Chapter 13 #3
“If I’ve really lost my fucking mind and Franklin is actually lying in this coffin?
” Beckett read Hayes’ mind perfectly. With a sigh, he stopped digging and planted the shovel in the dirt to lean against it.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he appeared a great deal more vulnerable here in the dim glow of their flashlights than he had earlier at the funeral.
“I don’t know—” he admitted, sounding defeated.
“I honestly—” his voice broke, and it was so uncharacteristic of Beckett that Hayes felt the sudden urge to reach for him.
He didn’t—Beckett would reach for Hayes if he needed him.
“I think I need to see it to believe it,” he said, as if trying to convince himself as well as Hayes.
“Okay,” Hayes said with an understanding nod.
In perfect accord, they resumed digging in silence.
Grave digging was never easy. The soil was often unstable and uneven, which made it difficult to keep your stance to dig effectively.
Then, as the hole got deeper, more strength was required to toss out the dirt.
By the time they’d reached a depth of four feet, Hayes could barely hear Beckett’s heavy breathing over the hammering of his own heartbeat.
Then, he heard a sound like twigs or branches breaking.
Hayes stopped moving and waved a hand rapidly to get Beckett’s attention, then raised a closed fist to indicate he should stop moving.
Grave robbing was illegal as hell. Despite Gill’s ready access to resources to get them out of trouble, Hayes did not want to have to call him to be bailed out of jail—again. Especially on a charge of grave robbing.
Beckett’s brows furrowed in concentration as he listened closely for any odd sounds.
“Probably just a ghost,” Beckett whispered.
“No such thing as ghosts,” Hayes whispered back with an eye roll.
“Sure—invalidate their experiences while standing in their home! Smart move, Daisy-doo!” Beckett chastised, returning to a normal tone of voice when he didn’t hear anything suspicious.
“Invalidate their experiences? You have absolutely got to stop reading self-help books,” Hayes advised with a quick laugh, despite knowing that the only books filling Beckett’s Kindle these days were paranormal and fantasy romances.
Most of them were gay and steamy, which Hayes found increasingly amusing.
Especially when Beckett got a little flustered and decided to try out something from a book in the middle of the goddamned afternoon.
Not that Hayes would ever complain about that.
All that Hayes could say was that those authors were remarkably creative when it came to coming up with new, wildly different positions.
“Don’t be jealous because your vocabulary isn’t nearly as extensive as mine, Haysie,” Beckett replied between tossing shovelfuls of dirt.
“You forgot the name of the torque wrench the other day, so you called it the Twisty Mcfucking thing.”
“So, what? You knew exactly what I was talking about,” Beckett pointed out, self-assured as ever. Even while sweating bullets and digging up his dead brother, he came up with great comebacks each and every time.
Just as Hayes was about to reply, his shovel struck a hard surface.
The sharp, metallic clang echoed sharply across the cemetery, and Beckett froze.
He turned to Hayes, eyes as big as saucers.
His easygoing mood vanished, instantly replaced by uneasy awareness of what the next step had to be. They’d gone too far to stop now.
“You don’t have to look. I can open the casket and tell you what I find inside,” Hayes stated calmly and reassuringly, wishing with every fiber of his being that Beckett would accept his offer.
He didn’t want his partner to be burdened with that image for the rest of his life. Losing his brother was bad enough.
“No!” Beckett shook his head vigorously. “I need to see for myself.”
The casket was divided into two sections.
They only needed to open the top part to confirm Franklin’s identity.
Before Hayes could ask for it, Beckett handed him the crowbar.
The casket had been sealed and locked at the funeral home before departure.
After burial, the laws stated that the casket could be opened only if a court of law granted permission to do so.
Unfortunately, they’d have to break into it in order to confirm Beckett’s hunch, skipping the entire long, drawn out legal process.
They had no choice, really, but to proceed as planned.
Beckett needed—no, deserved—to know the truth.
Hayes prayed his boyfriend was right—that Franklin was not the person in that casket, so he wouldn’t feel guilty about disturbing Franklin’s final resting place for the rest of his life.
Placing the crowbar at the seam of the top section, Hayes pushed down with all his strength. The angle was awkward, and space to maneuver was limited, but after several attempts, the seal broke and the lock shattered with a bell-like ting.
Hayes turned, handing Beckett the crowbar while studying his expression.
Beckett struggled to look composed. It spoke volumes about his resolve to see this through.
Beckett typically wore his heart on his sleeve, but at this point he was afraid his heart would bleed out right there in front of Hayes.
If that happened, he knew Hayes would refuse to lift the lid.
Wordlessly, Beckett grabbed the crowbar and lifted the lid.
His hands were surprisingly steady as he grasped the edge of the polished wood and lifted the lid in one swift motion.
Cloud cover had blocked most of the moonlight, but the beams from their flashlights were bright enough to reveal the contents of the casket.
The two officers did warn them about this.
Franklin had jumped off a bridge. He’d landed flat on his face, rendering it nearly unrecognisable.
It was exactly why they’d had a closed casket ceremony.
Yet, there was no way that either one of them could have really braced themselves for this.
There was nothing left of Beckett’s brother’s face.
The familiar features he’d shared with his mother were completely gone, replaced by crushed bones and gaping wounds.
Hayes could barely stand the sight, but he stood there stoically, not wanting to be disrespectful to either Franklin or Beckett. The retired soldier had a hand up to his mouth, refusing to allow any sobs or cries of distress escape. His green eyes filled with tears, and he began to tremble.
“Sweetheart—” Hayes said hesitantly, letting Beckett know it was okay to lean on him.
“I just—” Beckett began, the words lost in choked sobs.
Hayes instinctively reached out just as Beckett’s knees buckled under him, and pulled him close.
“I’m so sorry,” Hayes whispered softly, running a hand through Beckett’s hair soothingly.
“It makes no sense,” Beckett croaked, a lump of emotion crowding his throat.
Hayes couldn’t see any way to refute that. Beckett was right, of course. Franklin had killed himself. He’d been so young—so full of life and had so much potential. It was inconceivable and yet—
“It isn’t him,” Beckett announced suddenly.
“What?” Hayes exclaimed in shock, releasing his hold on Beckett as he stumbled backwards.
Beckett pushed past him and reached into the coffin, yanking so hard on the suit jacket on the body that it ripped.
“Beckett!” Hayes shouted with dismay and disgust. So much for being covert.
“It’s not him!” Beckett insisted, tearing open the jacket and shirt, frantic to prove he was right.
Hayes felt a migraine coming on. He’d known there would be no convincing his boyfriend of anything, one way or the other, until he’d laid eyes on his brother’s dead body, but he hadn’t expected—
“Beckett, he’s dead. You have to—”
“Look!” Beckett yelled, moving aside to let Hayes see—nothing, apparently.
“What?” Hayes asked, completely lost.
Beckett had ripped open the dress shirt and pulled the fabric away from the left shoulder to reveal a section of white, unblemished skin.