She has to be okay.
We did this whole crazy plan for her. She wanted to do it for us, but it was always about her. Always, for all of us.
The commotion erupting behind me isn’t worth my attention, not when my cheeks are slick with blood, when I can’t even touch the slowly reddening lace of her dress, when she and her father are tangled together and I’m so goddamn useless, a slug in a suit beside her.
“Clara,” I gasp out. “Clara, please.”
Chapter 63
Clara
No no no no no. I can’t. This can’t. No. Please, no.
Chapter 64
Jansen
The funeral is somber and sparsely attended.
Clara’s witch of a mother (honestly, calling her that smears the good name of witches everywhere, but I don’t have the energy to swear, not even in my head, not today), is alternating between weeping loudly and laying blame for the coffin at the front with anyone and everyone.
One person is getting most of it though, which sucks. Everyone here is mourning. Her vitriol has no justification today.
Work friends sit in a clump, not knowing what to do about the shrieking woman on the other side of the aisle from us. Her own family left an empty pew between her and them.
Meanwhile, Clara’s dad’s family gathers off to the side, like they’re trying to figure out how long they have to stay before it’s polite to leave. With the way Clara’s mom is carrying on, I can’t blame them.
I’m not for forcing meds on anyone, especially not after my own experiences, but I’d almost make an exception for her. She’s a piece of work that needs to go straight in the recycling bin, like those worksheets kindergarteners do where they trace the same letter over and over again—work not worth keeping in a memory box. Work you only brought home because it was time for the monthly desk cleaning and you found it wedged in the corner, but your teacher wouldn’t let you toss it in the garbage without an obligatory ‘ooh’ from your parents.
She’s that kind of work.
This death, to her, is all about her. Her loss, her heartbreak, her grief.
But it’s not about her. Not at all.
It’s about the man who gave his life for his daughter. On her wedding day. At the wedding the woman couldn’t even be bothered to attend.
Clara leans against my shoulder, her fingers wrapped up in Trips’ big hand on the other side of me, and I run my palm along her arm, a few tears dripping from her cheeks and falling onto my already damp shirt. “Why did he do it?” she whispers for what must be the thousandth time in the last week.
None of us answer. We’ve tried, but she can’t hear us through her grief. It’s a heavy blanket over what should be a celebration of our tentative freedom.
Freedom was always going to come at a price, but none of us thought it would be this big.
The hard pew makes my sit bones ache, but I don’t shift my weight, a stillness I usually only manage during deepmeditation holding me hostage, unwilling to be the reason Clara moves even a millimeter away from me.
I’m Velcro now that we have her back, but she’s lichen, clinging to us through the storm the last week has put her through. Lichen with horrid nightmares and a penchant for disappearing in the middle of the night, only for Walker to find her curled up on the couch, sometimes asleep, but more often awake, the TV on with the sound off, and her vacant gaze staring but not watching. Trips has taken to sitting with her, their heavy silence permeating the house, seeping into the drywall and studs.
It’s been painful to watch, painful to love. But we’re together again finally, even if things are currently miserable. Even if the plan mostly failed.
Trips’ favorite guard was arrested for shooting Clara’s dad, his father telling a different story than Trips or Clara. The other guards backed him until my text came through announcing we’d destroyed the blackmail. Now, through RJ’s portal into the police system, we’ve found a few guards changed their stories. We don’t know whether it’ll be enough.
The evil father of doom is still free, all our carefully planted evidence ignored by the cops. For now.
Walker said the cops taped off the office where the shooting happened, where we planted everything we had, and wouldn’t let anyone in. We’re still hopeful that our work won’t be for nothing. But it’s not looking good.
Meanwhile, Mattie’s vanished with Bryce, which has Trips teetering on the edge of sanity. I can’t say I blame him. RJ’s doing all he can to find them, but Bryce ditched both his phones, as well as Mattie’s. All my carefully planted Airtagsstalled at a rest stop just outside the cities, and they’re not with them. I drove out and checked. Bryce is nowhere associated with either of their families, and he knows we were tracking him.
Our best guess is they’re hunkering down at some random cabin that’s closed for winter. None of us like that Mattie’s with him. And none of us like that we don’t know if she’s there willingly or not. I haven’t said anything, not wanting to stir the pot, but if she’s there willingly, I’m not sure we’ll get her back anytime soon. And if we do, she’ll be at least as broken as Clara was when she got out of his grip. Because she’s younger, she could even be worse. But I can’t say that. Trips is already so close to the edge, and RJ, Walker, and Clara all feel similar levels of big sibling protectiveness toward her.
