STERLING
22 MONTHS EARLIER
A fat raindroplands on my colorless diamond cufflink as I step forward. I close my fist around dirt, scooping it up, before hovering my hand over the open hole in the ground. The earth around it is unmoving. Too hard to drive a shovel through. They would have needed to use a machine to dig.
It’s all wrong.
The casket lies six feet beneath the sodden grass of the depressing graveyard. A place devoid of laughter.Of life.
He’d have damn well hated it here.
So wouldshe.
I stare into the hole, the bleak, gray sky, and biting winter air barely registering. The last time I felt anything was weeks ago.
Rain hammers down onto the brass plaque mounted in the center of the lid. A lid that remained closed throughout the ceremony.
“Too badly burned… I’m sorry.”
I uncurl my fingers and the dark earth falls, splattering over the shining wood with an ominous staccato, like tiny bullets penetrating flesh.
“I love you, Son,” I whisper.
A sob.
My daughter, Sinclair, is being held up next to me on trembling legs. Her knuckles are white where she’s gripping my eldest son’s jacket for support.My only son now.
He gives me a terse nod, his eyes shining, as he wraps an arm around his sister and whispers into her hair. She nods in response, before a fresh wave of tears wrack her thin frame. She’s not old enough to legally drink, yet she’s burying her mother and brother today. It breaks what’s left of my shattered heart to see my little girl so overcome with grief that she can’t bring herself to eat.
The priest stands between the freshly dug side-by-side graves. “Take all the time you need, Mr. Beaufort.”
“Thank you.”
I signal to Denver, my head of security, and he subtly alerts his team to begin steering the mourners toward the line of black cars waiting to take them to the hotel where the after service is being held.
Women huddle beneath umbrellas, pressing handkerchiefs to their eyes while they talk in hushed tones about how much they loved my wife, Elaina. About how beautiful she was. How kind. What an amazing mother she was.
I recognize many of them. But their black coats and heels all start to blur into one, swallowed up by a sea of young men in suits. All fit and muscular. All adrenaline junkies, living life on the edge. Just like my youngest son did. Before death stole him from us.
Stole them both in the cruelest way.
They say death by fire is one of the most painful ways to die. That a person can still be alive for ninety seconds while their flesh is melted from their bones.
“I’m sorry you can’t see him… There isn’t…”
The coroner didn’t have to say the words. I knew what he meant. There wasn’t enough left of my son to see.
“Sterling?”
A strong hand rests between my shoulder blades. So much emotion conveyed through the weight of his heavy palm.
“It’s not goddamn fair, Mal.”
“Life isn’t. God’s a fucking piece of shit.”
It’s said low enough that Sinclair doesn’t hear her uncle’s admission above her muffled sobs. But Sullivan’s eyes meet mine over the top of her head.
“I’m going to take her to wait in the car, Dad.”
