CHAPTER 11
Rita Healy's fingers trembled against her son's shoulder as they faced the morgue entrance.
Detective Wil Jordan watched them both draw deep breaths, their faces pale in the fluorescent light.
When he finally pushed the door open, Frank Hayes was already waiting for them in the sterile reception area, his eyes heavy with the knowledge of what lay beyond the swinging doors at the far end of the corridor.
“Frank,” Wil murmured, the words barely audible.
“The Healys are here to identify their boy.” The two men exchanged a glance that carried the weight of their late-night conversation—Frank's quiet breakdown as he'd prepared the children's bodies, and Wil's promise to stand beside him through today's grim task.
Frank cast a sympathetic look at the mother and son, his weathered face softening beneath the harsh fluorescent lights that cast everyone in a sickly pallor.
“He's back here,” he said, his tone soft as a prayer.
He led Wil and the small family through double doors into the back of the morgue, where stainless steel tables lined the polished concrete floor like silent sentinels, and along one wall, the refrigerated compartments where the bodies were stored hummed with mechanical indifference.
The air hung heavy with the clinical scent of disinfectant, barely masking the underlying sweetness of death.
Two of the tables were occupied, white sheets draped over forms too small, too still—bodies not fully grown yet, limbs that would never stretch into adulthood.
Wil remembered how Frank's broad shoulders had trembled against his chest last night, how the coroner's hands had shaken as he'd wiped away tears that fell onto his wrinkled dress shirt.
Twenty years in the morgue hadn't hardened the man's heart; each child still carved another notch of sorrow into his soul, visible only in the deepening lines around his eyes and the slight tremor in his steady hands when he thought no one was watching.
Frank had developed the ability to compartmentalize, to lock away the part of himself that died a little more whenever a child found their way to his tables—the tender core he concealed during “working hours” behind a fortress of professionalism, revealing it only in rare, unguarded moments to those closest to him.
Frank's professional veneer cracked at the edges as he guided the broken family toward the draped table.
His hand hesitated on the sheet when Rita Healy wrapped her arms around her firstborn, her body trembling with the effort to support him while she herself teetered on collapse.
The young man's gaze locked onto the shrouded form, his eyes widening just enough to betray recognition while remaining hollow as abandoned wells.
The first tear escaped without sound, then another followed, until his face glistened with silent grief under the morgue's unforgiving lights.
Rita's arms tightened around her son as tears spilled down her cheeks.
Her eyes met Wil's, then Frank's, before she gave a single, resolute nod.
The moment would never feel right—waiting another hour, another day wouldn't soften what lay beneath that sheet.
The nightmare had already claimed them, whether they looked or not.
Frank drew a steadying breath and peeled back the white cotton shroud. Rita crumpled forward, her body folding over her child's still form. Her fingers trembled against his cold cheek as she gathered him into one final embrace, her shoulders heaving with silent grief.
Connor Healy stood frozen, his eyes widening as they fixed on his little brother's corpse.
Tears carved silent paths down his face while his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped beneath his skin.
His shoulders rose with each shallow breath, his body rigid as though the slightest movement might shatter him completely.
“Gage…” Rita Healy sobbed as she stroked the boy’s pale face.
“My baby…” She pressed her face to his cheek, her warm tears dripping onto his cold skin.
“Why, God… Why did you take my baby? I want him back… please give him back…” She shook as her sobs strengthened, each plea emerging heavier than the last. “Please… give my baby back.”
Frank's professional facade crumbled visibly—his Adam's apple bobbing, his eyelids fluttering with moisture—as Wil felt his own throat constrict, the familiar pressure of unshed tears building behind his eyes.
The young man hadn’t moved, except for his hands slowly flexing at his sides. His watery eyes suddenly shifted from his brother’s body and crying mother to the other table. His movements almost robotic, he walked around his little brother and approached the second table. Frank joined him.
“Is that… him?” His voice was barely audible, the words whispering from his trembling lips. “The boy I…” A violent shiver rippled through him.
“Yes,” Frank murmured.
His hand shaking, the young man reached out and touched the sheet.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Frank said quietly. “He… He isn’t ready to be viewed.”
“His… parents saw him like this?” the kid whispered, his tone broken.
“Yes,” Frank said sadly. “At the hospital.”
Connor looked at Frank, his expression questioning: ‘Then why should I be spared?’ A fresh well of tears spilled over.
His fingers trembled, then he very slowly gripped the cloth and dragged it away from the boy’s face.
The sheet hung limp in his rigid fingers as he stared at the boy's shattered features, his own face transforming from dread to something beyond horror—a devastating recognition of what his actions had wrought.
“I… I did this…” He began to shake violently, his breath coming in hard, rapid surges. “I did this… I… I… I killed him… I…” His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees, shoving his face into his hands.
His mother was immediately at his side, kneeling beside him, hugging him, and crying.
“No, baby, it was an accident… it was an accident… You didn’t mean to hurt him…
It’s not your fault… It’s not… it’s not…
” She held his head as he pushed his face hard into her shoulder, his cries welling loudly in the spacious room.
Wil turned abruptly at the noise of feet shuffling on the floor. Behind him, Dan and Nora Brown both looked at their son’s body and at the young man, a heap on the floor, crying in his mother’s embrace.
Wil had released Dan Brown from custody earlier that morning after the Healys declined to press charges. The hospital might still pursue legal action over the incident, but given what had happened, Wil doubted they'd seek anything beyond minimal penalties.
