One Small Victory E-Book

Maryann Miller

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

What do you do when grief slams you in the gut and brings you to your knees?

Jenny Jasik's life changes in an instant, when her son is killed in an automobile accident. She is a Confidential Informant: an undercover member of a drug task force.

Jenny only reports to her supervisor, Detective Steve Morrity, and can never tell anyone else what she's doing. There are days she is not sure she can hold it all together.

But when she looks into the face of her daughter, she knows she has to try.

Leseprobe

ONE SMALL VICTORY

MARYANN MILLER

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2019 Maryann Miller

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Emily Fuggetta

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To my husband for all the years of believing.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank the officers at the Little Elm, Texas, Police Department for their willingness to share information and expertise. If I got something wrong in the writing, the blame is mine, not theirs. I also want to thank my son, David Miller, who is the best research assistant a person could ask for and learned all there is to know about guns working in the armory for the Marines. Semper Fi.

PRAISE FOR MARYANN MILLER

“One Small Victory is great Romantic Suspense and a read you won't want to miss.” Victoria Kennedy, Midwest Book Reviews

“One Small Victory is not for the faint of heart, but it is an excellent, well-crafted novel. The tension is all pervasive, and heat, rage, sorrow, despair, and all-enveloping terror fill every page.” Carolyn Crisher for Romance Reviews Today

“The resolution of these {personal} threads is most satisfying, in that they aren't neatly resolved, much like real life. The undercover side of One Small Victory is exciting and fast paced." Reviewed by Larry W. Chavis for Crime & Suspense

"One Small Victory is an engrossing suspense thriller with a hint of romance that is intelligently kept very minimal and mostly off page." Harriet Klausner for Amazon.com ***** FIVE STARS

“One Small Victory is an amazing, heart pounding, emotional tale about one mother's love of her children, and the steps she takes to protect them from harm.” Jennifer Lawrence for Amazon.com **** FOUR STARS

"A compelling read of a grieving mother's crusade to rid the streets of her home town of drugs, and those who lure our children into addiction." Laura Castoro, author of Icing on the Cake & Love on the Line

“One Small Victory is one huge win for author Maryann Miller and her readers. This is a novel that rings sadly true as readers follow a mother's journey from the depths of grief and loss through menacing territory ruled by street gangs and drug lords. Miller's done a masterful job of creating interesting, sometimes quirky but always believable characters and in weaving a story sure to be a favorite among lovers of mysteries and countless other genres.” Paula Stallings Yost, Editor/Author, What Wildness is This: Women Write About the Southwest, Editor, StoryCircleBookReviews,

“One Small Victory is a riveting journey through fear, love, and a woman's determination to make things better.” Slim Randles, author of Sun Dog Days, Raven’s Prey and the syndicated humor column, Home Country.

"While the war on drugs may not be winnable, there are occasionally small victories. Not bad." Jack Quick for Bookbith.com

"The writing is eloquent, and the story is well plotted, and I would recommend this book to anybody who is interested in crime novels and human drama." BCF Book Reviews

PROLOGUE

The car hurtled through the darkness, and the wind whipped through the open windows, a cool lash against warm skin. Mike braced his feet on the floor and fought a rising sense of panic. How fast are we going? He snuck a look at the speedometer. Holy shit! The needle inched toward a hundred, and Brad showed no sign of slowing. Do I dare ask him to stop acting like Mario fucking Andretti?

Mike took a deep breath. “Aren’t you afraid of getting stopped?”

Brad glanced over with a cocky grin. “Are you?”

“No big deal, man. Just thought you might want to hang on to your license.”

Mike wished he had the guts to say aloud the thoughts that whirled through his head. He was scared. And he wished Brad would slow down.

“You need to chill out.” Brad took the joint out of his mouth and offered it to Mike. “This is excellent shit.”

Mike pushed his friend’s arm away.

“Hey, what’s the deal?” Brad took an angry toke. “You weren’t passing it up last year.”

“I only did it so you’d get off my ass.” Mike paused to gauge Brad’s reaction. “Besides, the thrill escaped me.”

“That’s ‘cause you never gave it a chance.” Brad took another long drag. “You got to build yourself wings before you can fly.”

“Just remember this isn’t a fucking airplane.”

