Chapter 3
Dean
Thomas’ devastated familyfilled the first few rows of the church. Behind them a sea of dark blue uniforms spilled out past the front doors into the streets. His four-year-old son wore his uniform cap and stood next to the coffin, saluting him goodbye. His wife, in the middle of it all, stunned and wide-eyed, stared at me through a haze of tears. I had no way of making any of it better.
Thomas was my closest friend. When I got out of the academy, he took me under his wing and within a few years helped me make detective. I was the best man at his wedding, his son’s godfather.
Now, I hated him.
I hated him, because three days ago he left dinner with me, went home, and took so many pills that he’d never wake up again.
The closest thing I had to a brother killed himself.
And I had no idea why.
The experience of losing someone you love is already heart wrenching, but the thought of him taking his own life meant you had to have failed him in some way. I had to have failed him, because I didn’t even see it coming. Now everything is wrong. Wrong and empty. Everything is too painful, too hard, too quiet.
I was lost—kneeling in the middle of the crowd, hands at my sides, screaming at God.
There aren’t words to describe it.
There’s just agony and emptiness.
There’s a strange silence that surrounds suicide, a moment when no one knows what to say, because they’re all asking themselves the same thing: Why? There weren’t any answers—just endless questions that all circle back to: What could I have done?
That’s exactly how Lucy, his wife, was looking at me.Why didn’t you help him? What happened?
How the fuck did I know?
I self-medicated my grief through the entire funeral. I could only hope I said a fitting eulogy, because all I really wanted to do was tell everybody how shitty Thomas was. How much I hated him for leaving me, us…for not coming to me with this, so I could fix it. I would have too. I would have fixed it all. That’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done.
“We’re off employee relations as of tomorrow, Sergeant Kannon just told me.” Jack Creed, one of my teammates, sat down heavily on the seat next to mine—an open bottle of whiskey clenched tightly in his hand. His dress uniform was unbuttoned, his tie loosened and flung over his shoulder, eyes bloodshot red and teary.
On the other side of me was Callie, a female undercover, quietly staring off into the crowd of people, who were drowning in their own misery.
None of us had spoken about what Thomas had done yet. It would be an open wound that would never heal. Maybe we’d leave that shit open for years to fester and pus as it killed us slowly. Even though we sat crowded together, we each were totally alone in our grief. We could barely stand to make eye contact with each other, because when we did, we each blamed ourselves for what had happened.
Callie leaned forward; eyebrows knitted together, “Thought you were going to be late this morning, you good?”
“Who’s good right now?” I laughed, darkly, thinking about Thomas’ cold body, empty pill bottles surrounding his head like a goddamn halo. Blinking out the image, I turned to face her and sighed, “When I was leaving to go, the neighbor’s fire alarm was blaring. I kicked through her side door and found her passed out on the floor.”
“She okay?” Callie asked. I knew she didn’t really care, just wanted to hear words and feel a little more human—forget the dead body in the room.
I shrugged. I really didn’t want to think about what happened that morning in the Rhys house. So tired and emotional, I barely remember what occurred. “She was passed out drunk. I know her kid showed up. My sister and her used to be tight.” I took a deep breath and pulled the whiskey from Jack’s hand. “Weird seeing her after all these years,” I said, swallowing down a mouthful of smooth fire.
“Mine,” Jack said, grabbing the bottle back from me.
As soon as my hands were empty, I grabbed my phone and texted my sister, telling her to check up on the Rhys house when she got off shift. Somebody needed to look out for them. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to do so.
“She pretty?” Jack asked, peeling the black label off the front of the glass bottle.
“Who?” I asked, confused.
“The girl who used to be close with your sister,” he said, scratching at his chin.
“I didn’t notice. I was busy trying to get to a funeral,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Why the hell would you ask me that, anyway?”
“James isn’t doing so well, had a shitty night, a shitty few nights,” he rubbed his hands over his face. “Sophie and I haven’t been…” He shook his head, his words falling short. “And now Thomas.”
