But we’re in luck. As we duck under the branches of a forsythia bush, I trail my fingertips along the concrete, searching for an exit. There’s a groove and then a wooden panel, and that can only mean one thing: a door.
I push the branches aside to get a better view. The door is old, but the lock looks new. I try the handle and am forced to admit that there’s no way we can get through. Brandon moves me aside, crouching down so he can study the lock. I glance around anxiously, wondering if anyone is paying attention. I don’t seeany guards in the backyard, but that doesn’t help. We’re stuck anyway.
Brandon pulls a knife out of his back pocket. I gape at him, wondering where the hell he got a knife. He shrugs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then I consider what just happened to us, and wonder why hewouldn’tbe armed. Of course, he wants to protect himself.
Brandon fits the blade of the knife into the crack between the door and the wall. He jiggles the handle and after a bit of back and forth, manages to pop the door open. He grins at me, standing up with a slight wince. I can see he’s still in pain, and he’s doing his best to pretend he’s not. I wonder if I should just take him back around to the front of the house so that we can return to our respective bedrooms. Maybe a nap would be more appropriate than sneaking out to visit our father’s grave.
But the door is open, and there’s no stopping Brandon. He slips through, giving me no choice but to follow. The last time I did this, I ended up in the middle of a gunfight. I hope I’m not making a worse mistake, but the time for deliberation has passed.
I follow my brother into the neighbor’s yard, and we hurry across the lawn to the side road. Once we’re out, we turn right, away from Francisco’s home. I pull out my cell phone and call a rideshare. We continue walking until the car comes to pick us up.
Getting in the back seat, I try to pretend that everything’s normal.
“How’s your day going?” the driver asks cheerfully.
“Fine,” Brandon mumbles.
“Good,” I chirp.
“Great weather we’re having,” the driver observes, gliding through the neighborhood at an appropriately slow speed.
I consider texting Francisco again to let him know where I’m going. But if he’s in the middle of a meeting or trying to track down Andretti, I don’t want to bother him. I’ll text him when we’ve said our goodbyes to Dad. It won’t be a big deal, I try to assure myself.
Still, I’m antsy all the way to the cemetery. It’s across town, in a municipal lot where all the gravesites were cheapest. When we buried Dad, I didn’t have a lot of money, and he had no insurance. Apparently, hitmen don’t get great benefits. We didn’t learn about the money he had hidden away for our schooling until later.
The driver pulls up and lets us off. I make sure to give him five stars and a hefty tip. Hopefully, he won’t get in any trouble with my husband, and he’ll forget about me and Brandon by the time he clocks out.
There’s no guard at the cemetery. People are free to come and go. In the distance, I can see an older couple standing at a distant gravesite. Maybe they’re mourning the passing of a child or a parent.
It takes a bit of searching to locate Dad’s grave. Though I paid for a marker, it isn’t anything special. All the rows of stones look alike, and I haven’t been here in years. We wander up and down, reading all the names before we finally locate Vincent Rocca.
Brandon stops, staring down at the only remnant of our father’s life. I join him, and my heart skips a beat. There, at the base of the tombstone, is a single black rose. Brandon might notknow what it means, but I certainly do. It’s a message from the Andretti family, they still haven’t forgiven us. I don’t know when they had the time to drive by the cemetery, but I don’t like the implications.
I pick up the rose and shove it in my pocket. I won’t let them desecrate my father’s grave with their petty threats. I look around, wondering if they’re here now. If so, then we made a big mistake. With all that went down at the warehouse, I would have thought Andretti would have been too busy hiding from my husband to send me threats. Francisco will be pissed, and more than that, he’ll be heartbroken if anything happens to me.
But the cemetery is empty aside from a few legitimate looking mourners.
“What’s that?” Brandon asks.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Brandon comments.
“It’s a message,” I tell him. “But it’s not one that I’m going to acknowledge.”
Brandon takes a crumpled photo out of his pocket. I hadn’t realized he had been carrying it when they took him. He holds it up so that I can see. Mom and Dad stare out at the camera, snuggled in each other’s arms, maybe on a camping trip or a day hike. There are trees in the background and a bright blue sky. The photo has that old-fashioned coloring reminiscent of the late 1990s.
Brandon sets the photo down where the flower used to be. I find his hand and give it a squeeze. There’s a flowering tree not too far from where we’re standing, and the fat pink petals it dropsmake the whole scene seem oddly comforting. It’s a nice place for our father to rest, and I’m grateful.
“I forgive you,” I whisper, not caring if Brandon hears.
“I’m not sure I do,” he says softly.
“You will,” I assure him. “Give it time.”
“I’m going to go,” Brandon says firmly.
I knew this was coming, but it’s still painful. He said as much before we climbed out the window. I wish we could spend more time together, but I’m not sure how. Brandon doesn’t want any part of this life, and I don’t want to give up my marriage to Francisco, not when I’ve just come to grips with my feelings for him.
