Chapter One
I hate this suit.
Mom bought it two weeks ago, and I hated
it then. But she started with the whole please and for me and just this once
and I gave in. Because she knows my buttons.
Knew. She knew my buttons.
I hate the past tense.
I’m definitely not a suit guy. She knows
that.
Damn it.
She knew that, like she knew how I liked
my oatmeal and the reason my hair got too long and how I still don’t like to
sleep with my door closed even though eighteen is way too old to be afraid of
the dark. If she’d walked into a store to buy me clothes on a random day, she’d
walk out with the right things: T-shirts and hoodies and jeans and dark socks.
She knew the right kind of charcoal pencils and the right brand of sketchpad
and the right time to leave me alone.
The last time she bought me a suit was
for Homecoming sophomore year. I wasn’t a suit guy then either, but I’d worked
up the nerve to ask Anne Marie Lassiter and she’d said yes, so a suit it was.
I outgrew the girl before I outgrew the
suit.
Just this once.
Of all the things Mom said to me, that’s
the one that keeps echoing. Because it wasn’t once.
I’m on my third try with this stupid
tie, and I’m getting to the point where I just want to hang myself with it.
It’s yellow and navy, the colors of the ribbons on her wedding bouquet. The
colors of the bars on Stan’s police uniform.
Ironically, they’re the colors of the
bruises on your neck when you die of strangulation.
Trust me. I got a firsthand view.
Just this once.
My hands are shaking now, and I yank the
tie free and fling it on my dresser.
Stan knocks on the door and sticks his
head in without waiting.
He does that. I hate that.
I don’t hate him, though. Not yet,
anyway. I barely know the guy.
Stan probably figured he was hitting the
jackpot, marrying a single mom with an eighteen-year-old kid. Get the stepdad
brownie points without the work. At first I was worried that he’d be a pain in
the ass, being a cop and all. That whole gotta-be-the-bigger-man crap. But I
stayed out of his way, he stayed out of mine. He treated her well and made her
happy. Good enough for me.
He’s still standing there, looking at me
in the mirror.
“What?” I say.
“You about ready?”
I think about telling him I can’t get
the tie knotted, but then he’d offer to help me and this would be all kinds of
awkward.
This is already all kinds of awkward.
“Yeah,” I say.
He disappears from the doorway.
I ball up the tie and put it in my
pocket.
Stan doesn’t say anything during the
drive to the church. I don’t either. When he makes a turn, the click of the
signal makes my head pound.
It’s weird sitting in the front seat
with him. I should be in the back. Mom should be up front, providing a buffer
of conversation, asking me about school and graduation while simultaneously
asking Stan about cases he’s working on. Stan is a detective.
I wonder if it’s a blow to his ego, a
cop’s wife murdered in his own bed ten days after their wedding. Poor ol’ Stan,
the subject of police gossip.
God, I’m such a dick sometimes. Maybe I
do hate him. Words are trapped in my mouth, and I’m afraid to say any of them,
because they’ll explode out of me with enough force to wreck the car.
Why haven’t you done something?
Why couldn’t you protect her?
HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?!
Stan was at work when she died. I was in
my own bed.
I don’t know which is worse.
I didn’t hear anything. I found her when
I woke to use the bathroom.
Maybe I hate myself. Maybe I hate
everyone.
***
“You all right?”
I glance at Stan. His eyes are on the
road ahead, and his voice is quiet. I don’t know why he’s even asking. Of
course I’m not all right. “Fine,” I say.
He doesn’t ask anything else.
Mom would pry. She’d dig the secrets out
of me with the dexterity of an archaeologist, leaving my feelings intact while
letting the truth rise to the surface. Like I said, she knew my buttons.
Then again, Stan is a detective, so he
can probably do the same thing. Maybe he doesn’t want to pry.
The dead heat of summer gives me a big
wet kiss when I climb out of the car, reminding me why I don’t wear suits.
Reminding me that I probably should have gotten a haircut when she asked me. My
neck already feels damp, and I’m glad I didn’t mess with the tie.
I’ve never been to this church, a long,
squat brick building with a steeple at one end and an aluminum roof. Stained
glass windows glitter with the Stations of the Cross. Nice. Colorful depictions
of suffering and torture. Great place. I don’t know why we’re having the
funeral in a church anyway. Mom dragged me to church all the time when I was a
kid, but we haven’t gone in years. Maybe she and Stan went. I don’t know.
