Page 90 of The Dearly Departed

The least I could do was save his family business.

"I'll take care of it," I muttered.

Shawn laughed, the sound abrupt and sardonic. "Oh, yeah? How? How are you gonna find that much money to keep that place afloat?”

The weight on my shoulders grew a little heavier, as I knew the blood on my hands would spill over, its depths increasing more and more until I was drowning in it.

"You let me worry about that," I said, taking a drink and washing down the incessant need to scream.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

By the time I was done creating a new head for Brandon Michaelson, whatever was left of my sanity had disappeared like the crushed portion of his skull. And although his body now looked the way it had in life, I no longer recognized myself in the mirror on my way out the door once the funeral home went dark for the night.

How could I be capable of doing such good for some people while also being capable of committing evil to others in the darkest hours of the night? I thought about it as I climbed behind the wheel of the hearse, and I continued thinking as I steered through the quiet streets until I reached Seint Row in Hollow Cove.

I didn’t want to step foot in that house for any reason, let alone of my own accord. But if I was going to ensure the safety of my brothers and the business Leonard had left to the three of us, then I needed to make sure that, financially, they would be taken care of after I was gone—and whether that meant death or prison, it didn’t matter. I just needed to know they’d be okay, even if I wasn’t.

The mansion stood at the conclusion to a dead-end road, coming into view as I made my quick approach, speeding down the dark and barely lit Seint Row. Cold dread crept beneath my skin, worming in and out of my pores until it was affixed to my body like a tattoo. It made a home inside my gut, and the urge to vomit crashed against me in turbulent waves.

One day, I thought, I'll be used to this feeling.

I'm not supposed to get used to it.

I'm supposed to listen and run away. In fact, I should turn around and disappear right now.

But despite the sensibility in my head, I pulled on the mask and kept going until I was turning into the driveway, stopping the hearse at the mansion's foyer entrance.

Dean was already waiting.

"We didn't call you," Dean said as I climbed out and slammed the door shut.

"Are you ever not here?"

The corner of his mouth twitched as I approached, but he didn't allow himself to smile.

"I do go home," he answered, clasping his hands at his waist.

"Well, you certainly had me fooled," I said, brushing past him and crossing the threshold.

He closed the door behind us and said, "My hours are unconventional."

"Clearly."

He stood before me and asked, "What can I do for you, sir?"

I turned to face Dean and mimicked his stance. "I'd like a word with your boss."

He nodded. "I'll see if he's available. Please"—he gestured with a sweep of his arm toward the adjacent room—"have a seat and make yourself comfortable."

With a curt nod, I did as he’d suggested and left the foyer to sit on one of the antique sofas while he headed upstairs.

I fidgeted for a few moments, my impatience growing more and more aggressive by the second. I didn't appreciate wasting time, and this felt an awful lot like that, when I seriously doubted that Dean didn't know whether Gerald was available or not.

He knew, I thought suspiciously, my eyes trained on a painting from across the room. He just didn't know if Gerald would want to talk to me or not.

And why wouldn't good ol' Dad want to talk to me? The guy had tried to yank me into his circles for years, and now that he finally had me, he still seemed to want to keep me at somewhat of an arm's distance.

Why is that, Gerry? I thought, my eyes on the painting of what I assumed to be the Massachusetts shoreline at dusk.