Brad laughed, and Mike couldn’t resist the urge to join him. That was the deal with Brad. Life was just one big joke—his reasoning for doing dope in the first place. Why shouldn’t they have a little harmless fun before they had to settle down to serious living? So Mike had let him talk him into trying the grass at Dempsy’s party last summer.

After the first hit, Mike had waited for some effect, but nothing happened. So Brad told him to take another. Deeper. Hold it longer. That time, Mike thought he’d cough a lung out before he got around to enjoying the benefits of the grass.

Most of the time, Mike didn’t care that Brad continued to use dope. It was his life and his business. But now, as Brad’s red Trans Am screamed along the narrow country highway with Mike clinging white-knuckled to the ‘aw-shit’ handle, it wasn’t just Brad’s business.

The tires screeched as the car careened around a tight corner. The stench of burnt rubber blew in the open windows, and icy fingers of fear crawled up Mike’s spine. “Why don’t you ease up,” he said.

“On what?”

“The gas and the goods.” Maybe if it sounded like a joke Brad would take it better.

“I got it under control.”

Mike wanted to believe him. They were friends. Brad wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. And there was hardly any traffic way out here in nothing-land. What could happen?

“Hey, what’s the record on that?”

Mike looked out the front window to see a tight curve looming at the farthest reach of the headlights. “I don’t know.”

“Didn’t Butcher do it at fifty?”

“Something like that.”

“Bet I can beat it.”

Panic stabbed Mike’s stomach, and he glanced quickly at his friend. “Come on, Brad. Don’t even try.”

“What? You scared?”

Mike gripped the door handle as the car barreled into the curve. Even without his hands on the wheel, he felt the car slide as the rear end lost traction. He didn’t know whether to pray or to scream.

At the precise moment Mike thought they’d careen off the edge of the road, the front wheels grabbed the asphalt. The car blasted out of the curve like a cannonball. Brad looked over with a triumphant grin. “See. I told you. Fifty-five.”

Before Mike had a chance to let out a breath of relief, a violent thump threw the car out of control. His head banged against the window with a painful thud as the vehicle slewed back and forth. A sense of dread buffeted him like a blast of frigid air as he watched his friend fight to stay on the road.

“What was that?” Brad asked.

It wasn’t a question that needed an answer, and Mike watched the muscles in Brad’s arms strain as they struggled to control the steering wheel. What the hell had they hit? He braced one hand on the dash and the other on the seat and twisted to look out the back window. Darkness swallowed the world. Then he heard his friend shout.

“Oh, shit!”

That’s when the car went airborne.

It seemed to float, and for a fraction of a second Mike found it almost a pleasant feeling. Brad was right. They were flying, and it was fuckin’ awesome.

Then the thrill ended in a powerful impact amid a horrible explosion. A cacophony of high-pitched screams surrounded Mike as glass shattered and metal ground against metal. He recognized one of the screams as his own. Then a terrible weight pushed into his chest…harder…and harder…and harder.

God, it hurts!

The weight closed in on him. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to reach over to Brad, but his arm wouldn’t move.

Nothing moved, except the pieces of metal twisting and gouging at him. Make it stop!

Suddenly, everything was still. Blessedly still, and Mike was glad it was over. Then a great wall of blackness rose before him.

It moved slowly at first, then gained momentum as it enveloped the twisted interior of the car. It reached up to dissolve the shattered windshield and snuff out the pale moonlight.

In the dark void, Mike felt, rather than saw, the liquid blackness crawl up his mangled body until it covered him like a heavy blanket.

Oh, my God!

MOMMIEEE…

ONE

Life can change in just an instant. That thought wove its way in and around her mind as Jenny fingered the clothes jammed along the wooden rod in the closet. His funny T-shirts promoting the likes of Prince and “The Simpsons.” His one good shirt, only worn under duress. His leather jacket that still carried a faint aroma reminiscent of saddles and horses.

Sometime soon she’d have to clean out the closet. Isn’t that what usually happens?

Tears burned her eyes, and she turned away. She didn’t know what was supposed to happen. No one had ever told her. And a multitude of questions swam through her mind like restless minnows in a pond.

There were books on choosing a college. Books on how to plan a wedding or how to help your child find a job. But no one had ever written one on what to do when your son dies.

In that moment of truth, the weight of the pain overcame her. It was like being smothered under a huge quilt. Gasping for breath between sobs, Jenny ran from the room, slamming the door.

Her chest heaving, Jenny stopped halfway down the hall.

