Excerpt The Secrets We Hate #2
She walked over to me, brushed her thumb over my cheek, and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Bobby sent me in to let you know that it’s time.”
My eyes drifted over her, from her eyes all the way to her feet. It was a somber occasion, but even in all black, she was a burst of sunlight on a cloudy day. Like Chaq, she’d chosen comfort over stuffy in loose-fit trousers and a silk blouse. She wore a slanted wide-brim hat over her locs.
Reaching out, I ran my finger over one of her locs. “You wore it?”
It was a gag gift from Dad, after she’d absently mentioned she thought her head was too big for hats.
Since he loved a good laugh, he’d picked it up at a local store for her and told her he’d give her two hundred bucks if she wore it to church.
She collected that money with no regrets, then stuffed the hat in the closet, never to be seen again. Until today.
Her smile widened. “I sure did. Daddy-O would’ve been amused, huh?”
Harlow had spent a lot of time with my father.
They had a great relationship, built on mutual respect, and he referred to her as his daughter.
When we decided to split, my father had many choice words for me and let me know every chance he got that I was “the fool who let his treasure slip through his fingers.” During his illness, she’d become one of his caregivers, bringing him meals and shopping for him when he couldn’t anymore.
“I can tell you right now this hat will not make it to the end of the service,” she added, adjusting the hat. “The way these hot flashes got me out here wanting to kill someone.”
Chaq laughed. “You forgot your fan, Ma?”
She shook her head. “It’s in my car. Run and get it for me.” When Chaq rushed out of the room, she handed me a program. “The printer gave me extra copies. Mother Hawkins wants to send them to the people who couldn’t make it.”
I nodded, running my thumb over his name.
Odell Isaac Young
The image on the front was taken at Chaq’s high school graduation a couple years ago, right before Dad got sick.
Staring at the genuine smile on his face, I recalled the way he’d made sure the photographer got his best angle that day.
It had taken at least seven tries to get the perfect snapshot, but when he was satisfied, he’d told us he wanted that picture on his funeral program.
Almost like he knew the time would come sooner than later.
Harlow smoothed her hand over my back, offering me silent comfort as I read through the program. Once Chaq made it back, we gave Bobby the green light to open the doors for the visitation.
Since the gravesite service was private, I’d agreed to open up the visitation to the community.
One by one, the people of Black River Falls and the surrounding area came into the room.
Over the last week, I’d been inundated with phone calls, cards, impromptu visits at my father’s house, and so much fried chicken.
It was a testament to the life my father led, the lasting impact he had on everyone he met.
My father’s idea of “good church” involved a few songs, a powerful sermon, and a hasty exit.
In his honor, most of the people kept it quick, stopping at the casket to view the body and say their final goodbyes before offering well wishes and condolences to us on their way out.
Once the visitation was over, the funeral procession proceeded to the cemetery.
After a few short remarks, a song selection, and a short eulogy, the military honored my father with the playing of “Taps,” followed by the folding and presentation of a memorial flag. A rifle team performed a three-volley gun salute before the minister recited a closing prayer.
Harlow squeezed my hand as she approached the casket and laid a single white rose atop of the mahogany hardwood, which prompted the other attendees to do the same. Typically, the cemetery would wait until we left to lower the casket into the ground, but I couldn’t move until everything was done.
I stood at the site for a few minutes after everyone had left.
Alone with my thoughts, alone with my father one last time.
Stepping closer, I stared down at the hole.
It wasn’t the first time I’d had to leave someone I loved there.
My eyes drifted to the marker next to my father’s.
The ache in my chest intensified as I stared at my sister’s headstone.
Years ago, I’d stood in this very spot as we laid her to rest. Same month.
Many years ago. Faith was too young to die, too good. And now my father …
Closing my eyes, I tilted my head up to the blue sky and attempted to pray for peace again, but the words died on my lips.
Instead, I whispered, “I love you. Please—” The shuffle of footsteps reached my ears, and I realized I wasn’t alone.
I sucked in a deep breath and waited in silence for a moment. “I’m ready.”
“So sad.”
I recognized the voice immediately, and Monique Rivers was the last person I wanted to see.
Today or any day. Her family was directly responsible for destroying mine.
I already suspected she had something to do with Faith’s death.
After all, she was the last person to see my sister alive, the last person to talk to her.
But I also believed that her family’s shady business practice of using Phantom Lake as their own personal toxic waste dump had contributed to my father’s illnesses.
I couldn’t prove any of it, though.
The Rivers family were known to use their money and influence to cover up a myriad of crimes.
Faith’s official cause of death was drowning.
And my father never allowed me to pursue any recourse for his multiple health issues, including two bouts with cancer—one that nearly killed him and another that finally did.
I hated her family.
I hate her.
She let out an exaggerated sigh. “Such a good man. I guess Odell is now with Faith in the arms of the Lord.”
Adrenaline coursed through my body as every muscle tightened against my skin.
All my blood rushed to my ears as an internal battle waged within me.
The struggle was real as I fought to maintain my composure.
I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
And I damn sure wouldn’t besmirch my father’s good name or reputation by causing a scene.
To an outsider, Nique might’ve seemed like a mourner making sure she paid her last respects to a member of the community. But I knew her. And her soul—like our past—was dark and muddy.
Just like Phantom Lake.
Just like the legacy that her father, Humphrey Rivers, passed down to her.
Just like the havoc her family had wreaked on Black River Falls for generations.
She stepped forward and tossed a white oleander into the hole. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. It was her favorite flower, and she considered it her calling card. When she presented it in any situation, it was a warning to be on guard. A threat. The message was loud and clear.
I could feel her eyes on me, watching me, waiting for me to react. “It’s amazing how death follows you everywhere you go,” she mused.