Page 124 of The Dearly Departed

"A few minutes for what?"

He shrugged and took a few steps backward, back toward the house, as he said, "To pretend you have what you want.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It’s a nice day for a wedding.

The thought crossed my mind as I slipped a cigarette between my lips, filling my lungs with smoke before sending it out swirling toward the parking lot.

My heart ached at the realization that, in just a few hours, Analise would be walking down the aisle toward another man—against her will or not—and I wished I had someone to talk to. Someone who could talk back. For maybe the first time in my life, I needed advice. I needed help.

“I miss you,” I sent out into the universe, hoping the message would reach my old friend, wherever he was. Hoping he’d want to hear from me, no matter how damned my soul was at this point.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. At first, I thought it was the burner, but I quickly remembered that, no, this time, he was going to message my personal phone, and I pulled it out in time for Ike to step onto the porch with a cup of coffee in his hand.

Sure enough, it was Dean.

"Who's that?" Ike asked, glancing over as he sipped from his mug.

"Spam," I muttered, my eyes fixated on the address printed on my screen.

I copied and pasted it into the browser on my phone, finding it was for Crocker Park, a little scenic spot along the harbor coastline in Marblehead.

Then another text came through, containing a single word: gazebo.

"Spam again?"

I looked at my younger brother, who was watching me from over the brim of his mug. Suspicion was set heavily in his accusing glare … or maybe I was just paranoid, seeing only what I wanted to see.

"Yeah," I replied, tucking the phone back into my pocket before taking a drag.

He nodded, then said, "Got a date tonight with this chick I met last weekend. Gonna meet her at the bar right over here." He gestured with his mug down the street. "Probably gonna bring her back later, so … you know … if you hear shit goin' down, plug your ears."

"Noted," I muttered.

"And, hey, if you want, I can ask if she's got a friend who might be interested in your creepy ass."

I shook my head. "I’m good, but thanks for the offer.”

"Yeah? So, when was the last time you got laid?"

I huffed a chuckle, the memory of Virginia handcuffing me to the bed just the night before springing to mind. I willed my gag reflex to steady as I muttered, "I don't know. It’s been a while."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he said, taking another sip of coffee. "Is there a reason, or you just figure, Ah, I'm pushin' forty, so I might as well go celibate?"

"I don’t want that casual shit," I replied, casting my gaze toward the parking lot. “You know that.”

"Fuck, bro, don’t knock it before you try it," he said. "Man, why the hell would you want to settle for the same pussy every night when you could sample a little bit of this, a little bit of that, whenever you wanted?"

"I didn't say I wanted to settle for anything." I shrugged, filling my lungs with smoke. Then, with my chest tight, I added, "I'm just not into the idea of contracting every venereal disease under the sun either."

"Venereal disease," Ike mocked with a snort. "You wanna give me a lecture about using protection too?” He wagged his finger as he said in a womanly, high-pitched voice, “Don’t forget to wrap it up, Isaac.”

He laughed, the sound teetering toward hysteria.

I loved my brother. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him. But I also cared for him enough to admit there was something not right about him. A few screws loose, if you would, and I thought about what Brody Mathers had said about me being a psychopath. It could’ve been true. For all I knew, it was. But if I were a psychopath, then I didn’t know what that would make Ike.

Something worse—I knew that much—but what was worse than a psychopath?