“I had a brother once,” I say. The words feel like broken glass in my mouth. This is going to be harder than I thought.
Frankie immediately picks up on the tone in my voice. He puts a hand on my shoulder and gazes deep into my eyes. “What happened?” he asks with genuine concern.
“He passed away,” I say, forcing myself not to break down. I don’t talk about Danny very much. It’s just too painful. I haven’tmade any progress in dealing with his death. Beyond trying to unmask his killer, I haven’t dealt with the grief at all.
To my surprise, Frankie says nothing. He picks up my hand and holds it. I feel a rush of compassion for him. He must have had a similar experience because only someone who’s been to the bottom of that ditch can sit silently without trying to fix things.
“I was the one who discovered him,” I hear myself saying.
Frankie still doesn’t speak. He’s giving me space to explore my own feelings on the matter. I haven’t been to a therapist, so I don’t have any experience with this kind of thing. I haven’t even really spoken to my parents about it. My life has been on hold since it happened, and this is the first time I can really feel my pain.
“I walked into the room, excited to talk to him. And he was sitting on the couch…” I trail off. I don’t want to add any more details than I already have. If Frankie is as normal as I suspect he is, I know he won’t immediately think of murder. He’ll probably assume that Danny killed himself. That’s what the police said, but I know it isn’t true.
“My mother passed away when I was young,” Frankie replies. His face is a mask of stone that hides a well of grief.
“How did she die?” I ask.
“Cancer,” he says. “It happened really fast. One minute she was fine, and then a few months later, she was gone.”
“Did they do chemo or something?” I ask softly. I don’t know anyone who has passed away from cancer, but I’m sure there are medical solutions out there.
“They did,” Frankie confirms. “It didn’t work for her.”
“Your father must have been devastated,” I surmise. I don’t even mean to bring up Francisco. He’s the furthest thing from my mind right now. But the additional information gives me some insight into my target’s mental state. I view Francisco Corello as a human being instead of just a cold-blooded killer. I don’t like that new vantage point. I’d much prefer to continue hating him.
Frankie smiles sadly. “He was. What about your parents? How did they cope with your brother’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “We don’t talk about it.”
“You should,” Frankie advises. “Not that I’m one to talk. We’re not your average family, if you know what I mean.”
“Your billions of dollars?” I guess.
“It’s not that,” he replies cryptically, but I know exactly what he means.
I clear my throat. This conversation is hitting far too close to home. I need to regroup, commit to my purpose, and pump Frankie for more information. “What’s in the box?” I ask.
“Right,” he declares, understanding that the subject of death in the family is now closed. “I brought a few salads and some roast chicken.”
“Sounds great,” I say.
Frankie unpacks a few containers and hands me a fork. I investigate one bin, peeling off the bright red top to get a whiff of what’s inside. It’s some kind of pasta with olives and olive oil. It smells delicious.
“This looks amazing,” I say, taking a tentative forkful. “Where did you get this?”
“You’ll laugh,” he says.
“Why would I laugh?” I wonder.
“My private chef made it,” Frankie admits.
“Oh, your private chef?” I tease him.
“Yeah, I’m that guy,” he responds with just the right amount of humor.
“What else did your private chef make?” I wonder.
“Here,” he says, handing me another dish. “Try the coleslaw.”
