Because we both know what she meant to him.
And even pain that deep meansshe mattered.
He turns toward me abruptly and pushes a finger against my chest. “She’d still be alive.”
There is a moment of silence between us. We’re back to harsh reality, and the sound of a car approaching in the distance doesn’t help. My heart feels like it’s in a vice, slowly squeezing the life out of it.
A black Mercedes-Benz reverses slowly toward the entrance of the compound. It comes to a halt right in front of the gate.
I wipe my hands over my jean-clad thighs, and swallow hard.
Brooks walks over to the back of the car, which opens automatically.
I take a few deep breaths.
In the back is a box. Not a coffin, It’s too broad and lacks the typical features of a coffin, though it is a wooden box.
Brooks wraps his fingers around the wood and starts pulling. His shoulders jerk as he tries his best to get the thing moving.
Without saying a word, I grab the other side and pull with him.
When the coffin teeters at the edge, we pick it up, and carry it through the gates with shaking hands.
We set it down gently, like somehow that makes any of this easier, less cruel.
Brooks stares at the car as its tailgate slowly swings shut. His fists are clenched tight at his sides, white-knuckled and trembling. It’s a fucking miracle the driver pulls away when he does, because I don’t think Brooks could’ve held back a second longer.
And then it’s just us.
And the box.
The finality of it sitting there like a punch to the chest.
We both stare at the lid. I don’t want to open it. Because once we do, this stops being something someonetoldus—and becomes something wesee.
Something we’ll never be able to unsee.
Brooks steps forward first. He slips his fingers under the lid—and lifts.
And there she is.
Jen.
Laid out like trash in a wooden frame. Her head’s turned to the side, a gaping hole where life was ripped from her. Her eyes are still open.
Stillopen.
Her limbs twisted like no one even bothered to place her gently. Like she was just dumped there. Forgotten.
A broken, guttural sob tears from Brooks’s chest before he crashes to his knees in the sand beside the coffin. His forehead drops to the edge, and I see his shoulders start to shake. Tears hit the earth like they’re burning through it.
I drop down beside him and pull him into me, holding him as tight as I can, even though it’ll never be enough.
There’s nothing I can say. No words that matter. So I don’t speak. I just hold on and let his grief fill the silence. Becausesometimes silence is the only thing honest enough for this kind of pain.
Thirty-Seven
NorahandIarepacking her belongings into a backpack in silence. She doesn’t have many belongings; a few scattered items, nothing more than what would fit in a small backpack. When we got back from the school, Brooks was sitting on the ground next to a wooden box. Kyler closed the lid and then had a heated conversation with God knows who. Without saying a word, everyone knew who was in that box.
