Chapter 10
They were no strangers to middle-of-the-night calls.
Their boss was famous for calling them at all hours of the day and night.
Their phones were never set on silent. They had to be ready to go, always.
But this time it was a completely different ring tone.
It wasn’t Gill’s. That fact alone put Hayes on high alert as Beckett picked up the call, bleary-eyed and gravelly-voiced.
“Thérault,” he answered while rubbing his eyes.
Hayes didn’t hear who spoke on the other end, but he could tell that something bad had happened.
His partner went from relaxed and sleepy to rigid and alert, like someone was threatening his life—no, something worse, because Beckett didn’t care about his own safety nearly as much as that of his loved ones.
“That’s not possible!” he declared, alarm in his voice and eyes at he turned towards Hayes. They were wide with panic and distress. Automatically, Hayes jumped up, gathered some travel clothes and their go bags, ears straining to catch Beckett’s side of the conversation.
“Maman, non. C’est pas logique—non—”
At least he knew now that Beckett was speaking to his mother.
“Alright,” he finally said, sounding choked up. “Of course I’ll come. I’ll be on the first flight out. Moi aussi je t’aime,” he said and ended the call. His lashes were wet with unshed tears as he cleared his throat, looking very distressed.
“I have our passports,” Hayes said, for lack of anything better to say as he held them aloft.
“My brother’s dead,” he declared in stunned disbelief.
His brother? Jackson? They’d seen him at Christmas on a FaceTime call, and he was as healthy as a horse. So, it had to be an accident. Car or—
“Franklin jumped off a goddamned bridge,” Beckett said, cutting off Hayes’ train of thought. “My brother’s dead.”
Everything was a big blur after that. The car ride to the airport.
The phone call to their boss. Getting their tickets and boarding passes.
Making it through security. Getting on a flight.
Landing in Montreal on the first day of January—of all fucking days to end up in Canada.
All of it went by in a flash of disbelief and confusion.
Beckett functioned on automatic pilot, following Hayes blindly while he struggled to cope with the tragic news.
He kept checking his phone, re-reading the few texts that he and Franklin had exchanged over the last year.
He scoured Franklin’s social media platforms, searching for even a hint of depression or—
Nothing. His frantic digging revealed a vast array of nothingness. His brother hadn’t left any hints that he was having problems. Then again—when was the last time Beckett had cared enough to ask? To even take the time to fucking call!
And then there were the two missed calls. The ones he hadn’t answered because he’d been too busy getting down and dirty with Hayes. He’d seen his brother’s caller ID. Had known exactly who was calling and how rare it was for him to call. He should have picked up. Maybe if he had—
But every time Beckett went down that road, Hayes managed to pull him back into the present with a comment, a question, or a reassuring touch.
He was never left to his own devices long enough to get lost in questioning himself and was damned grateful that Hayes was there.
Unfortunately, he seemed unable to overcome the guilt weighing him down when they stepped inside his childhood home.
“Maman?” Beckett called out, as he always did when entering his parents’ house.
But this time there were no cheerful greetings.
No chaos, no mayhem. Only silence. He and Hayes had entered through the back door off the kitchen, thinking everyone would be gathered there since it still early in the morning.
The Montreal weather reflected the general mood in the Thérault household.
Grey, damp, and chilly. The kitchen windows from which Hayes had once watched fat snowflakes drift around the yard now let in very little natural light.
The kitchen was empty, without the usual mouth-watering scents of breakfast or freshly brewed coffee.
Grief had descended on the house, pervading every room.
“Maman?” Beckett called again, as he moved swiftly through the kitchen and rounded the corner of the living room.
They found the Théraults gathered there, eyes red-rimmed, huddled together, sharing their grief and comforting one another. His mother looked up, startled by his sudden appearance—or maybe she was just hoping it would be someone else. Like the son she would never again see.
“Beck—” she said, a sob cutting off the end of his name. She struggled to her feet, her husband reluctantly releasing her. She was shaking like a leaf, appearing frail. A word neither Beckett nor Hayes would have ever used before that moment to describe her.
“Ah, Maman!” Beckett put his arms around her and held her tightly.
