Reeve (The Henchmen MC 11)

"I really don't think you can expect..." my mother started to object for me.

"I'll do it," I cut her off.

"Reeve," she tried to reason.

"Who the fuck else is gonna do it, Ma? They had no one. Just me. I'll fucking do it."

I walked out of the hospital and to the funeral home, flanked by Wasp and Cy because my mother was apparently running around to get supplies back in my place for me.

I looked at endless pictures of caskets, adult and child-sized. I flipped through pictures of flower arrangements. I chose hymns even though what little belief I had in God died the day they were taken from me. Erica - Ronny - had believed. If Mikey could have understood the concept, he would have been raised to as well. They would have wanted hymns. And passages. And a preacher. So I did it for them. I chose the church and the choir. I picked the cemetery and the plots. I chose the headstones.

"Is that it?" I asked, not giving a fuck about being cordial. These people dealt with grief in all its forms. I was hardly the most difficult of clients to handle.

"We just need the clothes they are to be buried in. And anything they might wish to be buried with."

"Shit," I growled, raking a hand down my face.

Erica - Ronny - would want to be buried with her mother's crucifix and her grandmother's wedding picture.

And Mikey.

Fuck, Mikey.

I couldn't even think of the name without the pain being something that burned through my veins, that infected them, that made them burn and hurt and feel like they were going to make me catch fire from the inside out.

He needed to be buried with his game.

He was never without it.

And Hatchet.

So he could, essentially, sleep.

Fuck.

"Breathe," Wasp demanded a little firmly at my side, making me realize I had been holding my breath, trying to ease the pain.

"I will go buy some clothes," I agreed, standing abruptly, and walking out.

They - Cy and Wasp and even my mother - they didn't need to know that I had to go back.

They didn't need to walk into that shit.

An active crime scene.

The blood was probably still everywhere.

Brain matter on the curtains.

I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat and let them lead me home, a place that felt foreign to me since I had spent such little time there in the past year and a half.

Everything was cleaned, scrubbed until it was gleaming, thanks to my mom. The cupboards were stocked, as was the fridge, full of shit that I had no interest in.

Food.

That was what my mind had been on as I walked up the front steps. Maybe if I hadn't been driven by my stomach, I would have noticed something felt off, I would have heard the people inside, I could have gotten the cops, and ended this before it went to hell, before innocent lives were brutally taken.

I was sure I would never get my taste back.

I would eat, though.

To take the worried looks off all their faces. Because I had fucked up enough lives already. I wasn't going to drag them all down with me.

So I ate.

I took my pills.

I went to bed.

I pretended to sleep.

Eventually, my mom took Wasp back to her house, leaving Cy as sentry. And the one good thing about Cy was he crashed hard. I had been able to sneak out without even making him stir on the couch.

Every block closer I got to the house had my stomach tying itself in tighter knots, until my whole abdomen felt solid with them.

I had called the detective on the way, asking to be let in so I could get just a few things for the funeral. I had a distinct feeling it was likely wildly against protocol, but the old man took pity on the man with a slain woman and child, and met me there to follow me in, trying to urge me to just keep my eyes on the ceiling as I walked into the living room area.

I didn't do that though.

Once inside, I looked.

I looked at the wide, still-alarming puddle that had been my blood, seeping into the hardwood floor like a stain.

And I looked at the spot where Mikey had been standing, seeing a smatter of blood, most of it accumulating on the wall, not the floor.

"His game," I said, voice rough. "The one he had when he died. I need that."

"I'm afraid that is evidence in an ongoing..."

"I fucking need it," I snapped, looking over at him. "He wouldn't go anywhere without it. I need it to bury with him."

"Okay, okay son," he said, holding up a hand, eyes pained, likely thinking of himself in my situation, of how he would feel about his own children, and thanking whatever god he believed in that it wasn't him in my shoes. "I'm sure we can arrange it."