Chapter Two
Gabriel
With his fingers gripping the doorknob, Gabriel Atworth paused to brush his free hand back and forth over his head, dispersing some of the raindrops that dampened his hair as he ran across the parking lot.
Honestly, he just needed a moment before he pushed through the door.
Gabriel paused as he dropped into a mental “ready stance,” a mind space he’d developed back in Afghanistan when he was walking into the unknown. As he made the switch, Gabriel wondered why he thought that was necessary.
Sure, today could only happen at the tail end of a worst-case scenario.
But that had already happened.
His baby brother Daniel—three years his junior—was dead and buried.
This was the aftermath. The cleanup. The paperwork. The necessary shit that Gabriel would rather not deal with because, just like the funeral, it forced Gabriel to face his brother’s mortality.
Another nail in Daniel’s coffin.
With a final assessing sweep of the area, a habit he didn’t think he’d ever let go of, Gabriel pushed the door wide and stepped into the lawyer's office.
The smooth sole of his dress shoe sank into the plush carpeting.
The room held the same quiet reverence as the funeral home.
At the front desk, the receptionist shifted her gaze away from the file on her laptop and focused on him with an expression Gabriel assumed was meant to read as “dignified melancholy.” Still, it felt artificial, like a mask she’d put on under such circumstances.
To Gabriel, she ended up looking like she was suffering from some stomach distress.
Her blue suit with a brightly colored blouse was the only spot of color in a monochrome room—the kind of room designed to exude understated decorum and seriousness—but her expression doused any respite from the gloom that the blouse’s bright pinks and yellows might have given him.
Of course, Gabriel was seeing this woman through the lens of his own pain.
Her expression could well be an upset stomach, or a fight with her spouse, or her own terrible news.
This next hour was going to be tough.
Not as tough as joining the other pallbearers hefting the weight of Daniel’s coffin and carrying it into place at the front of the church, then out to the graveyard and over to the family plot, escorted by a military honor guard.
Gabriel had stood at attention, trying to hide his trembling as each crack of the three-volley salute fractured the air. “This isn’t war, this is consequence. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe,” he’d chanted in his head.
With his parents dead and buried in the same corner of the graveyard where Daniel’s remains would rest, it was his sister Cathy who received the flag that had draped their brother’s coffin. She turned to her husband for solace. Their kids pressed in, hugging her tight.
Daniel’s bloodhound, Whiskey, had sat at Gabriel’s feet with her doleful eyes looking like she’d never had a happy day in her life.
Whiskey was there because Daniel wanted Whiskey there.
Whiskey had been at Daniel’s side every moment from his diagnosis through his hospice.
“Whiskey was aptly named,” Daniel liked to say.
“Makes you forget? Comes with regrets?” Gabriel had teased.
“She takes the edge off.”
It had all been quick—an efficient exit.
Lying there, fuzzy with pain meds, it wasn’t the way Daniel wanted to exist. It was antithetical to a kid who was a “busy beaver,” as their grandmother had called him. “Busy, busy from his first breath and will be until his last.”
But that was far from the truth. Daniel was docile as he succumbed to the inevitable.
The man who lay on the couch in front of his picture window, fading like the sofa pattern from the sunlight, was not Gabriel’s brother Daniel. The Daniel that Gabriel had known was already gone by the time the diagnosis came through.
Some men died on the battlefield.
Some men took the battlefield home with them; their cells smoked in the toxic firepit plumes.
Home didn’t mean safe. For oh-so-many reasons, home didn’t mean safe.
That was it for Daniel.
Down into the hole he went.
Gabriel had wanted to cry; it would have been a relief to let it out. Just not at the funeral where his stoicism was etiquette. And not here at the damned lawyer's office either.
“…Mr. Atworth?”
Gabriel blinked as the woman stood. He’d disassociated, left his body completely as he listened to his thoughts. And now, once again, he was aware of how thick the carpet was underfoot. “Excuse me?”
