Chapter 3
Monica stood in the funeral home's restroom, staring blankly at her reflection in the harsh fluorescent light. The dark circles beneath her eyes looked almost bruised from sleepless nights and crying. Her lips were dry, and her cheeks gaunt. Monica couldn’t remember the last time she ate anything.
She looked like hell, as if grief itself had claimed her face, and she honestly couldn’t bring herself to care.
Her big sister wasn’t missing anymore. No, she was now gone forever, along with the hope that Monica had carried through this nightmare.
The fragile hope Monica had carried that Beverly was still alive somewhere had died the moment the call came. The police said the words gently, but nothing could soften the blow of hearing that her sister’s remains had been found in the river.
Her eyes narrowed as anger bubbled deep within her chest. It was easier to feel rage than heartbreak, but both emotions consumed her.
Twenty-seven. That was all the time her sister got. Twenty-seven years before some monster decided she wasn’t worth another breath, another heartbeat. They’d taken her, drained her, and discarded her like trash.
A single tear slipped free, sliding down her cheek.
She gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles white as her body trembled with waves of grief that tore through her.
Hatred burned in her veins, dark and corrosive.
Whoever had done this, whoever had taken Beverly’s life, was still out there living life as her sister lay in a cold casket.
“Aunt Monnie?”
The small, trembling voice broke through her storm of emotions. Monica drew a sharp breath and blinked rapidly. She forced a smile on her face before she turned. Standing in the doorway was a little girl with dark curls and big, brown eyes—Beverly’s eyes.
“Hey, precious,” Monica whispered, crouching down and scooping the girl into her arms. She looked up to see Aunt Fay hovering behind her, worry creasing her face.
“She started looking for you as soon as they came in the door,” Fay said softly.
Monica nodded, pressing a kiss to the child’s hair. “You have to go potty?” she asked, forcing warmth into her voice.
Dena shook her head, curls bouncing. “No. I was looking for you.”
That made Monica’s chest ache as her smile turned real. “Well, you found me.” She carried Dena toward the mirror. “Look at you. Did Daddy do your hair today?”
Dena’s nose wrinkled. “Yeah. But he don’t do it like Mommy.”
Monica’s throat tightened like a fist had closed around it. She swallowed hard and forced the words past the lump in her throat. “No, baby, he doesn’t,” she whispered, smoothing down a stray curl. “But I think he did a pretty good job.”
Dena’s reflection smiled shyly back at her. “You think I look pretty?”
Monica nodded, brushing a tear from her own cheek before it could fall. “Beautiful,” she said softly. “You look just like your mommy.”
The little girl looked down at her dress, a soft white one with tiny pink flowers. “You like my dress?”
“I love it,” Monica said, her voice trembling. “And your mommy would have loved it, too.”
Dena smiled a pure, innocent smile that hit Monica square in the heart, sharp and sweet all at once.
“Come on, Dena.” Aunt Fay reached for her, her soft voice breaking the heavy silence. “Your dad is probably looking everywhere for you.”
Monica hesitated before letting go, her arms tightening for just a moment longer.
Dena’s tiny hands clung to her neck. After a long minute, Monica set her down and smoothed the little girl’s dress.
She crouched so they were eye level again.
“Go find your daddy, okay?” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Dena’s eyes. “I’ll come find you in a little bit.”
Dena nodded solemnly and slipped her hand into Fay’s. Together, they turned toward the door, the little girl’s shiny black shoes clicking softly against the tiled floor.
“You okay?” Fay whispered, looking back, her tone gentle but edged with worry as Monica stood.
“Yeah,” Monica lied, forcing a small, brittle smile. “Is Craig here?”
Fay’s frown deepened. “I haven’t seen him if he is. You think he’ll show?”
Monica’s lips tightened. “Knowing him? Yeah, I do.” She hated how certain she sounded.
Their father—Craig, not Dad—he had lost the right to that title the day he’d walked out on them and their mother, who’d been battling cancer.
He had left them all for a woman young enough to still get carded at a bar.
Okay, she might have been older than that, but not by much.
Craig, aka Dad, was a walking bad decision in loafers.
Doug, their brother, was the only one who still had any contact with him.
Monica hadn’t seen or talked to her father since the day of their mother’s funeral.
Monica and Beverly had him and his new wife escorted off the premises when they tried to enter the funeral home.