I’ve got to get control. Viciously, she wiped the trail of tears from her cheeks, then ran her fingers through the tumble of hair that persisted in falling across her forehead.

The door to Scott’s room opened, and he cautiously poked his head out. “You okay, Mom?”

Jenny nodded, not trusting her voice to words.

Her younger son stepped into the hall, all angles and oversized joints common to fifteen-year-old boys. In a flash, she saw Michael as he’d been at that age, muscles just starting to form under the softness of childhood skin, a rakish smile on a face squaring away to that of a man, a tousle of dark brown hair so much like her own.

The pain of remembering was like being gut-shot, and she crumpled like a doe in hunting season.

Scott closed the distance quickly, and his arms went around her in an awkward hold that was as much embrace as support.

Silent messages of mutual reassurance passed between them like fragments of electrical current. Jenny could smell the muskiness of night sweat on his shirt and heard the muted thump of his heart. And for a fraction of a second, all was okay in the comfort of their embrace.

Then Jenny pulled away to see a mirror image of her own pain reflected in the murky depths of her son’s eyes. They were so dark they were nearly black and defined the adage, “windows to the soul.”

Scott wouldn’t like it if he knew she could see so much. He thinks he’s such an expert at hiding beneath layers of loud music or sullen remoteness. But he’s always there, just waiting to be discovered.

She wanted to say something. Ease his pain. But he broke contact before she could formulate appropriate words.

Again, Jenny didn’t know what to do. She was the mother. She was supposed to know. She was supposed to take care of this child. That child. If only she hadn’t let Michael go camping that weekend. If only. God, how perfect the world would be if we could go back and change things.

The agony of loss cut so deep she turned away from Scott for a moment to gulp in air. Was it always going to be so hard? And who was supposed to take care of her while she was trying to take care of what was left of her family?

She felt a light touch on her arm. “It’ll be okay, Mom.”

God. She wanted to scream. It was not going to be okay. Nothing was okay. But she had to pretend. If not for herself, for Scott. She forced the anger into a far corner of her heart.

“Did I wake you?” she asked.

“No.” He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“I couldn’t either.” She tried a tentative smile, and her emotional burden shifted ever so slightly.

She reached up and touched Scott’s face, feeling the soft stubble of immature beard. “You need a shave,” she said. But the message was, ‘We’ll be okay.’

Though Scott pulled away, his eyes said, ‘Thank you.’

“Jenny?” a voice called from down the hall.

Giving him one more brief smile, she hurried into the living room and almost collided with Carol.

“There you are.”

The naked anguish on her friend’s face scraped against Jenny’s emotions like a file. “Where else would I be?”

The slight woman froze, her brown eyes wide and pain-filled, and Jenny immediately regretted snapping. She seemed to have so little control over her reactions since The Phone Call last night. That’s what it’ll always be, she thought in some weird twist of mind. The Phone Call. Forever in capital letters.

The words had played endlessly in her mind ever since. “Mrs. Jasik… Your son Michael has been in an accident… He’s been taken to North Texas Medical Center…”

They wouldn’t tell her over the phone whether he was okay or not, but somewhere deep inside she’d known. A mother always knows. She’d pushed her ailing Ford Taurus toward the hospital while the awful dread grew from a kernel of apprehension into a grotesque monster that gnawed on her heart.

By the time she’d arrived at the ER, some coping instinct had mercifully kicked in, and she’d numbly received the news that Michael was dead. Nothing else was clear in her mind or memory. She didn’t know how her mother had known to come. Or who she was supposed to call about arrangements and when. Or was someone supposed to call her?

“Oh, God…” Carol’s voice brought Jenny back to the present. “I’d do anything…”

“I know.” Jenny kept her voice soft in an attempt to hold her friend’s emotions at bay. Grief hung like a pall throughout the house, crowding out any other feeling, and Jenny was sure one more tear would break her fragile hold on sanity.

Carol wiped the smear of moisture from her face. “I hope you don’t mind that I just walked in?”

“Of course not. Mi casa your casa.”

Carol forced a small smile. “Someday we’re going to have to learn that other Spanish word.”

Jenny tried to match the smile but was afraid her face would crack under the effort.

“Some of the neighbors have called…to help. Bring food. Whatever…” Carol seemed to have trouble finishing.

