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A small gasp escapes her as Rhea draws up to the side of the coffin, placing a hand on the polished walnut. She looks like she’s about to faint, her face pale and her eyes distant. I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze, steadying her, calming her, maybe. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, just what I’m not supposed to do.
We hadn’t been allowed this process with our mother when she passed. “Her wishes were clear,” My father had said. “She wanted to be cremated.”
Whether or not that was true, I’m still not sure. But I am sure that we’d been told she was gone just moments before men showed up at the door and whisked her away beneath a white sheet. We didn’t see her body, we didn’t get her ashes, and there was no funeral. If I had my way, my father wouldn’t have one either, but I can’t deny that right to my sister.
When I gather the courage to look down at his cold face, it feels like someone has sucked all the oxygen out of the room. Jonathan Boudreaux is, in death, nowhere near as fearsome as I’d found him to be my whole life.
He is, however, still cold, empty, and soulless.
Chapter eight
Claire
I’m burning. From guilt, from fever, from the punishment of whatever ring of Hell I’ve been taken to. Fire eats at my skin, blisters my organs, turns my soul black with its smoke.
And then the barest relief washes over me, like I’ve been thrown in the ocean.
My eyes fly open, and I try to sit up, drawing a deep breath of air that lets water into my lungs. I cough, my body crumpling in half, until I think I’ll hack up a lung. A hand on my back smacks against my skin, helping clear the water I sucked in, and once I’m finally able to breathe air, I realize I’m looking into Elaine’s soft brown eyes. “You’re okay.” She promises. I think she’s promised that a couple of times, actually, but this is the first time it has really registered.
I look around me at the bathroom, my clothes laying in a pile on the ground like they’ve been thrown there in a hurry. My eyes flit down to my body, submerged in a tub of ice-cold water with nothing but a soaking wet towel draped over me. “You undressed me?” I say, too weak for the accusation to come out like the demand for answers I want.
Even to me, it’s weak and feckless. My teeth chatter together violently. Where a moment ago I’d been burning, now I’m surely freezing to death. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen.” She laughs, but it’s tense. “You were burning up. If a fever gets too high for too long, it can cause brain damage. I don’t know how long you were out before I found you.”
I close my eyes, letting her words settle over me like another layer of ice, though she spoke warmly, like she was concerned. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I mutter, more to myself than to her. I don’t expect an answer at all, honestly.
“I think you must have an infection,” she says quietly. “But we’ll find out for sure in just a bit. The doctor is on her way here now. She should be here any minute.”
“Doctor?” I try to stand, but my legs are insubstantial, rendering me unable to move. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“Of course, you do.” She pushes me back with a gentle hand, and I slip against the porcelain, coming to rest up o my neck in the water. “If only we’d taken you to the hospital when you first came back, this wouldn’t have happened.” She shakes her head and mutters something, but I don’t bother trying to decipher what it is.
I close my eyes, resolving that I have no energy to fight her, and when I open them again, it’s like time has passed. I don’t know if it was seconds or minutes, but now there is another middle-aged woman leaning over me. The scent of jasmine threatens to drown me, making my head spin. I focus on the pin on her coat, a triangle surrounded by a circle with three gemstones set in it. She and Elaine talk while I focus on not slipping under the water, and every once in a while, her cool hands run over my skin in innocent gestures, offering me some small comfort.
“Your fever is coming down well, Claire.” The doctor smiles. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
I rise with their help, clutching the sopping wet towel against me to preserve whatever dignity I still have, which is about none, and lean against Elaine as I step one foot out of the tub, and then the other. “I’ll wipe up the floor later.” She mutters, her eyes flitting to the water dripping on the wood.
“Close your eyes.” I tell them as we approach the bed. The doctor smiles like she’s trying to hide a laugh, and Elaine shakes her head, but they both oblige long enough for me to drop the towel and slip into a dry robe.
“Okay,” I tell them when I’m safely in the bed. “You can open your eyes.”
Elaine scoops up the towel and takes it to the bathroom. The doctor focuses on me, smiling softly. Suddenly I feel like a child; It should feel patronizing, but it’s oddly comforting. “I heard you have a pretty nasty cut. Can I take a look?”
Chapter nine
Remy
I abandoned the illusion of being a good person a long time ago when I chose to be complicit in my family’s dark holdings rather than take the chance that my loved ones would be hurt. I chose safety over the greater good, and while I work to undo the damage that I did by keeping their secrets, I also know that doesn’t make me a good guy. At best, some might call me morally ambiguous. If there’s anything after this life, it will be Hell for me, and I’ve made my peace with that.
But as I sit at my father’s funeral, drowning out the incessant monologuing about what a great and powerful man he was, I realize I may be more of a dick than I thought. The clock drags by as each person who claims to have had some sort of relationship with the horrible old man stands up and delivers remarks colored to make it seem like the world is a little bit darker because of his death.
I know the truth, though, which is that the world is a little safer now. At least, the people I love are a little safer without my father lording over me, using their well-being to pull my strings.
When it all finally ends and we have to line up to receive condolences, I pray—for the first time since I was a child—for an end to come. I could care less if the church bursts into flames at this point if it will get everyone out of here.
But the building doesn’t combust, so I stand next to Rhea and shake hands with the mile of people who come to us with their solemn faces and tell me they’re sorry for my loss. My sister gives hugs to every one of them, even though she can’t possibly know all of these people, and accepts their apologies as if that will really make her feel any better. She doesn’t know that our father’s death is no loss. In fact, it guarantees her safety a little while longer.
I’ve learned to get through the unpleasant stuff by disconnecting. Sometimes it’s as simple as flipping a switch, pulling a cord from the wall. It’s how I got through his verbal abuse as a child and it’s how I got through each one of those awful auctions I had to watch in an attempt to outbid other men for the freedom of strangers. It’s how I can pull a trigger or plunge a knife into someone, ending one life to preserve another. I’ve gotten so good at it that nobody usually notices that I’ve stepped out of my own consciousness.
