CHAPTER TWELVE
"My condolences, boys."
From the edge of the Llewellyn family garden in the middle of a scenic cemetery, Isaac, Shawn, and I shifted wary glances to one another before turning around and finding Gerald Crowley, walking toward us with his hands stuffed deep inside the pockets of his black slacks.
"The fuck is he doing here?" Ike muttered beneath his breath, sneering at our father.
Shawn maintained a silence, though he frowned, and I wondered what he was thinking.
Nothing good, I'd bet.
But while they were suspicious, my stomach flipped in sloppy somersaults at the sight of Gerald's morose mask. He appeared every bit the part of the respectful acquaintance, coming to offer his sorries to the mourning family of the dearly departed.
I had done well these last few days. I kept myself busy and focused on the cremation, the arrangements, and the phone calls. I hadn't thought much about cyanide or the endless, wicked depths of my sins … or the disturbing fact that I didn’t feel nearly guilty enough for them.
But as I saw him now, the events from the night of November 1 came rushing in like a runaway freight train.
"I'll handle him," I muttered, stepping outside of our group to approach him before he could fully encroach and blow my cover.
Gerald extended a hand, and with a little hesitation, I accepted the formal gesture for nothing but appearance’s sake.
"Sorry to hear about Leonard's untimely passing," he said, offering a somber nod to me, then my brothers behind me. "Heard it was a heart attack."
"You did your good deed," I replied in a low voice, dropping his hand like a cold, dead fish. "Now, leave."
He looked aghast, laying his palm against his chest. "Oh, come on now, Abraham. I come with nothing but sympathy. No need to be rude."
"How did you even find out?" Ike asked, coming to stand at my side.
Gerald tipped his head and smiled. "Hello, Isaac. Been a while, son. It hurts me that you never call. And to answer your question, I read the news in the paper."
He'd been looking for the obituary, I had no doubt.
Ike crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head back to peer at our father down the length of his nose, and, fuck, it was only in that very moment that I realized how much my brother looked just like our old man.
"The paper, huh?" Ike muttered. "That's weird."
"What is?" Gerald asked, looking unamused.
"I didn't know you could read."
Our father grumbled beneath his breath, holding his bored gaze on Isaac for a moment longer before dragging it back to me.
"Well, I can take a hint. If I'm not wanted here, I guess I'll leave," he said with a shrug and a sigh. "Wouldn't want to make anyone uncomfortable."
It seemed too easy to get rid of him that quickly, and as he turned and headed away, I kept my eyes pinned to his back as he stepped between the tombstones on his way back to the path.
And I wondered what the hell the point of this impromptu visit had been because I strongly suspected it had nothing to do with paying his respects.
Then, as we left our deeply missed friend and adopted father to rest between his son and wife, I thought about cyanide, murder, and the blood only I could see staining my skin.
I thought about the secrets that kept me awake at night, the visions that left me staring into nothingness when I should've been doing anything else.
And I realized that …
That had been the point of Gerald's appearance.
To make sure I remembered … as if I could ever forget.
***
All things considered though, Leonard's farewell had been beautiful.
Perfect even. If I did say so myself.
And not even an appearance from Gerald Crowley could ruin it.
Hundreds of people attended the wake, and there wasn’t enough room in the church to accommodate everyone who wanted to attend the funeral Mass for the man who'd served his community for decades.
From the cemetery, we led the way back to The Llewellyn Family Funeral Home, where we invited the community to join us for a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches—a nod nobody but us understood, but they seemed to enjoy it immensely.
And I wished I could enjoy it myself. I wished I could stop the questions from assaulting my weary mind.
But once the funeral home emptied out and we were left with the aftermath of a life without Leonard Llewellyn, there seemed to be nothing more for me to do than ask all those things I longed to have answers for.
What friend did he meet up with on Halloween? I thought, collecting the garbage from the viewing rooms. Where did he go?
Why didn’t he come back here afterward?
Why didn’t I know about his connection to Gerald Crowley?
Had they always known each other, or did that connection happen after we came here?
The questions were going to eat away at me. They’d be relentless until my brain was whittled down to nothing but an obsessive drive to dig deeper to unearth the answers I needed to settle my soul.
