Broken (Will Trent 4)

“Hey there.” He gave her a quick smile. “You’re the first one here. I told Frank we’d start around eleven-thirty.”

“I thought I could get a head start laying everything out.”

“I think I may have beat you to that.” He gave her a smile that seemed reserved for mourners. “How you holding up, Sara?”

She tried to return the smile, but was unable to answer the question. She’d skipped the pleasantries at the jail yesterday when Brock showed up to claim Tommy Braham’s body, and she felt a little awkward around him now. As usual, Brock smoothed over the moment.

“Aw, come here.” He grabbed her in a bear hug. “You’re looking great, Sara. Really good. I’m so glad you came back for the holiday. Your mama must be happy.”

“My father is, at least.”

He kept his arm around her and led her into the house. “Let’s get out of this inclement weather.”

“Wow.” She stopped at the door, glancing around the wide central hallway. Her parents weren’t the only ones who’d been remodeling lately. The staid décor of the house had been considerably updated. The heavy velvet drapes and dark green carpeting had been replaced with Roman shades and a muted Oriental rug that covered beautiful hardwood floors. Even the viewing rooms had been updated so they no longer resembled formal Victorian parlors.

Brock said, “Mama hates it, so I must’ve done something right.”

“You’ve done a lovely job,” she told him, knowing Brock probably hadn’t gotten many compliments.

“Business has been good.” Brock kept his hand on her back as he led her down the hall. “I’ll have to admit, I’m real torn up about Tommy. He was a good kid. He cut my grass for me.” Brock stopped walking. He looked down at Sara, his attitude changed. “I know people think I’m naïve, give folks too much of the benefit of the doubt, but I can’t see him doing any of this.”

“Killing himself or killing the girl?”

“Both.” Brock chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “Tommy was a happy kid. You know what he was like. Never had a cross word for anybody.”

Sara was circumspect. “People can surprise you.”

“Maybe with their ignorance, thinking just because the kid was slow that his brain just snapped one day and he went on a rampage.”

“You’re right.” Tommy was disabled. He wasn’t psychotic. One had nothing to do with the other.

“The thing that gets me is, she wasn’t killed bad. Not like in a fury.”

“What do you mean?”

He tucked his hand between the buttons of his vest. “You’d just expect more, is all.”

“More?”

His demeanor changed back just as quickly. “Listen to me. You’re the doctor here. You’ll see for yourself, and probably find a lot more than I ever could.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s really good to have you back, Sara. And I want you to know that I’m real happy for you. Don’t listen to what anybody else says.”

Sara didn’t like the sound of that. “Happy about what?”

“Your new fella.”

“My new—”

“Whole town’s buzzing about it. Mama was on the phone all last night.”

Sara felt her face turning red. “Brock—Dan. He’s not really—”

“Shh,” Brock warned. She heard shuffling on the stairs above them. He raised his voice. “Mama, I’m gonna go to the cemetery now to help Mr. Billingham’s people. Sara’ll be downstairs working, so don’t you go and bother her. You hear?”

Audra Brock’s voice was frail, though the old biddy would probably outlive them all. “What’d you say?”

He raised his voice again, cutting to the chase. “I said leave Sara alone.”

There was something like a “humph,” then more shuffling as she made her way back to her room.

Brock rolled his eyes, but his good-natured smile was still on his face. “Everything downstairs is the same as when you left it. I should be back in an hour or so to lend you a hand. Should I put a sign on the door for your fella?”

“He—” Sara stopped herself. “I’ll do it.”

“My office is still in the kitchen. I spiffed it up a bit. Lemme know what you think about it.” He gave her a wave before leaving through the front door.

Sara walked to the back of the house. She had left her purse in the car so she didn’t have a paper or pen to leave Will a note. The Victorian’s kitchen had always served as the office. Brock had finally taken out the old sink and washboard, making the space more conducive to the business of managing death. The coffin display was built into the breakfast nook. Catalogues of flower arrangements were artfully spread out on a mahogany table. Brock’s desk was glass and steel, a very modern design considering he was the oldest soul she had ever met.

She took a Post-it off his blotter and started to write Will a note, then stopped herself. Frank was planning to make an appearance. What could she put on this small square of paper that would tell Will where to go without making Frank suspicious?

Sara tapped the pen to her teeth as she walked to the front door. She finally settled on “down stairs,” writing it as two words, each on its own line. To make it as clear as possible, she drew a large, downward-pointing arrow. That might not do any good, though. Every dyslexic was different, but there were certain characteristics that the majority of them shared. Primary among these was a lack of any sense of direction. It was no wonder Will had gotten lost driving down from Atlanta. Making a phone call wouldn’t have helped matters. Telling a dyslexic to turn right was about as useful as telling a cat to tap-dance.

Sara pressed the note to the glass on the front door. She had agonized over the message this morning, writing it six different times, signing it, not signing it. The smiley face had been a last-minute addition, her way of trying to let Will know that everything was okay between them. A blind man could’ve seen how upset he was last night. Sara felt horrible for embarrassing him. She had never been a smiley face person, but she’d drawn two eyes and a mouth at the corner of the note before sticking it in a baggie under his windshield, hoping that he would take it the right way.

It seemed wildly inappropriate to leave a smiley face on the front door of a funeral home, but she drew a small figure—two eyes and a curved mouth—thinking at least she’d get points for consistency.

The floorboards overhead creaked, and Sara trotted quickly back toward the kitchen. She left the basement door wide open and took the stairs two at a time to avoid Brock’s mother. There was a burglar door at the bottom of the landing. Black metal bars and a mesh screen kept anyone from breaking into the embalming area. You wouldn’t think that a person would want to come down here unless they had to, but many years ago, a couple of kids from the college had busted open the old door in their quest to steal some formaldehyde, a popular choice for cutting powder cocaine. Sara assumed the combination on the keypad hadn’t changed. She entered 1-5-9 and the door clicked open.

Brock kept the area immediately across from the door empty so that no one would accidentally glance through the mesh screen and see something they should never have to see. The buffer zone continued down the long, well-lit hallway. Storage shelves contained various chemicals and supplies with the labels all turned toward the wall so the viewer would not know what he was looking at. Small shoe boxes filled the last metal cabinet; cremains no one had ever bothered to pick up.