Cops are everywhere. Clustered in groups
clinging to the shade along the side of the building, off by the parking lot
grabbing a quick smoke, slapping Stan on the shoulder. They ignore me. Good.
Sort of.
The atmosphere is wrong here. There’s no
sense of loss, no anguish and grief. I feel like I’m trapped in a glass box
with my own twisting emotions, watching everyone else at a social event.
It’s infuriating.
I don’t know anyone except Stan. I’m
sure I met a few of these people at the wedding, but it was a small ceremony at
the courthouse, and no one stands out. Mom’s two friends from back home called
to tell me they couldn’t get time off again, couldn’t make the drive out for
the second time in two weeks. I said fine, whatever. The only thing worse than
being here alone would be mom’s friends treating me like a six-year-old who
can’t get a straw into a juice box.
Everyone is standing in groups. Only one
other guy is across the parking lot, standing under a tree. He’s not in
uniform, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a cop. He’s built like one. He looks
like he’s texting. Must really be feeling the loss.
He feels me watching him, because his
eyes lift from his phone.
I look away before he can catch my gaze,
then pull into the shade myself. It doesn’t help. Part of me wants to put a
fist through this brick wall. Another part wants to run from here, to pretend
none of this is happening.
Suspicious glances keep flicking my way,
as if I’m the oddball here, instead of all the people who don’t even know the
woman they’re supposed to be mourning.
Maybe it’s just me. Cops make me
nervous. Always have. Maybe it’s a teenager thing, the way they always look at
you like you’re on the cusp of doing something wrong. Maybe it’s the year Mom
and I spent avoiding the law because Daddy was a very bad man, and we couldn’t
risk any kind of trouble.
Maybe it’s the interrogation I had to
sit through after finding Mom’s body.
***
I don’t know what I’m doing here. When
we moved in with Stan, I left my friends three hours away. Now we’re way on the
south side of Salisbury, in the middle of nowhere, at this frigging church with
death scenes embedded in the walls and a bazillion cops who are all here for
him, not her. I yank at the collar of my shirt and feel someone watching me.
At first I think of the guy with the
cell phone, but when I glance across the parking lot, he’s gone. It’s a girl in
a purple dress. She stands with an older woman, and by older I mean that
there’s a chance her wrinkled skin might give up the fight and slide the rest
of the way down her body. Ol’ Wrinkly is wearing an honest-to-god navy blue hat
with a veil. She looks emotional while she talks to Stan, dabbing at her eyes
with a tissue.
What a joke. If she knew my mother, she
didn’t know her well. I’ve never seen her before.
I’ve never seen the girl before either,
but since she’s looking at me, I look back at her. She’s got to be about my
age. Thick, curly caramel hair, skin too pale for summertime, dark framed
glasses, curves in all the right places. She’d be a challenge to sketch,
because the tiny waist and the curves would make her look like a superhero
comic, especially with that rack.
I jerk my eyes away. I shouldn’t be
checking out a girl at my mother’s funeral. Mom would cuff me on the neck and
tell me to behave myself.
But the girl peels away from the
overwrought woman and heads my way. She’s wearing high-heeled sandals, and she
stumbles a bit on the crooked pavement. The movement makes her hair sway, and
she brushes it out of her eyes. I’m staring.
Then she’s in front of me, holding out a
hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
I shake her hand, and it feels too
formal, like I’m meeting a college recruiter. But I can play this game because
it’s better than thinking about my mother rotting inside a wooden box. “We
haven’t.”
“I’m Charlotte.”
“I’m Thomas.”
She doesn’t let go of my hand. “Tom?”
She could call me Princess Sparklepants
if she wants. I couldn’t care less about my name at this point. “Whatever.”
She finally releases my hand. Her
expression says she’s picked up on some of my tension. “Thomas, then. How do
you know Stan? Is one of your parents on the force?”
Of course she thinks I’m here for him.
No one in this place knows Mom.
I have to clear my throat, because my
answer will embarrass this girl, but it’s not like I can lie about it. “He
married my mother.”
Her face goes more pale, if that’s
possible. I don’t like that. It reminds me of another pale face, which makes me
start thinking about bruised necks again.
