by J. L. Brown
A long and winding highway, PCH hugged the California coastline along the Pacific Ocean.
Her dad usually drove. How could he lose control of a vehicle? He mastered everything. Her mind raced.
“Why were they there?” she said.
Max was still talking, “… another set of tire tracks.”
“Excuse me?”
“The police think it was a hit and run.”
Not fully comprehending, she said, “Someone hit them on purpose?”
“Not necessarily. Possibly.”
A quiet hysteria was building inside her.
“How do you know this? Why didn’t the police call me?”
He hesitated. “I have contacts.”
“But—never mind. Where are they?” She grabbed her car keys out of her backpack. “I need to see them.”
“Jade,” he said gently, “there’s nothing left to see.”
*
A light rain fell on the trees—oak, maple, magnolia, dogwood—some almost 250 years old, planted before the first burials of American servicemen. Flowers and miniature flags were centered in front of each of the countless headstones.
The hallowed grounds of Arlington National Cemetery.
The honor guard pointed their rifles at the sky. Volleyed shots boomed into the air. One. Two. Three times.
Jade didn’t flinch.
Normally, she held a strong affinity for the military. Its symbolism. Tradition.
Not today.
As an only child and next of kin, she sat in the place of honor. Enormous wreaths stood at the head of the two brown caskets arranged side by side: her mother’s draped with flowers, her father’s, a grand American flag.
She didn’t take her eyes off them.
Mourners surrounded her. Friends of her parents from all the military bases where her father had been stationed. Her mother’s friends and coworkers. Men in dark suits and sunglasses who, she assumed, worked with her dad.
Zoe wept uncontrollably in the chair next to her. Jade patted her hand.
She would deal with her own grief in private.
She hadn’t cried as the horse-drawn carriages brought her parents to their final resting place. She didn’t cry now as the bugler played the woeful sound of Taps, honoring the extinguishment of her parents’ lives.
The chaplain, someone Jade didn’t know, made some forgettable remarks about her parents—people he’d never met.
The Harrington family had not belonged to a church.
The honor guard lifted the flag from her father’s casket, folded it, and passed it to the officer in charge with the efficiency and precision of a robotic assembly line.
As if they’d had a lot of practice.
The officer bent down to Jade and handed her the flag, stars up, and whispered words of gratitude for her father’s service and sacrifice.
Afterward, Max came up to where she now stood.
He stared down at the caskets. “Your parents meant a great deal to me.”
“Anything new on their killer?”
“We don’t know definitively that it was murder.”
“What would you call it?”
“It could have been an accident.”
She eyed him. “Do you think it was an accident?”
He looked back at her. “No.”
“Neither do I.”
“You’re observant,” he said, almost to himself. “You’re good at sports. At everything.”
“I wasn’t a bad shot either.”
“I remember.” Hands in his trench coat pockets, he scanned the surroundings. “After your playing days are over, maybe you should think about a career in criminal justice.”
“Maybe I will.”
He glanced over at Zoe, standing several yards away without an umbrella, her makeup leaving multicolored tracks down her cheeks.
“You’re going to be late for the repast.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“It’s not about the food,” he said. “It’s about the fellowship.”
“I’m not really hungry for that either.”
“You might be surprised.”
“Then why aren’t you going?”
He half-smiled. “I have to get back to work. Serial killer in Indiana.”
“Thanks for coming,” Jade said, knowing that’s what her mother would have said.
“Of course.” Max reached out and squeezed her arm briefly. “Call me if you need me.”
She nodded.
He started to walk away.
“Hey!” she called out after him.
He took a few steps back to her. “Yes?”
“Will you do something for me, Max?”
“Sure.”
“Find out who did this?” She gestured at her parents’ caskets. “Find out who did this.”
*
A two-day break for the holidays. Jade was due back at campus by December 23 for practice to prepare for a basketball tournament in Las Vegas. Zoe had asked her if she wanted to come to her parents’ house in Marin County, though reminding Jade that her hippy parents smoked weed. And that Jade might have to sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor.
Jade declined.
Aside from a brief visit right after her parents’ deaths, Jade hadn’t been home since. Parked on the living room couch in front of the television, she devoured a medium-size pizza with everything, not really watching Will & Grace. She normally laughed at that show.
It was weird being here without them, and the holidays made an empty house feel emptier.
Her eyes landed on the glass coffee table, which they’d brought back from Japan. Sometimes she would help her dad move the table into the hallway, and the three of them would dance around the living room. Sixties, seventies, eighties, or nineties music—it didn’t matter. They loved to dance and would do so for an entire evening with abandon.
She remembered when her parents slow danced to Luther Vandross, her mother’s head resting against her father’s chest, as Luther sang about holding you tight, if only for one night. Jade would sit cross-legged in front of the huge stereo cabinet, chin on fists, and watch them.
She could tell by the way they stared into each other’s eyes that they were still in love. And happy.
Now, Jade moved to the cabinet—also brought back from Japan—and crouched down to look at the albums, most of them still sheathed in plastic to preserve their covers.
She thumbed through them until she arrived at the Vs. It wasn’t hard to find; her mother had arranged them in alphabetical order.
Selecting The Night I Fell in Love, she stared at Luther’s face. She removed the record from its sleeve, and as she did, a single sheet of paper fell slowly to the carpet.
A sheet of her mother’s stationery.
With a slight tremor, she recognized her mother’s elegant cursive handwriting. The letter read:
Jade,
If you’re reading this, something has probably happened to us. Please know that we love you and always will. If you need anything, call Max. You can trust him. We know you have an inquisitive mind. Do not try to find out what happened. It could be dangerous. Let us go. You will always be our princess.
Love,
Mom & Dad
THE END
About the Author
J. L. Brown is the author of the Jade Harrington novels, Don’t Speak and Rule of Law. Brown lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest, where she is working on the third book in the series.
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Thank you for reading Few Are Chosen.
<
br /> Acknowledgements
Many thanks to:
My amazing editor: Christina Tinling.
My proofreader: Michael Manahan.
My writing companion: Fitzgerald, my cat.
My wonderful wife, manager, and editor: Audi, whose love and support are invaluable. Always.
My readers who read and supported Don’t Speak and Rule of Law and, now, Few Are Chosen. Thank you for allowing Jade into your lives.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Few Are Chosen © 2017 by Julie L. Brown
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America.
For information address JAB Press, P.O. Box 9462, Seattle, WA 98109.
Cover Design by Damonza
ISBN 978-0-9969772-5-8 (ebook)
First Edition: November 2017