“C’est pas possible,” she whimpered against Beckett’s chest, and he felt it echo deep within him. It shouldn’t be possible. Of all of them—Franklin, killing himself—it felt—
“J’suis désolé,” he said, the heartfelt apology coming out naturally. He hadn’t shoved Franklin off that goddamned bridge—but he also hadn’t answered either one of his calls the previous week, which was basically the same thing in his mind.
“Hey, Beck,” Jackson greeted him.
His mother stepped back and wrapped her oversized sweater around herself as she clutched a wad of tissues.
“Hey,” he said, leaning in for a warm hug from Jackson.
“Thanks for coming,” Jackson said.
It was an odd thing to say, but Beckett was too lost in his own grief to come up with a witty response.
Jackson moved to Hayes next, and after a quick hug, said, “Thanks for bringing him.”
Beckett hugged everyone closer than he typically would have, painfully aware of how quickly they could be taken away from him.
With no small amount of effort, he’d held back his tears and had nearly made it around the room without breaking.
But when his father hugged him hard, the dam broke.
After a full minute of harsh sobs, he calmed down.
He wiped his eyes and stepped back from his father.
Hayes went to him, wrapping his arms around Beckett like he’d wanted to do ever since they’d gotten Cynthia’s call.
He hadn’t—knowing he needed to get Beckett here as quickly as possible, not wanting to take any time out to deal with emotional needs.
But now—here—in his childhood home, surrounded by those he loved, Beckett hugged him tightly, his tears soaking Hayes’ shirt.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Hayes whispered as he gently rubbed Beckett’s back.
His support made Beckett feel a little lighter, a little stronger, now that the initial wave of grief had passed.
So much pain, Beckett mused, as he looked around. His brother had caused them so much harm, and while the thought was both terrible and justified, there was a noticeable lack of guilt accompanying those thoughts.
He should have answered Franklin’s call, but Franklin should have known better than to give up on life. A surge of resentment hit him hard. A wave of white-hot anger, far more familiar to Beckett than the grief threatening to break him, washed over him like a tsunami.
He held tightly to that anger, mentally preparing himself to take the lead in investigating what happened to Franklin.
“Mom mentioned the cops wanted to speak with us. Did they tell you when they’d come around?” He spoke authoritatively, breaking the somber mood.
“Around 10:00 this morning,” Katerina replied.
Beckett glanced at his watch. It was only 7:30. They had two and a half hours to go. They couldn’t sit there doing nothing for two and a half hours. They’d all go crazy.
“You guys need to take showers and get dressed while Hayes and I go get breakfast,” Beckett ordered, his commanding tone clearly expecting obedience.
“Breakfast?” his mother asked, looking confused and lost.
“Déjeuner. Oui. We need food. We’re no good to the cops if we’re faint from hunger,” he replied flatly, and no one protested. They just glanced at each other, as though waiting to see who would move first.
“Let’s go! Jackson and Katerina, you take the bathroom downstairs.
Maggie and Rubio can have the one upstairs, and Mom and Dad have the ensuite,” he informed them decisively.
“We should be back around 8:30, and I expect all of you dressed and ready to eat and talk.” Then he yelled “Go!” while clapping his hands sharply, making them all leap into action like they were puppets and he was their puppet master.
There was a temporary, awkward shuffle of bodies as the Théraults tried to get to where they needed to go without colliding with one another.
Hayes stood back, observing them in amazement and confusion as the Théraults scurried around like ants in a colony.
Beckett stayed put until he’d made sure all of them had followed his orders before heading out the back door, signaling that Hayes should follow him.
Hayes took off after his partner, completely shocked by the sudden shift in attitude. Once they’d stepped outside, Beckett paused, tossing him the keys to their SUV.
“You drive,” he ordered. He moved towards the passenger side of their rental in the driveway, but Hayes reached out to grab his arm.
“Beckett!”
Beckett whirled around with a closed expression, so unlike his normally open one.
“What?” Beckett asked. He didn’t bark at Hayes, surprisingly enough.
“Breakfast?” he asked hesitantly, echoing Ma Thérault’s earlier query.
“My brother decided to fuck himself off the planet. That doesn’t mean we should all drop dead because of him. They need to eat. And shower. And that’s not going to happen unless someone orders them around.”