Jenny’s instincts rebelled. Not now. She couldn’t see people. Talk to people. Not until she figured out how she was expected to act. Thank God, Mitchell hadn’t asked too many questions when she’d called to tell him the shop would be closed today. After she’d told him why, there was an abrupt silence on the other end of the phone. Then a cough and his voice assuring her that he would help in any way. She knew she could count on him and Jeffrey, didn’t she?

Jenny looked at her watch. Just after eight-thirty. “Later,” she said. “Could they come later? I’m just not…”

“Sure.” Carol hesitated a moment. “You want anything? Or I could just go. Or I could fix some coffee.”

Jenny rubbed her throbbing temples. It was too much. Too fast.

Almost as if she sensed this, Carol asked, “You want me to leave?”

Jenny shook her head. “I just need to be alone for a moment.”

“Okay.” Carol touched Jenny’s shoulder in a small gesture of understanding. “I’ll go see if the kids want anything.”

The slight woman strode toward the hallway, purpose straightening her spine.

If only it could be that easy for me. Find something to do and everything’ll be okay. Jenny looked around the living room. The laundry she hadn’t finished folding was strewn in a jumbled mess across the overstuffed sofa. The coffee table overflowed with a scattering of magazines and notebook paper from someone’s forgotten homework. A week’s worth of newspapers made a haphazard pile on the floor next to the recliner.

If people were coming over, she should try for some semblance of order. She picked up the newspapers and, for one crazy moment, had no idea of what to do with them.

The shrill ring of the phone made her heart thump and her arms weak. She dropped the papers and stood inert; amazed that the simple act of answering her own phone terrified her. She stared at the instrument on the little side-table. It isn’t a monster. Just go pick up the receiver.

On the sixth ring, she did.

“Mrs. Jasik?” a pleasant male voice inquired. “This is Fred Hobkins with Canfield & Sons Funeral Services. The hospital called us.”

In the midst of all the horror that had been last night, Jenny vaguely recalled the decisions she’d been asked to make when she couldn’t even think. She’d told the nurse who was filling out the paperwork to just pick a funeral parlor and have them contact her. But she didn’t expect the call so soon.

“First,” the man said, “let me offer my sincere condolences for your loss.”

Jenny assumed she was to insert some word of thanks into his silence, but she’d rather scream. She clamped her lips against the urge.

“Unfortunately, we do need to take care of some details.” Again he paused, and Jenny knew she should say something. Anything. But her mouth refused to obey. She heard him clear his throat, then speak again. “I wondered when would be a good time to come over and make arrangements.”

“I don’t know.” Her throat was so tight she could hardly push the words out.

“Well,” Hobkins continued in that soft, well-modulated tone. “There’s never a good time. Perhaps we could try in, say, an hour?”

“Fine.”

Jenny replaced the receiver and stood immobile. God. How am I going to do this?

Carol walked in, one arm draped over a still drowsy Alicia. Scott trailed behind.

“It was a man from the funeral parlor,” Jenny said in response to the question on her friend’s face.

“Oh, Mommy!” Alicia broke from Carol’s side and ran to her mother’s arms. Jenny held her tight, burying her face in her daughter’s long hair that carried the sweet little-girl smell of sleep.

“It’s okay,” Jenny murmured. “We’re going to get through this.”

“Is he coming over?” Carol asked.

Jenny looked over the top of Alicia’s head and nodded. “In about an hour.”

“Well, you, uh, go get yourself ready,” Carol said. “I’ll fix something for the kids to eat.”

Jenny released her daughter and wiped the tears from the girl’s flushed cheeks. “You okay?”

Alicia gave a slight nod, belying the sadness brimming in her amber eyes. Such a unique color. In Jenny’s estimation the only good thing that her ex-husband had left her. That’s not true. He left you three children, and like it or not, there’s a piece of him in each of them.

Jenny gave Alicia a kiss. “You go on with Aunt Carol. I’ll be out in a jiff.”

Carol put her arm around the girl and reached for Scott, but he pulled back from the contact. Jenny understood. Touching might break the fragile wall of strength.

In her room, Jenny was struck by the absurdity of what she was doing. Choosing an outfit to meet with the man who would bury her son. Does one dress up or down for an occasion like this? Make-up? Jewelry?

Sudden, manic laughter overtook her.

“You’re crazy,” she told her ravaged reflection in the mirror. “Fuckin’ certifiable.”

