Page 99 of Pretty Lies

He really wasn’t fucking offended.

She was a pretty thing.

But damaged.

A minute after she headed inside the place, someone else came out.

“God grant me the strength,” came a grunt to Cory’s left.

He found Della’s father stepping out from the white doors leading inside the funeral home. It welcomed people into a modernly—but comforting—decorated reception area. To the right were the offices. Off to the left, people had to walk through another set of doors—this time, black—to enter the chapel where a majority of the wakes took place when families didn’t want them at the church or at home. To the rear of the business was where people were directed for planning, to view samples, or for other needs.

For most of the morning, Frankie stayed with his wife and daughter. Cory wasn’t exactly surprised to see the man outside, though. Everybody needed a break occasionally when it came to this sort of thing.

“Smoke?” Cory asked.

Della’s father looked like he could use something. Since Cory didn’t have any liquor—or a better kind of smoke—on him at the moment, he figured a cigarette would be just as good. Frankie must have agreed considering he took a smoke from the pack Cory offered and then his silver Zippo to light it with.

“Grazie,” Frankie muttered, pulling hard from the cigarette. “Casket is next—should be the last thing before we can call it a day.”

“Long process,” Cory noted.

“Hard on the heart, mostly.”

Yeah, he bet.

Although Frankie did well to hide it, Cory knew this entire thing had to be particularly hard on the man. Not only had he lost the son he raised, but the subsequent breakdown his wife suffered certainly didn’t help when piled on top of the fact the Outfit’s boss was now demanding the man restructure his entire business to make things streamlined and easier for everyone involved. It was a lot to handle all at once.

Cory’s main job was Della. He also didn’t mind helping elsewhere. When he could, of course.

“You need something?” he asked the Capo.

Frankie shook his head at first. “Nah, I think I’m okay, kid.”

Cory chuffed, but he wasn’t offended. “You sure? Starbucks right down the road. All that pumpkin spice shit Della goes stupid over was on the menu. I could grab something until we have lunch.”

“They would like that, wouldn’t they?”

“And you know, there’s nothing like black coffee to remember what’s really important.”

Frankie let out a laugh. “You make a good point. You don’t mind?”

“Things are quiet. It’s not going to hurt if I run down the block for ten minutes.”

Depending on what the drive-thru looked like now.

Frankie glanced over his shoulder; the cigarette burning between his fingertips now had a lump of long, red coal at the tip and was a quarter of the way gone. He didn’t waste any time, and already, the guy looked like he wanted to get back to his wife. Just beyond the glass, Cory found the woman in question sitting in one chair of many lined up against the wall with a pack of what appeared to be bookmarks in her lap.

“Never understood the point of those damn death memorials—I don’t want to remember this,” Frankie said under his breath. “Worst days of my fucking life.”

Cory didn’t think the man meant for him to reply, and so he didn’t. He kept his attention on the window of the door, and the people he could see behind it from his position. Back near the hallway leading to the back, Della stood with her friend.

He couldn’t see Jennika.

Or the conversation, really.

Just his girl’s black dress.

Black until we bury him, she told him that morning when she picked out the outfit. Nothing else will do.