CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jacob
As I enter the funeral home, I am greeted by a sea of unfamiliar faces. People come up to me one after another, offering their condolences and shaking my hand. It hits me hard when I see my Mom's ashes displayed in an urn. She didn't want a traditional burial; instead, she wanted her ashes to be spread over the places that held special meaning for her. In this way, she will always have a little piece of herself everywhere. She also requested that some of her ashes be mixed into her garden as she loved gardening and wanted to continue helping plants grow even in death. My sister Marissa and I plan on using some of the ashes to plant a tree on our family farm too. I know my mom would love knowing that she is not only helping the environment but also feeding people through her remains.
My mom had a huge heart and was always there for anyone in need. That's why she didn't hesitate to help Anya when she was in trouble, even if Anya wasn't my girlfriend, she still would have done what she did. It breaks my heart to know that Anya's Nana also passed away in the same incident; she reminded me so much of my mom.
I’m glad I got to talk to Anya, even if it was for a little bit. Hearing her voice brought a lot of the fear and panic down. She said she was okay, but I know she was just saying that to put up a front. I just hope she isn't blaming herself for what happened. I meant what I said to Tom last night – none of this is her fault. None of us could have predicted this tragedy, and I can only imagine the pain and turmoil she must be going through right now.
Marissa leads us up to the front pew and the minister begins to speak, the reality of it all crashes down on me like a wave I can’t outrun. Mom is gone. Gone ! The word echoes in my mind, hollow and empty, but so heavy I can barely breathe. It doesn’t feel real—how can it be real? I was just writing her a letter last week, telling her how I couldn’t wait to get home, to see her smile, to feel her hug me like she always did when I walked through the door. But now… now there’s nothing. Just this gaping hole where she used to be, this void that’s swallowing me whole.
I keep seeing her face in my mind, the way she looked the last time I saw her—so full of life, so proud of me. She always believed in me, even when I doubted myself. She was my rock, the one person who never let me down, who was always there no matter what. And now she’s gone, and I don’t even know how to exist in a world without her.
What kills me is that I wasn’t there. I was thousands of miles away, training, pushing myself to be better, to be stronger—and for what? I should have been there with her. I should have protected her, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t there when she needed me the most. The thought of her last moments, of her being scared, staring down the barrel of a gun… it’s unbearable. I can’t shake the image, can’t stop thinking about what she must have felt, knowing she wouldn’t see me again, knowing I wouldn’t be there to hold her hand, to tell her I love her one last time.
What really hurts is… I never got to say goodbye. I never got to tell her how much she meant to me, how much I loved her, how grateful I was for everything she did. She was everything to me, and now she’s gone, and I don’t know how to move on from this. How do I live with this emptiness, this guilt that’s tearing me apart? How do I keep going when the one person I was fighting for is no longer here?
I feel so lost, so fucking lost... and so fucking angry! I keep thinking about what I could have done differently, how I could have been there, how I could have saved her. But it’s too late. It’s too fucking late, and I’ll never get another chance. That’s what breaks me the most—knowing I’ll never get to see her again, never get to hear her laugh, never get to feel her hug me tight and tell me everything’s going to be okay.
Because it’s not okay! It’ll never be okay again. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to live with that.
The service ends and everyone files out into main lobby where there are tables filled with pictures of mom. I walk around looking through them all when a man I don't recognize, dressed in a suit, approaches me.
"Excuse me, Mr. Sullivan," he says.
I look up and respond, "Yes?"
"My name is Detective Morrison. I work with Detective Collins in New Jersey," he introduces himself as we shake hands.
"Ah, I see. How can I help you, sir?" I reply, returning the handshake.
"First of all, please accept my condolences about your mother. From what I've heard, she was a wonderful woman."
"Thank you," I say sincerely.
"Secondly, I would like to speak with you and your sister if possible. I know this may not be the best time or place, but I am heading out to New Jersey and wanted to fill you in on some updates regarding the case."
"Oh, of course! Let me go find my sister," I say as I scan the room for her. Spotting her talking with a group of people, I make my way over and apologize for interrupting their conversation. Quietly informing her of the situation, she excuses herself from the group and we join the detective in another room.
“Thank you for taking the time. I'm sorry we couldn't do this later,” the detective says as we both nod in understanding.
He continues, “Detective Collins and his team caught the guys who were terrorizing Anya, and the men who killed your mom and Mrs. Parker have confessed to the murders.”
Marissa responds angrily, “Why wouldn't they? It would be foolish to deny their involvement!”
The detective nods in agreement before adding, “However, they did mention they were hired by someone from her past.”
“What do you mean from her past? Like her ex-Paul?” I ask.
“No, sir. We looked into Paul, and he is currently in Miami, Florida. We also examined his financials, and there was no indication that he had anything to do with the attack or hired anyone to carry it out,” Detective Morrison explains.
While this eases my nerves a bit, there are still unanswered questions about who could have possibly hired these men. Before I can voice them, Marissa asks, “So do you have any idea who hired these men?”
“Yes, a man named Caleb hired the men,” he reveals.
My head shoots up at the mention of Caleb's name. “Wait, Caleb? As in Lana Caldwell's ex?”
“According to what Detective Collins told me, yes. But apparently, he knew Anya from her past and only used Miss Caldwell to get to her,” Detective Morrison clarifies.
“So are they all in jail now?” Marissa asks anxiously while biting her nails and placing a protective hand over her belly.