Jenny’s laughter turned to tears as she remembered yelling at Michael to watch his mouth the first time he’d said that.

It had happened last fall, a month after his eighteenth birthday, and Michael had been testing new waters. It was like he was saying, ‘I’m an adult now. Let’s see how much I can get away with.’ He’d told her about a goofy old man who’d yelled and screamed about his pizza order getting screwed up. “He was the one who was screwed up,” Michael had said. “He was crazy. Fuckin’ certifiable.”

Jenny could still feel the hesitation before Michael said the last two words, could still see the question in his eyes. ‘Am I going to get away with this?’

And she could still remember the immediate regret at reacting too much like a mother, not realizing what it meant for him.

“Mom! I’m not a kid anymore,” Michael had protested, the force of his words stopping her mother instinct long enough to see that he was right.

With another stab of agony, Jenny realized it wasn’t just her child she’d lost last night. She’d lost his whole future. There would be no daughter-in-law from him. Or grandchildren.

She sank to the edge of her bed, the pain threatening to drag her into the dark abyss. Her blood pounded so loud in her ears it took a minute to realize someone was knocking on the door.

“Mom?” Scott’s voice called from the hallway. “Can I come in?”

Jenny took a deep breath, then rose and opened the door.

“I was wondering…uh,..” Scott’s eyes had difficulty resting on hers. “Has Dad called back yet?”

She shook her head.

“Well, uh…do you want me to call him?”

Again, she shook her head. “It’s something I should do. I’ll try again as soon as I’m finished here.”

Scott hesitated a moment more, then backed out of the doorway. Jenny quickly closed the door. Better that he not see the flush of anger that warmed her cheeks. She’d tried to call Ralph last night, sometime during those hours of agony between leaving the hospital and finally collapsing for a brief period of fitful sleep, but there’d been no answer.

Last night she’d been too numb to care. It was just so typical. He had never been there for her or the kids. Not while they were married, and not in the years since he’d left. Most of the time she just accepted it and tried to ease the disappointment for the kids as much as possible, but even though little was said, the message was clear. Ralph wasn’t involved with the kids. Not like a father should be.

His excuse for missing Michael’s first football game had been a project for work. The excuses were always something to do with work. He justified his decisions with the standard, “This is what the man does. He provides for the family.” But she’d always sensed that he welcomed the excuse for not being there because even when he was home, he really wasn’t.

And Jenny often wondered why it had taken her so long to see that. It wasn’t until after Alicia was born that she faced it squarely. After she’d been home for a week with their baby, she had to ask him if he wanted to hold his daughter.

So, it wasn’t such a big shock to either of them when their marriage ended in divorce court. It was particularly painful for the kids for the first year, but life became easier after he moved to California. Then she didn’t have to deal with the shattered hopes that this year he would show up for a birthday, or Christmas, or just because he missed seeing the kids. Distance became an acceptable excuse for his absence because the truth was too harsh to face.

But the truth was like a kick in the gut this morning.

“You stupid, sorry, son of a bitch,” Jenny said, running a brush through her dark hair with quick, angry strokes. “Why should I care how you find out? I should just clip the obituary and send it to you.”

It gave her a perverse rush of pleasure to consider doing that, but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Out of respect for the fact that he was Michael’s father, she would call again.

Jenny crossed the room and picked up her cell that she’d dropped on her bedside table. Still no answer after ten rings, and she started to worry. Maybe it wasn’t even his number anymore. He had a penchant for moving and not getting around to giving them the new number for weeks. She could try him at work later, but she wasn’t even sure that number was current.

Longevity, either professional or personal, was never one of his strong suits.

She slammed the phone down. “Couldn’t you be there for me? Just once?”

TWO

Lieutenant Steve Morrity pulled the report from his printer, the force of his anger almost causing it to rip. The emotion was a holdover from last night when he’d been called to an accident scene after drugs had been found. Two young men. Kids really. One dead and the other barely hanging on. When was the nightmare ever going to end?

“You talked to the parents yet?”

The question belonged to Linda Winfield, who stood in the open doorway of Steve’s office. He was always surprised at how unlike a cop she looked. Tall and lithe, with a face that could have been carved out of fine porcelain, she should have been a model or an actress.

Today, that perfection was ravaged.

