’d slipped into the black dress for Lane’s funeral, I’d spotted a shoe on the floor. The hospital had lost yet another, no surprise there. Something about seeing the shoe by itself, all alone, and the fact Lane had just given me this pair—I lost it. Gloria found me in the closet. Her face was a mask of sympathy as she knelt beside me. The clank of dishes beyond her meant Ally was still in the kitchen, preparing for the guests.
“I made lasagna, garlic bread and tiramisu for you,” Gloria said, softly. “A lot of butter.”
I didn’t want to go to Lane’s funeral. I didn’t care if she had a whole meal planned for all of us to eat beforehand. I didn’t care about anything, but this shoe and how lonely it looked. I choked out a response. “I’m not hungry.”
“Jesse, you have to eat something,” she whispered, cooing into my ear as she stroked my hair away from my face. My face was a sticky mess of snot and tears. “You can’t skip meals. You’ll make yourself sick.”
She sat beside me on the closet floor. She moved a pair of dangling pants away from her face and pulled me in close to her so that my head rested rather awkwardly against her large breasts.
I kept picturing Lane in his blue shirt, my favorite, the same ocean-blue of his eyes. Lane coming to my house at 2:00 a.m. with Chinese food. Lane asleep beside me when I woke up from zombie-dom. Lane who carried me when I was sore. Lane who baked me cakes with funny icing pictures. Lane, feet kicked up on the coffee table, asleep with the television still on. Winston, a fawn-colored roll of fluff on his chest as they both snored, who I could tell had entered a room by the sheer smell of him
. Lane who let me be demanding and whiny every moment of everyday and still made me feel adorable. Beautiful. Wanted.
Lane.
“I can’t replace him.” I wrung the shoe between my hands like a wet washcloth.
“And that’s the sad truth,” she said. “You can’t replace everyone.”
My chest hurt from heaving sobs. I doubled over trying to drag fresh air into my lungs. I just couldn’t catch my breath. I managed a strained “It’s-all-my-fault” in between choking.
“No,” she said. “If there is someone to blame it’s me.”
So here we were in my closet, both blaming ourselves. How useful.
With my chest pressed against the flat surface of my knees, I drew my first long, steady breath. The doorbell rang. I lifted myself slowly from her arms and stood without looking at her because I knew it’d just make me cry some more. I adjusted my dress with shaking hands and cleaned my face with a tissue from a box on my desk. I placed the shoe on my bed, unwilling to leave it alone in the closet and went downstairs to answer the door. I would have stayed in the closet forever, but with Gloria there it wasn’t the same.
Kyra stood on the porch in her clean, pressed coat, soft brown curls wild, holding a bottle of wine. Umbri, who held a bottle of tequila, had exchanged her usual grungy, punk look for nice black slacks and a white buttoned up shirt.
“Oh honey,” they said, encircling me in their arms before even getting out of the doorway. I fought the urge to fall apart again, leading them with a half-hearted wave into the kitchen.
“My God, something smells amazing,” Kyra said.
“Look at that cake!” Umbri said. She reached forward and finger-swiped the tiramisu before Ally could swat her hand.
“You went all out,” Kyra said to Ally. She hung her coat on the back of her chair.
“Gloria did most of the cooking,” Ally admitted, counting plates.
It was an impressive spread with cloth napkins and my good dishes. Sweet tea and water pitchers sat on the table with lemons in the glasses, big bowls of salad and bread beside them. The tiramisu sat elevated and looked impressive on a pedestal of its own, with globs of icing and chocolate shrivels around the edges. Sunset basked the kitchen in a soft, orange glow.
“Who else is coming?” Ally asked.
“Just us. Cindy couldn’t make it,” Gloria said. “And Kirk has a funeral.”
I went around the room, counting us. With Gloria, Ally, Kyra, and Umbri that made only five. Our party was depressingly thin. “Who’s the sixth plate for?”
“Garrison said he may stop by,” Ally said, taking the seat beside me.
“Why would the cop come?” Umbri asked with her mouth full. “He sent you to jail.”
“Federal agent,” Ally corrected her. “And no, he didn’t.”
“Garrison is the one that helped her get out of trouble,” Kyra said, throwing her coat over the back of her chair. “He is the one that proved Jesse didn’t kill Nessa and that what happened in the barn seven years ago was self-defense. Everything they tried to pin on her, Garrison squashed it.”
“Just a year of probation,” I said, knocking a crouton off my plate. Ally nudged me gently, trying to get me to at least eat the tiramisu. “The judge said it was to encourage me to stay out of trouble.”
Everyone laughed. Why was that funny?
Everyone else was well into their salad and bread when the oven dinged, and Gloria removed a huge dish of lasagna from the oven. She sat the glass dish on a pot holder and cut through the melty cheese in one steaming slice. I continued to push salad around on my plate.
“I thought you were going to have to pay that huge fine,” Umbri said. She had so much food in her mouth that her cheeks bulged on either side.
“The fine was waived,” Ally said.
“Garrison did that,” Kyra said willing to take up the fight again. “Garrison.”
“If Bobkins had his way, I’d go to prison indefinitely.” I took a drink of tea, something to distract me from the full dinner plate churning my stomach. Before I could set the glass down, the doorbell rang again.
“It’s probably him,” I said, standing. “I’ll get it.”