“It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s
not. I try to keep the anger out of my voice, because she doesn’t deserve it. I
don’t even know what good it’s doing me. My voice comes out all gravelly. “I’ve
only lived here a few weeks. I don’t know anyone.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says softly.
What am I supposed to say to that? I
don’t even know this girl. I find myself shrugging before realizing that makes
me look indifferent. People are watching me again. The attention weighs on my
shoulders. Do they know who I am, or are they wondering like Charlotte? Which
would be better?
I’ve been quiet too long. My jaw feels
tight. She reaches for my hand again. Her fingers are small and gentle and soft
against my palm, such a contrast to the businesslike formality of her
handshake. “You don’t need to stand here by yourself. Come meet my family—”
“I’m fine.” I hold fast, jerking my hand
away from her. I can keep it together here, alone, by the wall, but I can’t
take a dozen strangers talking at me.
“Okay,” she says softly.
I take a long breath, then blow it out
through my teeth.
“Sorry,” I grit out.
We stand there in silence for a moment.
“Do you want me to get Stan?” she
finally asks quietly. “You don’t seem . . .”
Her voice trails off, and I frown. “I
don’t seem what?”
Again, my tone is rougher than she
deserves, and she licks her lips, recalculating. Her spine straightens, but she
doesn’t move away. “You don’t seem like you should be alone right now.”
Stan is thirty feet away, talking to two
other guys in uniform. They’re doing the guy version of sympathy, clapping him
on the shoulder.
I knew her longer, I want to shout.
Mom would shush me and tell me to be
more respectful. I don’t miss her yet. It doesn’t even feel like she’s dead. It
feels like she’s on vacation or something. I keep thinking I need to store all
these thoughts and memories for later, when she gets back.
I look back at Charlotte. “No. Leave
him.”
“Is anyone else here for you?”
I laugh humorlessly. “None of this is
for me. I feel like I’m crashing a stranger’s funeral.” I sound like an angry
freak, and I rub my hands down my face. “I don’t know anyone.”
Now I just sound pathetic.
“Is that your tie?” she says suddenly,
and I realize she’s looking at my pocket. “Too hot?”
“I couldn’t tie it,” I admit without
thinking, and then I feel like a real moron. What kind of guy can’t tie a tie?
And then brings it with him, like he’s waiting for someone to get around to
helping? I glance away, embarrassed. “She bought me the suit. Made a big deal
about matching it—”
I have to stop talking. Pathetic has
reached a new level. I want the anger back. Anger was better than this tight,
choking feeling in my throat.
Charlotte tugs it out of my pocket and
threads it between her fingers. “May I?”
It takes me a moment to figure out what
she’s talking about. She’s too short to get the tie around my neck without my
cooperation. I could refuse. I could grab the tie and shove it back in my
pocket and send her scurrying back to her people.
But it’s a needed distraction, and I
find myself ducking down, letting her loop it over my head, enjoying the soft
feel of her fingers as she tucks it below the collar of my shirt. She’s close,
and I catch her scent, something clean and citrusy.
***
“People are staring,” I murmur.
“Let them stare.”
“Is this a service you provide?” I say,
intending to tease, but my voice is too broken for that.
But she’s kind, so she takes the bait
and runs with it. Her eyes are on the knot as she threads the fabric.
“Absolutely. Tying ties, buttoning jackets . . . you should see me pin on a
flower.”
I almost smile, but then her hands make
the final loop. Satin slides against cotton, and then the knot hits my neck. Quick
and sudden and tight. I can’t breathe.
I jerk the fabric out of her hand
without thinking. My movement is too sudden. She stumbles back, catching
herself against the wall.
I gasp, pulling at the knot of fabric.
It’s barely tight, but I can’t stop myself.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” I choke out. This is
insane. I need to get it together. The knot finally gives an inch. Air can’t
seem to make it into my lungs. “It’s not even tight.”
I suck in a breath and sound like an asthmatic.
I run a hand down my face. This is not getting it together.
“You all right, Char?”
It’s another cop in dress uniform,
talking to Charlotte but looking at me like I’m a purse snatcher or something.
No, looking at me like I’m a murderer.