The residual effects of last night’s ordeal of extricating what was left of two victims from a tangle of wreckage were evident in the grim set of her mouth and the tightness around her blue eyes. It brought to mind painful pictures of his first accident scene as a rookie patrol officer ten years ago. A mangled car. A young mother almost cut in half by the dashboard. The husband in the driver’s seat, flattened like some bloody paper doll. And the baby in back… God, he didn’t want to remember the baby in back.

He shook his head to chase away the images and asked, “What brings you in on your day off?”

Linda shrugged and stepped into the office. “Couldn’t get it out of my mind.”

Steve understood. He’d noticed the signs of distress last night after the winch had pulled the car out of the culvert and they’d had their first glimpse of the horror inside. But she’d appeared to steel herself and concentrate on the details of the job. Her ability to flip that switch had impressed him. There were times he still had difficulty doing that, and when he did, the emotions always caught up with him later. He wished he could tell her it would get easier.

Horrible, bloody accidents with bodies as twisted and bent as the steel that trapped them were the hardest, especially when they involved kids. And Steve could never decide if the deaths were more senseless when it was just a case of recklessness, as they’d first assumed last night, or when the accident was tied to booze or dope.

“Can I do anything?” Linda asked, leaning a blue-jeaned hip against his cluttered desk.

“You want to follow up with the driver? Go by the hospital and find out if he’s able to talk?”

Linda nodded.

“Then you could check with McKinney and Lewisville. See if they have anything on him. Check the sheets on the Jasik kid, too.”

“Was the Brennan boy dealing?”

“Possibly. There’d been some suspicion when he was in school. But if he was, he was slick enough not to get caught. Then he disappeared for a while. Franks has been watching him since he came back but hasn’t been able to get anything on him.”

“You think the other boy was doing it, too?”

Steve shrugged. “Won’t know 'til we get the results of the tox screen.”

Linda slid off the desk and rolled her shoulders. Steve heard a vertebra snap. He eyed her. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked. “You look like you need the closest bed.”

“I tried that.” A flicker of a smile touched her face then was gone. “It didn’t work.”

He laughed and waved her off, turning back to the mess littering his desk. He had to get the paperwork in gear for the toxicology lab in Dallas. Put a hold on the body at the hospital morgue. Make sure all the reports were signed.

The endless paperwork. Should have been a freakin’ office clerk.

Dressed in her good tan slacks and a silk blouse the color of cream, Jenny opened her bedroom door and heard snatches of conversation punctuated with the clatter of dishes drifting from the kitchen. People, possibly lots of people, had arrived. She winced and considered closing the door and never coming out again. Then some long-forgotten sense of propriety told her she shouldn’t be rude.

When she stepped into the kitchen, the first person she saw was her mother. Time warped for one brief flash, and Jenny was a child rushing to the comfort of her mother’s arms. The older woman held her and crooned, “There, there. It’ll be okay.”

Jenny allowed herself to be the child for a moment, savoring the security of being taken care of. Then she pulled back and looked at Helen, struck by how much the woman had aged in the past twelve hours. Anxiety deepened the furrows on her forehead, and her hazel eyes were dull and lifeless.

“You okay, Mom?”

Her mother bit her bottom lip and nodded.

A touch on Jenny’s arm drew her attention, and she turned to see her neighbor, Millie, so impeccably proper in her hat and gloves. Today’s black hat was topped with a small sprig of red silk roses, perhaps chosen to reflect the dignity of the occasion.

“I’m not going to bother you now,” Millie said. “Just wanted to bring something by. There’s nothing else we can do.”

That simple statement spoke volumes, and Jenny was grateful for the kindness. It broke a chink out of the wall of reserve she’d been trying to erect. The wall was a necessary part of survival for a time, but she knew the danger of building it too thick. It would be too easy to block out more than she’d intended.

Her impulse was to hug Millie, but the older woman had her own wall of reserve. In the six years Jenny had known her, Millie had always been friendly but had avoided intimacy at any level, so Jenny kept her distance as they moved toward the entryway.

“Don’t be afraid to call if you need anything,” Millie said.

“Thank you.”

Jenny closed the door and then walked back to the kitchen. “Where’s Alicia?” she asked Carol, who was busy washing dishes.

“She went to get dressed before the man from the funeral parlor gets here.”

“I don’t think I want to stay for that,” Helen said, picking up her black leather purse from the table. “I’ll come back later and see if Alicia would like to come to my house for a while. Keep me company.”

