“Dead.” Wes Brand dropped the word like a cinder block.Thud.
“Not without a body, he’s not,” Drew snapped back.
Wes pointed a forefinger right at her. “No. You hear me, niece? You donotmess around in this, Drew Brand. You are not a detective. You’re a kid.”
“I have a license that says otherwise, Uncle Wes, and twenty-three is not a kid. I took that accelerated course last summer and passed my exam with flying colors. Tied for first in the class.”
“That’s all well and good, but if you go digging into this, you’ll tear your Aunt Taylor’s heart right out of her chest,” Wes said. His black hair bore strands of white and was pulled back in its customary band. “You need to leave this alone, both of you.”
Drew stepped back, holding up her hands as if in surrender. But there was a spark in her eyes that hadn’t died. Willow saw it clearly, but she didn’t think her father did.
“The things is, Dad,” she said, “I don’t think you get to tell me what to do about this. I don’t think I’m the one in the wrong here. I need more information. I want to know everything about my brother. Mom doesn’t have to know about it if you think she can’t handle it. I think she can, but if you don’t, I can keep secrets, too. Apparently, it runs strong in our line.”
Her father lowered his head, shaking it, clearly angry and trying to bank it. He said, “I’m going upstairs. Come back in the morning.Latemorning. You can talk to her then.”
“Fine.” Willow chugged the beer and slapped the bottle onto the counter, then started for the back door, because her father was between her and the front.
“Fine,” he said. And then as she opened the door, he added, “I love you,” the words clipped.
“Me, too.” Then she was out. Drew followed, but Elena stayed behind, speaking softly to Wes about the meds she was leaving in case Taylor needed them. The door closed behind them.
Drew slung an arm around Willow’s shoulders, which was awkward as she was several inches shorter than Willow.
“We’re not fixin’ to leave this alone, are we, Will?” she asked.
“Not in this lifetime,” Willow replied.
Wolf
Wolf stood beside an open grave. They’d lined the inside of the hole with green felt, so the dirt wouldn’t show. His young, beautiful, vibrant, secretive mother was in the box suspended above the hole. He felt as hollow as the grave.
Cilla had made all the funeral arrangements herself, and she’d kept it modest but dignified, choosing a black casket with white lining and dark bronze hardware. She’d bought a plot in the middle of a small cemetery and had made arrangements for her life insurance policy to pay for all of it, with the remainder going to Wolf.
Unbelievable.
She’d even planted a tree on the spot ahead of time.
She’d always been fiercely independent, his mother. She’d dated. A lot. But as soon as any of them started to get serious, they were history. Serious, she’d told him once, usually meant possessive and controlling. So the minute one of them told her what to do, criticized a decision or how she spent her time, or treated her son badly, they were gone.
She’d loved him.
He was kind of amazed by his mom when he thought about it.
It was a beautiful day in the fifties and warm, more typical of the area than the snow of the other night, though they got a little snow every winter. His mom had loved the snow. She always treated it like a special occasion when it snowed. It was nice that it had been snowing the night she’d died.
The other waitresses she’d worked with at the diner were there. Two brought their spouses, and three were alone. A few of the regular customers had come, and two of Cilla’s nurses showed up, too.
Camellia and her mother were there. He hadn’t seen either of them since that night. It bothered him a little that Camellia was a P.I. who knew more about him than he knew about himself. He didn’t like outsiders in his business.
She was wearing her hair up again. Always up, in a twisted, untidy nest of golden shades. It seemed like a lot of hair, and he’d wondered at least six times since he’d met her how long it was and whether she ever took it down.
He stood near the grave. The headstone was a short, thick slab with a hand-hewn effect. It stood low to the ground. On its downward-angled front, there was a brass plaque with her name, Cilla Travail, and her date of birth and death.
Wolf squinted and bent nearer. The date of birth—it was the date she’d run away from her abusive stepfather. August 10th, and the year she’d been fourteen years old.
“She didn’t even want her family to find her in death, did she?” asked a soft voice.
Camellia had moved closer to him.