This guy’s young, not much older than I
am. His hair is military short, almost blond, and his eyes are just looking for
trouble. I swear to god he’s holding his hand near his gun, and I’m tempted to
fake him out, just to see if he’d pull it. Knowing my luck, he’d shoot me.
Right this instant, I’d welcome it.
“I’m fine, Danny,” Charlotte says. “This
is Thomas. Stan’s new—”
“I know who he is.” Of course he does.
Everyone in uniform probably does. I’m sure some of them still think I did it.
But Danny takes the edge off by putting a hand out. “I’m sorry about your
mother.”
I shake his hand. “Thanks.”
His grip is solid, almost too tight. He
doesn’t let go, and I can tell he’d hold fast if I tried to pull free. “You
want to tell me why you put your hands on my little sister?”
Oh. Now I get it.
Charlotte is looking worriedly between
the two of us. “It’s fine, Danny—he didn’t touch me.”
“I saw him shove you.” His grip
tightens. “You’d better watch yourself.”
His tone grates against my nerves and
reminds me why I don’t like cops.
“He didn’t shove me,” Charlotte says.
“Watch myself?” I say to him. “It’s my
mother’s funeral.”
He gives a little laugh, and he lets go
of my hand, somehow making it feel like a shove. “Yeah, you look really broken
up about it, taking the time to rough up a girl.”
My hands are in fists again, anger
weaving its way through the less aggressive emotions. This narrow stretch of
shade has turned too hot, almost stifling. I can smell my own sweat. I hate
this suit.
Danny’s watching me, his eyes almost
predatory. I’ve gotten in my share of scrapes, and I can read the signs.
Dangerous potential rides the air. He wants to hit me.
My mother’s voice is like a whisper in
my head. Behave yourself, Tommy.
I force my hands to loosen. Danny’s
right, in a way. I did shove her. I shouldn’t have put my hands on her. Someone
spends five minutes being kind, and I act like a caged animal. It takes a lot
of effort to back down. “Sorry,” I say, turning away from them. “I didn’t mean
to cause a problem.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to find my
sister dead in her bed. Get me?”
Something snaps inside of me. Anger
splits into fury. My fist swings.
I’m strong, and years of being the new
kid taught me how to throw a punch. It’s stupid, and reckless, and my mother’s
voice is screaming in the back of my skull.
Tommy! He is a police officer!
It sucks that he’s a cop, too, because
he knows how to deflect a punch. He catches my arm and slams me into the wall
of the church. My hand is pinned behind my back and I inhale brick dust. The
tie drags on the bricks, too, pulling tight against my neck.
I am such an idiot.
He’s enjoying this. We’re the center of
attention now. He’s probably hoping I’ll fight him so he can continue playing
the badass.
I don’t want to fight him. This is her
funeral. Her funeral. My throat is tight and my eyes are hot. Reason catches up
with action and I’m swimming in a special blend of humiliation and shame.
I will not start crying right now. I
will not.
Charlotte is smacking her brother, it
sounds like. “Danny! Danny, stop it! What is wrong with you?”
Hot breath finds my neck, followed by a
little shove. The bricks scrape at my skin. I expect him to hold me here, to
suffer the judgmental stares of the crowd that I can hear gathering.
Or maybe he’ll tell Stan to keep me in
line, or something equally demeaning.
Instead, he speaks low, just to me. “Did
you get off on it? Think about it in the shower this morning? All hot and
bothered for killing your mother?”
Rage flares, hot and painful, blinding
me with fury. I jerk back, trying to break his hold, knowing it’s futile.
But suddenly I’m free. My head is
buzzing, and he’s on the ground, yelling. Clutching his head. Charlotte is
standing back, glancing between me and him, her breath quick.
Did I hit him? What just happened?
Before I can get it together, a hand
falls on my shoulder, pushing me back against the wall. I feel metal against my
wrist.
I freeze. Another one of these jerkoffs
is cuffing me and talking about assault on a police officer.
Now Danny’s on his feet, talking about
resisting arrest. He grabs my arm and drags me away from the wall. The crowd
grows.
We’re heading for a police car.
I’m going to miss the funeral.
Assassin's Heart (Assassin's Heart #1)
Sarah Ahiers is working towards an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults and lives in Minnesota with three dogs and a house full of critters. She has a collection of steampunk hats and when she’s not writing she fills her time with good games, good food, good friends and good family.