Of course, he had blamed her, saying she was just like her mother, which Monica took as a compliment.
“Did Doug contact him?” Fay asked, her tone clipped as she adjusted Dena’s small hand in hers. Fay’s eyes softened on the child, but hardened again when they lifted to Monica. It wasn’t just dislike. Fay loathed Craig for walking out when her sister needed him most.
“I’m sure he did,” Monica muttered, trailing behind them. The faint hum of low voices filled the funeral home as they stepped back into the room. She scanned the crowd, her heart tugging painfully when she spotted Dena running toward her father, Ken, leaping into his arms.
Her chest ached. Dena didn’t deserve any of this. None of them did.
“Hey.” Doug’s voice cut gently through her thoughts.
When she looked up, his eyes were worried.
The kind of look only an older brother could give.
Deep lines of concern carved across his face, softening the rugged handsomeness he never seemed to notice about himself.
He was the middle child—Monica the youngest, Beverly the oldest—but somehow, Doug had always been the glue between them.
Protective and quietly funny. He was the one who never asked for much but always gave everything.
She and Beverly used to tease him mercilessly about his love life, warning any girl who dared to show up that she’d have to pass their “sister inspection.” Maybe that’s why he rarely brought anyone home. His voice softened as he reached out, brushing her arm. “You okay?”
Monica swallowed hard and shook her head. “No,” she whispered, leaning into him. The weight of loss, the guilt, and old wounds her father’s shadow always seemed to drag back into the light pressed down until she thought she might crumble.
Doug’s arm came around her, strong and steady. “You don’t need to be...not today.”
Doug had always been her rock and the one person who never made her feel small for breaking. He knew what she had been doing when she was trying to find Beverly, yet he never tried to stop her. He worried, but then again, Monica never told him how deep she had gone to find their sister.
“I miss her, Doug,” Monica said, her voice cracking under the weight she’d been carrying since the phone call that shattered everything.
“I know,” he murmured. “Me too. You did more than anyone to find her, Monica.”
“But I failed.” The words cracked as a tear slipped free, sliding down Monica’s cheek. Her gaze drifted to the framed picture propped on the closed casket...Beverly’s radiant smile was frozen in time. “I failed her.”
“No, you didn’t.” Doug’s arms tightened around her before he pulled back, his jaw set, eyes fierce. “What happened to Beverly was out of your control, Monica. You have got to let that go.”
“What if I can’t?” she whispered, voice breaking.
Before Doug could answer, a too-familiar voice sliced through the murmurs of the funeral home.
“My daughter!”
The sound of her father’s fake grief hit her like a slap.
Monica’s spine stiffened as she turned, finding Craig striding toward the casket, his arm around the much-younger, very pregnant woman he’d left their mother for.
The sight of him brought a rush of old pain and raw fury clawing up her throat.
He pressed a hand to his chest, shaking his head dramatically for the crowd as crocodile tears streaked down his cheeks. “Open this casket right now!” he bellowed. “I need to see my daughter!”
The room went still. All eyes turned toward him. Monica’s nails dug into her palms until she felt the sting of skin breaking.
“That son of a bitch,” she muttered, stepping forward.
Doug caught her arm before she could move farther. “Go outside, Monica,” he said, low but firm. “I’ll handle this.”
Her eyes stayed locked on Craig’s theatrics, on the way his new wife clung to him like a prize won in a dirty game. “I’m going to kill him,” she said through gritted teeth.
“I know,” Doug replied. “That’s why you need to go.”
Every muscle in her body screamed to stay, to call Craig out for the fraud he was. But the pitying stares and the tension inside the room made her pause. Staying and making a bigger scene wasn’t worth giving the bastard the satisfaction. Beverly didn’t deserve that. Dena didn’t deserve that.
Monica lifted her chin and walked out, ignoring the whispers trailing behind her. Each step toward the door felt heavier. As she reached the night air, her hands shook. She wrapped her arms around herself, swallowing the grief and rage that threatened to tear her in half.
Inside, Craig’s voice carried again, louder this time as the bastard continued showboating for an audience. Walking a little further away, she bent slightly, taking in deep breaths.
The feeling of someone walking up behind her made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. Instantly, she knew exactly who it was. She sighed and groaned at the same time. “Fuck.”