By the time we get to the room where the coffin is waiting, Finch looks shellshocked.
“Is that where Dad is?” he asks, stopping dead in the doorway.
“Yes, Howie,” his sister says gently. She must see the look of fear in his eyes as clear as I can. “I’ll let you say your goodbyes in private, if you prefer.”
“I mean, is Dad—is heinthere? Just lying there all dead and shit?” His hand is trembling in mine.
“Maybe we should come back later,” I say to Tara, but she’s taken up Finch’s other hand. The smile she gives him is kind and understanding.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart.”
“What does he look like?” Finch asks in a whisper. “Is he… Does he look okay?” He starts laughing then, little hiccupping giggles, but his eyes are welling up.
So are Tara’s. She puts a hand on his cheek. “Honestly? He doesn’t really look like the Pops I remember. He’s gone. The thing thatmadehim Pops is gone. But that’s a good thing.”
“Mom was—” Finch begins, and stops. Tara nods, like she understands exactly what he means.
“It’s not like Mom at all, Howie, I promise.”
It hits me that the last dead parent Finch saw had half her face blown off by an assassin’s bullet. No wonder he’s so terrified. I have no idea what to say to him, and I look to Tara helplessly. I don’t even remember my parents, who both died young, and Frank and I were raised by our paternal grandmother. Nonna died after a long illness, and it was a relief to watch her go, the pain in her face releasing as her spirit slipped away.
“I don’t know if I can,” Finch mutters, his voice cracking, and he’s still letting out those frightened little chuckles. “What if I freak out? I mean, Iamfreaking out. Why am I laughing?”
Tara brushes away the tears from his cheeks. “Why don’t we go and see him together?” she suggests. “All three of us. And Howie, the laughing is just a stress reaction. So you go right ahead and laugh, and I’ll laugh along with you. Or cry, or scream, or just stand there silent. Whatever you want to do is fine.”
Finch gives a slow nod and lets Tara lead him into the room, tugging me along with him by the hand. I close the door behind us, leaving Angelo on guard in the hallway. There’s no one in here but the three of us.
And Finch’s dead father.
Chapter Ten
Luca
The laying-out room is small and the walls a subdued navy. There are heavy curtains drawn against the night, and the light is dimmed, as though not to disturb a sleeper. There are a few fancy-looking antique chairs with embroidered backs gathered in clumps, in case people want to sit and pray awhile, or whatever it is the Irish do at their version of a wake.
Tara threads her arm through Finch’s left arm, and I take his right. We walk him forward and I’m reminded uncomfortably of our wedding, his father walking Finch down the aisle toward me. Finch looked completely composed that day as far as I could tell. Now he’s shaking like he has a chill, and he pulls the both of us closer to him as though for warmth.
I know now that I made the right decision to leave Chicago, even though it means we’re screwed. But I can handle screwed. I can even handle every Family on the East Coast coming for us, if that’s what happens.
I can’t handle Finch not being okay.
As we approach the coffin, I glance at the photograph of Donovan reproduced again here to one side, along with a photo board of moments in Donovan’s life. Maggie is prominent. There’s only one picture of Orla Fincher Donovan, Howard’s wife until she was iced by her own daughter, and none of Finch. A cold anger wells up in me. At least Finch’s attention is elsewhere—on the coffin.
The wood is expensive, dark brown and shining like a mirror, with cream satin inlay. Donovan is propped up on a little pillow, a rosary between his fingers, his face sunken but—as Tara promised—peaceful. I think he must be the most peaceful dead man I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of them.
Finch is straining away, his face half-turned like a child trying not to look at something scary.
“It’s alright,” Tara says gently. “It’s like he’s sleeping, but not.”
And finally Finch takes a look. Between the two of us, he lets out a little breath and slumps a little, but then his legs strengthen and he leans in a little closer. “You’re right,” he says, surprise in his voice. “He’s just…gone.”
We all stand there for a moment, contemplating the afterlife. I’ve killed a lot of men and I never really thought much about where they might end up afterwards. I’m aiming to avoid damnation myself, but I know Purgatory is probably my best option. As far as I know, Finch doesn’t believe like I do. I believe because I can’t not. Doesn’t seem fair to me if there’s nothing after this.
“Would you like to have some time alone with him?” Tara asks. “We’ll still be right here, just a little way away.”
Finch nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says aloud, and so we let go of his arms and step backwards from the coffin and from him. He rests his hands on the cotton cloth, edged in lace, which is laid over the side of the coffin—to prevent fingerprints on that glasslike surface, I assume—as he looks down at his father.
Tara and I wander back nearer the doorway.