And so, I knew what I had to do. I knew where I had to go.
After everyone left, after I smoked three cigarettes on the porch, after I grabbed my mask from beneath my mattress and got into the hearse well past ten o'clock at night …
I headed back to Hollow Cove.
And something told me Gerald Crowley would be expecting me.
***
"Sir."
With my mask securely in place, I stalled for only a moment at the sound of the title as I brushed past Dean and through the grand doorway at Seint Manor. It was my second time here in the span of a week, which meant I'd be seeing my father with more frequency than at any other point in my life.
But unlike the night of the party, the mansion was quiet, the foyer vast and empty, and somehow, the unnerving hush left me more shaken than I had been the other night.
"How did you know I was coming?" I asked, swinging my gaze across the grandiose foyer to find we were the only people here.
"Security cameras, sir,” he replied.
Oh. I supposed it made sense for a house of this caliber to have at least a few points of surveillance.
Hell, most places these days were recorded in some way.
It was only recently that Shawn had managed to talk Leonard into installing one of those video recording doorbells, and just like that, the ache of losing him was back with a violent vengeance.
For something else to think about, I scowled in Dean’s direction and said, “You don’t have to call me that.”
Through the corner of my eye, I saw Dean smile momentarily.
“Yes, sir.”
I grunted an acknowledging sound and shook my head with a sigh as I walked across the marble floor to the bottom of one side of the winding staircase.
"Is he here?" I asked, looking up toward the second floor of the house.
I didn’t have to specify who he was. Dean already knew.
"Mr. Crowley is taking a shower at the moment," he replied, standing behind me. "Would you like to wait? Or if you'd prefer, I can give him a message."
"I'll wait," I mumbled, turning to press my back against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, kicking one ankle over the other and crossing my arms over my chest.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Dean asked.
“No,” I replied.
He gestured toward an open doorway, which led into a large room full of artwork with various seating options, and asked, “Would you like to take a—”
“No.”
He sighed, as if my insistence to stand was making him restless. But he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he nodded, clasped his hands at his waist, and stood guard beside me.
I make him nervous.
He didn’t reveal as much with his expression, but I could sense it by the way he kept tightening and loosening his grip on his hands and flicking his eyes in my direction.
I was sure he thought he was inconspicuous with that small, nearly imperceptible tell.
But I was a man who had grown up overly aware of people and the way they changed under different circumstances.
I memorized their tone when they were happy, sad, angry.
Their footsteps when they’d had a good day or were on the hunt to start trouble with someone smaller and weaker than themselves.
And Dean here thought he was appearing cool and calm, like a good little soldier, but I knew better.
My presence disturbed him.
Good.
"Well, it appears the plague doctor has come to pay us a visit once again. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.”
I turned abruptly at the sound of her voice.
My lips parted with a silent exhale as Analise came into view, standing against the railing between the twin staircases.
And suddenly, she was Juliet, perched above on her balcony, and I was Romeo, coming to sweep her off her feet, and somehow, I knew that our story—if there ever was to be one—would be every bit as tragic.
But she looked like a princess, dressed in a floor-length black robe made of silk, her long ebony hair cascading over her shoulders in lustrous waves.
I wondered if she was wearing anything underneath, how exquisite she undoubtedly looked when naked, and then I wondered why I had to care at all.
It didn't matter. It never would. Yet the thought aroused me just the same in ways I had never experienced before, and I clenched my fists to tamp down every shred of my desire, knowing I'd inevitably fail.
Dean's watching, I told myself. But my stupid dick didn't seem to care if it had an audience or not.
"I didn't think you'd come back," she said, implying she had thought of me in the first place.
How much? I wondered. How often?
Because, if I gave my mouth the opportunity to speak the truth, I'd tell her, before Gerald had come to the cemetery, when I wasn't thinking of Leonard, she'd been the only thing on my mind since the moment I’d left the driveway outside that door.
I had dreamed of her.
I had replayed every moment I’d spent with her, as if every moment before had been nothing but a prelude to when I finally met the woman to steal my breath and knock me on my ass.
It was just too bad I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
"I'm here to see Gerald," I said in that fake, raspy voice.