He snorts, shaking his head. “Figures.”
“Jordan,” Mum warns softly, but her heart’s not in it. She’s exhausted, her voice has that hollow quality it’s had since the news.
I pour myself a glass of water just to have something to do. “You eaten?”
“I had toast,” she says. “Didn’t fancy much.”
I nod and force a smile. “I’ll make something in a bit.”
Jordan tosses his phone onto the sofa with a sigh. “They’re not gonna find who did it,” he mutters. “You know that, right? Isaac was mixed up with bad people. He must’ve crossed the wrong one.”
“Stop,” I whisper.
“What? You think the police are gonna get justice for some lowlife drug dealer?”
“He wasn’t a lowlife!” I snap, louder than I mean to. The sound cracks the quiet like a whip. “He made mistakes, yeah, but he didn’t deserve to die like that. And we don’t know if he was dealing, that's just rumours.”
Mum flinches, and I instantly regret it.
Jordan stands and stalks toward the stairs. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
When he’s gone, Mum wipes at her eyes, the tissue trembling in her hand. “He doesn’t mean it, love,” she whispers.
“I know.” I crouch beside her, resting my head against her knee like I used to when I was little. “We’re all just angry and scared.”
She nods, smoothing her fingers over my hair. “It’s like the world’s gone mad.”
I let out a shaky breath. “It feels that way.”
The TV news changes to the weatherman, the sound soft and meaningless now. I stare at the screen, but all I can see is Isaac’s face, his easy grin, and stupid jokes, the way he’d tease me until I laughed.
My throat tightens, and before I can stop it, tears blur my vision again.
Mum strokes my hair gently. “We’ll get through this, Lee,” she murmurs. “And you’re right, maybe the whispers are wrong. Maybe he wasn’t dealing at all. The police haven’t confirmed it.”
I nod, not wanting to be the one to crush her hope. Because deep down, we both know he was exactly what they’re saying he was.
I’m in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, chopping onions for dinner. The pan hisses as the oil heats, the sound almost comforting. Normal. It’s the first time I’ve cooked since Isaac died, but something about the routine helps keep my hands busy while my head spins.
I hum quietly under my breath, the kind of song that doesn’t mean anything, and reach for the minced beef. The smell hits the air, rich and heavy, and for a brief moment it feels like things might be okay again–not better, but almost normal.
Then there’s a knock at the door.
A heavy, official-sounding knock.
My stomach twists. I wipe my hands on a tea towel and call out, “Jordan, can you get that?”
When he doesn’t reply, I sigh and head for the hallway myself. When I open the door, two uniformed officers are standing there–one man, one woman. Their faces are calm, professional, but I can see the weight of what they’re carrying in their eyes.
“Miss Dove?” the woman asks gently.
“That’s me.”
“Is your mother home?”
“She’s resting. Why, what’s wrong?”
The male officer steps forward slightly. “We’ve made an arrest in your brother’s case.”