“Can I get you anything?” Her smile was thin and constrained. “Cup of coffee? Glass of water?”
“Water would be great. Thank you, ma'am.”
She sidled past the desk as he stood there. “This way, please.”
Following behind, Gabriel walked down the narrow hallway lined with vintage paintings, through the open door, and over to the seat that she gestured him toward.
The receptionist hadn’t introduced herself.
Just as well.
Gabriel wasn’t holding on to information very well lately. In one ear, out the other.
At the credenza, she poured a glass of water from a pitcher and, after Gabriel had kissed Cathy’s cheek, nodded toward her husband, Dave, and settled into his place, the receptionist set the coaster down, then the glass and a box of tissues.
That box of tissues made Gabriel wonder about the expression on his own face.
Whiskey lay on a blanket at the corner of the table near Gabriel’s feet. She was small for a bloodhound with her extra-long ears and her look of perpetual sorrow.
Gabriel reached down and picked up one of Whiskey’s ears, rubbing the velvety softness between his fingers and thumb.
Whiskey turned to look at him, then stood. Even with her sad eyes, she looked like she was enjoying the attention. Gabriel swiveled to give her a proper neck rub, bringing his forehead down to hers, then kissing the top of her head.
As he came back upright, Gabriel took in his sister’s pinched expression.
She was shaking. Her face was a little bit gray.
Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. Gabriel could imagine her sitting in the car having a meltdown, her husband gripping the steering wheel, not knowing what to do.
A detective for the D.C. Police Department, Dave rarely knew what to do around emotion, but he was a stand-up kind of guy, and Gabriel appreciated that he turned out to be a good family man.
The door opened, then the lawyer moved into the room; her focus was on Gabriel. “Hi. I’m Penelope.” She touched her hand to her heart.
Gabriel stood. “Thank you for agreeing to see us after hours. It made things easier to coordinate.”
Penelope started with some words of condolence, looking from Cathy to Dave, before turning to Gabriel, but those words sounded like they were wrapped in cotton, and Gabriel had had his share of solicitous remarks.
Next thing he knew, Penelope was at his side, reaching out a hand for an introductory shake. Her touch helped Gabriel tune back in when she said, “I knew Daniel in a very limited way.”
He didn’t like that she’d used the past tense of the verb.
“Knew” was a door shutting.
She was still standing close from the handshake, and Gabriel could use a little space.
“I visited Daniel at his apartment to draw up his will.” Penelope looked around Gabriel to where Whiskey was sitting politely attentive.
“I, of course, met Whiskey when I was there, but Whiskey is the only family member that I’ve been introduced to.
I'm so sorry.” She turned to include Cathy and Dave.
“This is a very difficult day for you all. And to have it presided over by a stranger is tough, I'm sure.” Penelope chose the chair across from Cathy’s, and she placed a blue file in front of her.
“Why don't we begin, and then you can ask any questions that you have.”
The will was short.
Daniel’s life had been impactful in relationships and deeds, and there was very little in the way of material things.
His life insurance would pay for his nephews’ college through grad school. Everything that he had should be given away. His bank account was probably empty, but if there were anything in it, he’d like it donated to a charity that cared for returning service members.
Gabriel thought Daniel did a good job with his will.
The only things Gabriel wanted to keep were his memories. The kind of memories that any parent would hope for their kids—the quiet days fishing, the talks about life around the campfire, baseball, apple pie, iconic boyhoods.
In a thin voice, Penelope mentioned that there was a timeline. Things needed to be cleared out of Daniel’s place by the end of the month.
The super needed to clean the apartment and sign a lease with someone else.
It was strange how something so cataclysmic could happen in one’s life, Gabriel mused, and yet, the earth turned, the garbage was collected on schedule, the birds flew tree to tree, and another life would play out for the newest tenants of the sunny little apartment with the picture window.
“And Whiskey has been left to Gabriel’s care,” Penelope said.
“Excuse me?” Gabriel leaned forward so he had a good view of the lawyer’s face.