For an instant, Jenny wanted to revert to childhood again. Then she could run away with her mother and wouldn’t have to do this. Not that she blamed her mother for leaving. Jenny took a deep breath, remembering that lost look of pain her mother had worn last year when they’d buried Dad. She couldn’t ask her to replay that scene again so soon.

She kissed Helen’s cheek, which felt cool to the touch of her lips. “That’s okay. I’ll call you later.”

Fred Hobkins was a tall, thin man who carried an air of consolation along with a cashmere coat and a briefcase. Jenny found his gentle manner and soft-spoken voice comforting as he greeted her and wondered briefly if that was something he’d learned at mortuary school. Are there classes in being soothing and sincere?

Jenny took his hat and coat and hung them on the coat tree in the foyer. Then she led him toward the living room, using the mundane task to chase that crazy question away. Would she ever get control of her mind again? She motioned for him to sit on the straight-back occasional chair where he could use the corner of the coffee table for the folder he pulled out of the leather case. She sat on the sofa, clutching a blue throw-pillow to quiet her nervous hands. Alicia, wearing a dress for the first time in months, sat beside her, and Scott slumped at the other end of the couch.

Other than running a brush through his hair, that was so pale it was almost white, she couldn’t see that Scott had done anything special for this moment. He still wore his gray warm-ups and the black Nike T-shirt he’d put on earlier. Jenny tried to catch his eye, to offer some gesture that would connect them, but he kept his gaze averted.

She turned to face Hobkins when he cleared his throat.

“We can be ready for the family viewing tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Then it’s up to you.”

“What is?” Jenny asked, her voice coming out in a croak.

“Whether you want an open casket for public viewing.” He paused as if choosing his words with care. “It is possible… considering that there were no injuries above the neck.”

The picture that Jenny had successfully kept at bay for the past few hours flashed vividly into her consciousness; Michael lying cold and dead on the gurney. Her first thought had been that they were wrong. He couldn’t be dead. His face looked so complete. So whole. Surely he was just asleep. But then her eyes were drawn to the horror that had been his chest.

Without warning, the dark abyss yawned before her, and she fought to stay out of its control.

“This is a breakdown of our various costs,” Hobkins said, his voice like a lifeline. He slid a paper across the coffee table while she took a deep, ragged breath, her mind again going down a crazy path. Did he learn this in school, too? Deflecting the Outburst 101.

“These are some of our more popular caskets,” he continued, pulling a brochure out of the folder. “You don’t have to decide now. Let your family look them over, and we can settle it after we talk about a few other things.”

Jenny picked up the booklet and offered it to Scott. “You want to look at this?”

He turned away so quickly she only caught a glimpse of a pained expression.

“I will,” Alicia said.

Jenny looked at her daughter. “You sure?”

“Uh huh.”

“Now.” Hobkins settled back in the chair. “Have you given any thought to the service? What you’d like? What you think he would have wanted?”

Jenny shrugged and looked from Scott to Alicia, then back to Hobkins. “It’s not, uh–”

“Flowers,” Scott interrupted, his voice gruff with emotion. “He definitely wouldn’t want flowers.”

When Jenny glanced at him, Scott softened his tone. “At Grandpa’s funeral. He said they were a waste. And the smell made him want to puke.”

Hobkins cleared his throat. “Flowers are optional, of course. Although people might send them. That’s something we can’t control.”

Jenny nodded, wondering why Michael had never told her he hated flowers. Then she had to smile. Of course. He wouldn’t have said that. The selling of flowers had put the meals on the table for the past six years.

If Hobkins noticed the smile, he didn’t let on. He continued in his soft, soothing voice. “What about the service itself? Do you belong to a church?”

“Not formally,” she said. “Sometimes we went to that little Catholic church, but…”

“Michael liked that other church on Main Street,” Alicia offered. “The one that has the sign out front with the messages. He thought that was cool.”

Jenny bit hard on her lower lip. How could I not know this about my own son?

“That would be Calvary Baptist,” Hobkins said, and the interruption to her self-damning thoughts again came like a life saver. “We’ve worked with Pastor Poole before. I’m sure he’d be willing to let you have the service there. Or we could have it at our facility with him presiding.”

Jenny focused on a small acne scar on the man’s cheek, trying to still the whirl in her head. So many decisions. So many emotions. There was no way she trusted herself to decide anything.