It wasn’t Garrison—but it was enough to stop my heart.
Brinkley, my supposedly dead handler, stood on the porch, looking like his usual demanding self. Yet I barely noticed him holding Winston to his chest, cradled like a baby on account that my eyes fixated on just one thing.
Lane.
Lane stood beside him on my porch in a gorgeous suit tailored to his body, perfect down to sparkly cufflinks and shiny shoes. His hair was cut, expertly styled, and in his arms he held a large bouquet of sunflowers, tulips and pink-purple roses. I’d never seen him grin so big.
“Oh my god,” I said. “First angels and now ghosts.”
“If I come back from the dead, I’ve got to come back looking great, don’t I?” he said.
It wasn’t until I heard this narcissistic assessment that I realized it really was Lane.
“But you—” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Are you—”
“Statistically, speaking,” Brinkley broke in, keeping his voice low. “Everyone’s met at least two Necronites who are unaware of their NRD condition.”
“Are you a Necronite too?” I asked him. Winston, now on his feet and within smelling distance of the feast, waddled past my feet into the kitchen.
“No, just lucky,” Brinkley answered. “And that agent Garrison is a good man who can keep a secret.”
“So what the hell was in your coffin?” I demanded to know.
Brinkley only smiled.
Lane couldn’t wait any longer. He crossed the threshold completely and lifted me up into his arms. My feet came off the floor as he squeezed me against his neck. The smell of him was just enough to make me start crying again.
“Aren’t you coming in?” I asked Brinkley over Lane’s shoulder.
“I’ll meet you in the back,” Brinkley said. “I’m dead, remember?”
Lane gently placed me on my feet and shut the door. My reaction was nothing compared to the faces around the dinner table. Everyone’s mouth hung open as we came into the kitchen. Ally, who’d been pouring a glass of tea at the time, was now pouring half the pitcher into Umbri’s lap.
“Hey!” Umbri yelped.
“I’m sorry,” Ally said absentmindedly, and handed Kyra the towel.
“My funeral’s been cancelled for obvious reasons,” Lane said. “But everyone looks great.”
A general murmur of disbelief circled the table. Kyra flashed me a double thumbs-up and I just knew she saw his newfound condition as another reason why I should be with Lane. My senses were coming back to me. The flowers Lane gave me still wrapped in cellophane hung limply at my side. Then I pointed the bouquet accusingly at him.
“You’ve been gone almost two weeks. With stab wounds like that, you would’ve been dead two days tops and that’s only if he’d managed to cut up some important organs,” I said.
Lane slid in amongst the guests, not hesitating to make himself a plate. “Post-death evaluations and new status processing take forever. Surely you remember how lengthy death-replacement agent enlistment is. The interviews, the paperwork. Garrison’s doing, by the way. He says Nashville is understaffed and could use me.”
“So you let me think you were dead this whole time?” I said. “You couldn’t pick up a phone and call me?”
“With rigor mortis, no, and you never told me how horribly painful that is. You complained, but Jesus, you were underplaying it,” he said and leaned over the table for a piece of garlic bread. “And what is it with women and getting a phone call?”
I smacked him with the flowers, raining petals everywhere, and sending the garlic bread en route to his mouth sailing through the air. Someone gasped.
“How could you?” I said, tears streaming. “How could you just walk in here and pretend like it’s fine?” More flower bashing. “Nessa is dead. She’l
l never wake up and you come in making jokes.”
He came up cradling his jaw with a fire in his eyes that most men get when hit by a girl. Men don’t, at least on a biological level, like a subverted patriarchy. Like that was going to stop me.
“If I had a gun I’d shoot you in the heart and when you wake up from that I bet your ass, you’d call.” I absolutely meant this threat. To drive it home, I smacked him with the bouquet a few times more calling him everything from motherf-ing d-bag to son of a b. Kyra turned as white as the table cloth.
Lane’s face was red and he had a cut on his cheek when I finished. But his voice was soft. “I’m sorry. I would have called you if I could.”
I threw my destroyed flowers on the floor.
“I need some air,” I said and excused myself.
Gabriel appeared against the back door, watching us. I barely flinched. I was getting scary good at not reacting to his sudden appearances. He was scratching his wing, raining little feathers onto the floor. Did he have lice or something? Why must he always groom himself? I couldn’t exit unless I walked through him, so I had to pretend he wasn’t there. I was glad that he didn’t choose that moment to turn solid.
The back deck now lit up with little tiki-torches to give an island-at-night glow. Gabriel followed me in that creepy immaterial way of his. I offered Brinkley a lawn chair. He preferred to lean against the deck railing and I did the same. The air was cooling fast, curling itself around my bare legs. It would be winter soon enough.
“Let me guess. You really do have NRD but just never told me,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I don’t have NRD. Only a trusted few know I survived and we have to keep it that way. Of course, that won’t stop you from telling Alice.”
“Probably not.”
I moved further away from the door so that Brinkley would be hidden from view. “What’s to be gained by faking your death?”
Brinkley leaned over the rail and took a moment to think about what he said. “This situation with Martin using prostitutes to kill replacement agents, it is just the beginning. I’ve known since St. Louis that something is wrong. I knew by the sloppy way the FBRD handled those murders in Atlanta.”
Dying for a Living (A Jesse Sullivan Novel) Page 24