Wil tried to interpret the look on Dan Brown’s face now. He’d expressed remorse for attacking the boy, but standing here, looking at his son’s dead body—would the rage toward the young man return?
Nora Brown raised a trembling hand to her mouth, tears flooding her face. “Is that… him?” she whispered.
Keeping a cautious eye on the woman’s husband, Wil nodded. “Yes.”
Nora’s eyes drifted to the other table, the other dead boy. Her chin trembled. “Is that… his little brother?”
“Yeah,” Wil said thickly.
Both hands covered her mouth as tears spilled over her fingers, and she looked at the mother and son sobbing on the floor.
Connor raised his head as if sensing their presence. His eyes widened at the sight of the Browns, and he struggled to his feet. His hands shook as he wiped his face, backing away. His mother stood up, reached for him, then noticed Dan and Nora Brown.
Rita Healy looked at them pleadingly, crying. “Please… it was an accident… I’m so sorry…” She clung to her son. “Please…”
The young man recoiled, his head swinging side to side in denial while his gaze fixed on the floor.
His shoulders heaved with each ragged breath until something inside him snapped, sending him lurching toward the exit in a desperate, uncoordinated escape.
Wil flinched when Dan Brown caught hold of him.
“Don’t hurt him!” Rita Healy cried out. “Please don’t—”
Dan Brown pulled the frightened, traumatized boy into his arms and held him, crying with him.
“I’m sorry,” Connor cried his heart out, and clung to the man. “I didn’t… I didn’t see him… I didn’t… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
Dan held him deep in his strong arms, a mountain wrapped around the young man. “I know, son,” he whispered, his deep voice breaking on each syllable. “I know. It’s not your fault. It was an accident. I’m sorry… for what I did to you. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t your fault… it wasn’t…”
When Rita Healy came closer, Nore Brown hugged her, and the two mothers sobbed into each other’s arms.
Wil retreated to the front part of the morgue when his cell phone rang. Axel was calling. “Hello? Axel?”
“Hi.” The anguish from yesterday lingered in his voice. “I just… I was wondering if you could give a message to the Healy family.”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
“Clint talked to some friends last night. If the Healy boy needs legal representation, we have a criminal attorney ready to take his case—pro bono. He’s a really good attorney. Never lost a case, I don’t think.”
“I’ll definitely let them know, thank you,” Wil said. “That’s very kind and thoughtful of you.” He glanced toward the back section. “I’m not sure he will be needing it, but it’s good to know he’s covered, just in case.”
A short pause on Axel’s end. “How… How are they doing? All of them.” His voice trembled slightly. “I know that’s probably a stupid question…”
“They’re having a hard time, naturally. But…” He looked toward the back again, and his voice softened. “I think, in time, they’ll find their way through this.”
“Do you really believe that?” Axel whispered, emotion thick in his voice. “I don’t know if I could find my way through.”
“I do believe it,” Wil murmured. “I believe God is working even as we speak.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain later,” Wil said. “I’ll call you this evening, and we’ll talk, okay.”
“Okay,” Axel whispered.
Wil smiled small as affection warmed his voice. “Keep the faith, my friend.”
Axel crossed the backyard to the neighboring house, where Clint and Cochise sat on the back porch.
When Clint and Axel first moved in next door to Cochise and Kane, the first thing they did was take down the tall slat fence separating the two properties, opening the backyards into a shared space.
The kids loved it, especially the younger ones.
Jules would bring his pup, Cowboy, out to play with Jonah, and the spacious area worked well for games of chase or tag.
It also hosted barbecues and birthday parties.
“What did Jordan say?” Clint asked as Axel approached the porch steps. Apprehension tightened his features.
Axel climbed the steps and took a seat near the two men. “He said he would let the Healys know about the attorney.” Axel leaned forward, rubbing his eyes.
“What else?” Clint stared at him uncertainly. Axel was not doing well with all of this, and he didn’t try to hide it from Clint.
Breathing deeply, Axel straightened. “I asked how the families were doing. He said they were having a hard time but seemed hopeful they would come through it.”
Clint looked doubtful but didn’t voice his thoughts, simply nodding.
Leaning forward again, Axel looked out over the lawn, his face pensive.
“Is there something else?” Clint asked.
Axel lowered his eyes and stared at his hands.
“He said…” Axel swallowed. “He said he believed God was working in their lives even now. I asked what he meant, and he said he would call later this evening to talk to us.” He looked at Clint, his eyes damp.
“He seemed… hopeful.” Glancing between the two men, Axel whispered, “Do you think there is hope for them? I mean, if one of those boys had been Luke, or…” His eyes flickered to Cochise.
“… Tae…” His throat worked. “I don’t know if we could come through it.
I can’t even imagine moving on from something like that. ” He sniffed and looked away.
“Neither can I,” Clint said quietly.
The Egyptian didn’t comment, but Axel had seen him at his worst, when he’d nearly lost his sons to the island. If one of his kids were taken from him… he wouldn’t heal.
Axel was afraid to let Luke out of his sight, afraid to let him go into the city—even just to see the twins.
He was scared for the twins. For Maddy and Savannah.
For everyone he loved. They didn’t need to be children to be at risk from others' violence.
Axel disliked feeling so helpless. The fear of losing his loved ones weighed heavily on him, making him feel sick and terrified every moment.
He gazed at the cowboy and yearned to crawl into his lap, pleading for the man to hold him. At this moment, being in Clint’s arms was the only place where he felt protected from the dangerous world around them.