Page 28 of The Dearly Departed

I’m an adult, I reminded myself. He can’t do shit to me now.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t try. And I can’t forget about Ike. He’s only sixteen.

Gerald was still waiting for me as I headed toward the viewing room. His snakelike lips curved into a smile as he pointed his finger in my direction, as if to remind me I'd agreed to talk with him.

I wished he'd forgotten.

With pitchers in hand, I excused myself through the gathering of family and friends, all mourning Ronny Malloy. His wife thanked me. I forced a cordial smile on my way out of the room, and I almost made my escape when Whitney stopped me yet again.

"Where is Leonard?" she asked once more, her arms still crossed, pressed tightly to her chest.

"I promise I will have him speak to you the second he comes—"

"No, you will give me his phone number right now," she said, uncrossing her arms and revealing the phone she had in her hand. "I am going to call him—"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm not supposed to give out his personal—"

"Do not ma'am me," she interrupted, her voice low and angry. "My mother might be okay with this place allowing children to conduct their services, but I'm not. And I will not—"

"Hey, hey, hey."

Panicked, I turned to watch as Gerald Crowley approached with his outstretched hands.

He smiled salaciously at Whitney. "What's going on over here?"

Her frown deepened as she assessed his disheveled appearance and asked, "Who are you?"

"This boy is my son," he said, placing his hand on my arm.

I shook away from his touch.

Whitney's eyes bounced from him to me, then back again as she asked, "So, you know Leonard?"

"Ah, yeah, Leo. Sure, I know Leo."

Hearing his name come from my father's vile mouth was nearly enough for bubbling, boiling, and searing rage to paint my vision red.

Leonard was good. He was gracious, generous, and wonderful.

Everything my father wasn't.

"Is there any way for you to contact him? It's imperative that I speak to him right now."

He laid his hand on her shoulder, massaging a bit with his fingertips. "And why is that, honey?" His voice dripped with understanding and concern, but his eyes …

There was one thing on his mind when he looked at the bereaved daughter of Ronny Malloy, and he made no secret about it as his gaze fell to the deep valley between her breasts, peeking out from the collar of her black top.

"I'm sure that whatever's wrong here, we can work something out," he went on, taking a step closer.

I shot my hand out, grabbing his arm and wrenching his grasp from her shoulder.

"Excuse us, ma’am," I muttered, pulling my father down the hallway toward Leonard's office.

"Young man! Where are you going?!" she shouted after me, but I heard nothing else from behind the door as I slammed it shut.

I was screwing up, and Leonard would be disappointed when Whitney finally gave him an earful about what had gone on here tonight. But he'd have to forgive me this time.

With the door shut, I turned to my father. His back was facing me, his hands on his hips as he looked around Leonard’s office. There wasn’t much to swipe in here, not much was worth anything—unless you counted the antique furniture, but it wouldn’t be an easy feat to smuggle a huge desk out of here, unnoticed. But I wouldn’t put it past my father to tuck a stapler in his pants, if only to get a few bucks on the streets for it later. Anything to make a buck and get his fix.