“Yes ma'am,” he confirms. But something about this entire situation doesn't sit right with me - it all seems too easy and straightforward. Plus, over the summer, Caleb didn't seem particularly interested in Anya. In fact, he seemed infatuated with Lana.
“I'm sorry Detective, but are you absolutely sure about all of this?” I press.
“Yes, sir. He confessed to everything last night,” he replies confidently.
“Thank you for informing us, Detective,” Marissa says gratefully as he bids us farewell and leaves.
“This is fantastic news! It's finally over, Anya doesn’t have to keep looking over her shoulder!” Marissa exclaims with relief.
“Yeah...I guess,” I reply, still feeling uneasy.
“What's wrong? This is a good thing, Jacob!” Marissa insists.
“I don't know...something just doesn't feel right about all of this,” I admit.
I explain to Marissa my concerns and that we should still be vigilant. My gut is telling me that this isn’t over, I need to talk to Anya. No doubt they told her the same thing and I don’t want her to let her guard down.
I step out of the funeral home and dial her number but it goes straight to voicemail. Why isn’t she picking up? I just spoke to her a few hours ago.
Anya
I sit in the front row with my family inside the funeral home, surrounded by a sea of people. Friends of my grandmother, distant relatives—faces that blend together in the fog of grief. They’ve all come to pay their respects, but all I can do is stare at Nana, lying so still in her casket. The funeral home did a beautiful job; she looks as if she’s simply asleep, her favorite deep blue wrap-around gown draped perfectly over her. The one Pop bought her for their 35 th anniversary. She looks so beautiful, so peaceful—but it makes the ache in my heart even worse. Because I know the truth. I know that I brought this on.
“Hey, you okay? Ugh, I know, stupid question,” Lana whispers, forcing a small chuckle to lighten the mood.
I try to smile, to keep it together, but the sight of Nana lying there, forever silent, shatters something inside me. There will be no more stories, no more laughter filling the kitchen, no more afternoons baking together. There will be no more of her.
“I can’t do this!” I suddenly sob, the words ripping out of me as I bolt from the room. I don’t even know where I’m going; I just know I have to get away.
Lana is right behind me. “Hey, hey, talk to me,” she says gently, catching up to me in the hallway.
“I can’t stand there and pretend that I’m okay. I’m NOT okay, Lana! I don’t deserve to be okay!” My voice breaks as I fight back the tears threatening to spill over. The guilt is a heavy fog, suffocating and oppressive. “My problems! My life! ME! I brought this on her!”
The words spill out like a torrent, but deep down, I know this isn’t how I usually handle things. I’m always the one who lets the emotions flow freely, but now, something feels different. It’s as if I’m trapped in a cage of my own making, the weight of my guilt keeping me silent.
If I just stay quiet, maybe the enormity of what’s happened won’t suffocate me completely. But the ache inside is relentless. “If I had just stayed at my parents’ home, NANA WOULDN’T BE DEAD!”
My heart races, and I’m pacing now, a frantic rhythm that does nothing to ease the turmoil inside. The silence that follows is deafening. I can’t catch my breath, and it feels like I’m drowning in a sea of despair. “Nana is gone, Lana! She’s just… gone! Those monsters killed her because of ME! How can I go on living with that fact?”
But as I stand there, I realize that lashing out won’t change anything. It won’t bring Nana back. My thoughts swirl, and instead of letting the anger take over, I push it down deep, feeling the tension simmer beneath the surface. I can’t let my grief dictate how I react. I can’t let it control me any longer.
Taking a shaky breath, I fight for composure, reminding myself that my outbursts won’t bring her back. Instead, they only serve to alienate the people who care about me, including Lana. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat a painful reminder of my loss, but I refuse to let it spill over. Not now. I need to be stronger than this. I have to find a way to honor Nana’s memory without letting this darkness consume me.
I collapse to my knees, the tears flooding down my cheeks. Lana is there, she rubs my back, trying to soothe me, but the grief is too raw, too overwhelming.
After what feels like an eternity, Lana cups my tear-streaked face in her hands. “Anya, stop blaming yourself. Nana loved you. She was your grandmother—do you really think she wouldn’t have done anything to protect you? You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep carrying this guilt. I know people have treated you like this before, made you feel like everything bad is your fault, but you can’t let them dictate how you see yourself. Do you know why?”
I shake my head, wiping at the tears that won’t stop falling.
“Because you’re a badass,” my mom says, and it takes me by surprise since I’ve never heard her curse in my life. She wraps her arm around me, “You’ve been dealt one crappy hand after another, but you survived! Anya, do you hear me? You. Survived!” she says
“Exactly! You are a survivor because you’ve got that badass woman’s genes and blood running through your veins!” She points back toward the room where Nana lies.
A broken laugh escapes me, and I nod, trying to take in her words. My mom being here is definitely a surprise but I’m glad she is coming around and I’ve always been able to count on Lana to bring me back, to pull me out of the darkest places and make me laugh again. We stand up, and I hug them both, my heart still heavy but a little less suffocating.
“Thanks, I needed that,” I whisper.
“Duh, that’s what best friends are for,” she replies, bumping her shoulder against mine.
My mom strokes my hair, “I know I wasn’t the best supporter for you but you can count on me to be there from now on.” I smile and lean into her. “Come on, let’s get back in there.” She adds, leading us back inside.
Lana links her arm through mine, and together, we walk back into the room. It still hurts, but with Lana by my side, and my mom and I fixing our relationship, maybe—just maybe—I can get through this.