“Daniel left Whiskey to you, Gabriel,” she repeated.
“No. Whiskey should be with the kids.” He turned to face Cathy. “Whiskey should be with you. You've been caring for Whiskey, bonded with Whiskey. The kids.”
“Gabe, listen to me,” Cathy pressed her lips together as emotions contorted her face.
After a moment, she had herself together enough to say, “The kids knew all along that Whiskey was staying with us for a few days. They never thought that Whiskey was going to be their dog. Daniel wants you to have Whiskey. He was very insistent.” She licked her lips and glanced toward Dave as if to ask if she should say something or not.
She decided to say it and turned back to Gabriel.
“This was Danny at his most adamant, his most spirited.” She took in a breath, then tossed another quick look toward Dave.
Dave leaned forward and said, “If you want to know why, I can tell you. Daniel said that he’s going to use Whiskey to—” he glanced over at Cathy and stalled.
For the first time, the ghost of a smile pulled at her lips.
Dave cleared his throat. “Daniel said the two of you had made a pinky swear about what to do when you died, and so Whiskey has to go with you.”
Gabriel had no idea what Dave was talking about. None.
Penelope sat silently through that exchange.
She'd probably been through worse. That was the TV trope anyway. The bickering families, the families who are surprised by what they found in the will, fighting each other over stupid things. Who got to keep the cameo? Who got the car? The money left to protect the cat, but not the grandchildren.
There was no fight here, just surprise.
Daniel wanted Gabriel to have Whiskey?
Fine, he’d take Whiskey.
Gabriel gave Penelope a nod.
They signed papers.
They shook hands.
The work of a lifetime was distributed.
Man, it was empty.
Twenty minutes.
Done.
The receptionist was back with her pity eyes and half-smile, waiting to escort them out.
Gabriel picked up Whiskey’s lead and followed Cathy and Dave out the door into the sunshine.
The asphalt was still wet and shiny from the earlier rain.
Gabriel thought there might be a metaphor in that—in from the rain out into the sunlight—but he didn't like it, so he sent his thoughts off to the side.
He watched as Dave drove over to transfer Whiskey’s things to Gabriel’s car.
From the driver’s seat, Dave pressed the trunk button, and it raised automatically.
Cathy climbed out of the car and came to help Dave with the food and bowls, Whiskey’s bed and toys.
Gabriel was a dog dad.
Wholly unexpected.
How was he going to manage this? His work called him in when there were emergencies.
He wasn't on anybody's timetable. When he wasn't working hard, he was playing hard. His kind of fun was traveling the world and participating in adventure races. There he’d be in constant motion for days on end.
Taking little cat naps against a tree. He liked the sensation of pushing himself.
He could do both.
He could live his life, and he could take care of Whiskey.
What it meant was he'd need to hire a good pet sitter with a key to his house, whom he could call at the spur of the moment to come over and take care of Whiskey's needs.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Gabriel asked.
Cathy stopped and blinked. “It didn't occur to me.” And she seemed to realize that wasn’t good enough. “I'm not thinking straight. I'm sorry.” She reached out to put her hands on his arms, but before they landed, Gabriel’s phone rang loudly in his jacket pocket.
He stepped to the side to take the call.
He listened while Cathy spread a plastic bag on his front seat, then loaded Whiskey in.
One hand on his hip, with his chin tucked, he scuffed his foot against the rough pavement. Turning his head to see who might be around and who might be listening, Gabriel asked, “What have you got?”
“A video came in from a bystander. It was someone in an FBI jacket. They were dragged into a building. Nothing good is happening for him. We need boots in action. We don't know where to start.”
Gabriel fished his keys from his pocket. “On my way.” He rounded the car. “Hey, Cath, sorry, I’m going to have to take off. I've got an emergency at work. Can I pick up Whiskey tomorrow?”
“We can't take Whiskey with us. We’re not heading home.”
What could he say? He was Whiskey’s dad now.
He’d have to figure things out.