Chapter 20
Cora
I have no idea what's being said on the other end of the line, but I know with the way he looks at me that not only does it have to do with Sadie, but what he's being told isn't good news.
Tears are already forming in my eyes before he hangs up the phone.
They're streaking down my face when he stands, running his hands through his hair as he looks up at the ceiling, as if he wishes he was anywhere but here in front of me right now.
"Just tell me," I say, swallowing against the ball of emotion threatening to clog my throat.
He shakes his head as if he's going to deny me at first, and I see the anguish in his eyes when he turns back to face me.
Instead of staying across the room, he sits back down beside me. I pull my hands back when he reaches for them as if it'll stall the news I'm about to receive.
He frowns, but I don't see any judgment in his reaction.
"Cora," he says, having to pause to clear his throat. "Sadie has been found."
I nod my head, knowing this isn't going to be the good news I was hoping to get.
"Tell me," I demand, needing to hear it so it can be real.
"Her body was found just outside of San Diego."
"California?" I snap, as if her being all the way on the other side of the US makes any damn difference. I have no idea why my head wants to latch on to that piece of information.
"She was listed as a Jane Doe, and the town just got around to uploading her information into the national system. We've been running the database daily to—"
"You thought she was dead this entire time?" I growl.
"We always have to consider all possibilities," he says. I know if I hadn't just gotten devastating news, I could understand his explanation, but my first instinct is to blame, and he just happens to get caught in the crossfire. "I'm so sorry."
Once the first sob escapes my throat, I know there's no way to stop the subsequent ones.
Warmth wraps around me as my shoulders shake. I can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. As much as I have worried about Sadie all these years, knowing this was a possibility, I never really let the idea sink inside as a viable option.
Things like this don't happen to our family, but even as the thought crosses my mind, I realize I lost my mother to cancer and my father to a heart attack. The Prestons have suffered way too much, and this is no exception.
"When?" I sob. "When did they find her?"
"December twenty-second."
I snap my eyes up to his. "Two days after she was at the house?"
I shake my head, a sliver of hope growing inside of me.
"It can't be her. She was in South Carolina. Didn't you check the bus stations? The airport? How did she make it over there so quickly if she didn't fly or take some form of public transportation?"
"Cora," he says, the same softness in his tone the doctor had when he came out into the waiting room after Dad's heart attack. "It's her."
I continue to shake my head. "It's not. We can prove it. I want to see the body."
His lips form a flat line. "That's not possible."
"Of course, it's possible," I snap, standing and brushing my hands down the front of my clothes as if straightening my dress will help me put my chaotic life back together.
"She was buried in a pauper's grave."
"A pauper's grave?"
"It's what they have to do when they don't have—"
"I know what a pauper's grave is," I growl before I can get my reaction under control.
This man isn't trying to insult me. He's trying to help me understand. But there's no way of understanding why he'd think for a second I'd believe my twenty-three-year-old sister is gone from this world.
I can't.
I won't.
"We tested her DNA against yours," he says, standing up beside me as if he might try and stop me if I attempt to leave.
"What? How? If the body has been buried—"
"They keep samples on file in hopes they can ID someone at a later date."
"I want proof," I say with tears still streaming down my face.
"I have copies of the DNA results being emailed to me," he says.
I shake my head, lifting my hand to dash away my tears. "No. I need more than that. "
Sadness fills his face. "They have pictures, but, Cora, you don't want to see those. You don't want them in your head. Trust me."
He's probably right. The last memory I want of my little sister shouldn't be of her deceased, but how is it any worse than the last conversation I had with her that might've contributed to her death?
"I have to see them," I whisper, beginning to deflate, defeat taking over my body until it seems like I weigh a million pounds.
"I understand," he says. "They should be in my email."
Dread swims inside of me as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.
"No," I snap when he goes to turn it around to face me. "I want her body exhumed."
"I don't think—"
"I'm not paying you to think, Mr. Yarrow. If it truly is Sadie, then we have to bring her home. We have to give her a proper burial."
I don't know where I find the strength to say this without each and every word being released on a sob, but somehow, I manage.
"I'm sorry," I say after hearing the way I just spoke to him.
"It's fine. Listen—"
I hold my hand up in front of him when he takes a step closer to me, but it doesn't stop him from getting in my space.
When his arms wrap around me, I lose it, worse than I did while sitting on the couch.
He holds me while I cry. When I can no longer hold my weight up, he guides me to the sofa and keeps his arms around me like it's the most natural thing in the world for him to comfort a woman after getting the worst news of her life.
Sadie was eleven when my mother died, and as much as I tried not to mother her, it was just the position I was put into by default. I can't help but feel like I've lost more than a sister.
I know without confirmation that Sadie is gone. I wouldn't have been given the news if they were still looking for answers. Neither Mr. Anderson nor Eddie seem like the type of men who would tell me something without being absolutely sure their information was correct.
"She's gone," I sob into his chest, feeling the warmth of his kind soul when he holds me just a little tighter.
I don't know how long I stay in his arms, but my eyes feel like sandpaper and I can taste salt when I lick my lips. I have no doubt I look atrocious when I pull back and look up at him. Bless him for not looking like I've overstayed my welcome when he looks back down at me.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. "We can make arrangements—"
I shake my head and attempt to swallow down my pain.
"I just need a few minutes," I whisper.
He dips his head as if he understands my need to spend a moment not thinking about all my failures where Sadie is concerned.
Like I did when I claimed the chocolate-covered almonds earlier, I want to be selfish, to take something of my own, regardless of whether this is absolutely the worst time to do so.
I lean in, brushing my lips over his, fully expecting him to press his lips to mine. Who would reject a woman in such an emotionally fragile state?
Eddie Yarrow, apparently, I realize, when he pulls his face back, hands coming up to clasp my upper arms, as if he's afraid he'll need to use force to keep me away. His rejection is enough, and I'm a really fast learner.
I hate the embarrassment heating my cheeks, and I drop my gaze from his.
"Sorry," I mutter, trying to stand, but he keeps his hold on me, preventing me from getting off the sofa.
"That can't happen, Cora," he says, an echo of what he said last night.
He predicted my move then, just as he has done now. Call me a fool for the second attempt, but twice is all it will ever take for me to get the point.
"There's so much to do," I say, trying to distract myself both from him and the reason why I need to get a hold of my brothers.
His hand covers mine when I reach for my cell phone.
"You're right," I say. "This isn't something they should hear over the phone."
"There's more, Cora."
I shake my head, instantly rejecting whatever it is that he's planning to tell me. My heart can't take another hit.
"Sadie was murdered."
It's as if I'm not understanding the words even though they make perfect sense. Had I judged Sadie so harshly that I automatically assumed she had overdosed? I realize in all my questioning, I never once asked how.
"Murdered?"
The word is foreign to me. Of all the ways we've lost loved ones, that word just doesn't compute.
And as if I haven't been dealt a big enough blow, he keeps on talking.
"We think William hired out the job."