The Sister (The Boss 6)

I read it, again. Over and over. My eyes kept finding “survived by”.

“I forgot my phone,” Neil called, startling me. I hadn’t heard the car come back or the door open. Now, every step he took sounded like an avalanche approaching. I held still, like maybe he wouldn’t notice me. I didn’t want to be noticed by anyone. I didn’t want to be seen. Not existing at all would have been ideal.

“Happily, I evaded the roving gangs of moose,” Neil joked, scooping his phone off the coffee table. He turned to leave, and I willed him to go. But he paused and asked, “Is everything all right?”

I raised my eyes guiltily. I didn’t know why I felt guilty. Maybe because I was intruding on a life that I clearly had no business trying to be a part of? It was like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have.

“Sophie?” Neil prompted, again, appearing more alarmed. He looked down at the laptop in my hands and gently took it from me, frowning as he read the screen. He lifted his eyes to meet mine and said, “Oh, Sophie. Oh, I am so terribly sorry.”

“They didn’t…” I couldn’t breathe. “They didn’t even put me in the obituary.”

Pressure built in my chest so hard and tight, the only way to keep from bursting was to let all of the pain out, and it wouldn’t come without sound. My wail hurt. It hurt my throat, and my eyes, and my chest. It hurt my heart; twenty-eight years of agony balled up into one long, aching sound. I bolted to my feet and slapped the laptop out of his hands; it hit the corner of the coffee table on the way down.

Another painful cry welled up in me. I looked to Neil, helpless to stop the hyperventilating sobs that collapsed and expanded my chest. My tears burned my eyes, and my shoulders shook. My everything shook; I couldn’t stop shivering.

Neil stood paralyzed beside me. “Sophie, what do you need?” He searched my face. “What do I do?”

That only made me cry harder, because usually, Neil knew exactly what to do.

“I think I’m having a heart attack!” I gasped, my palm pressed to the center of my chest. I grabbed both of his hands, squeezing them way too hard. I couldn’t let go, though. If I did, I’d start slapping myself or pulling out my hair. I was completely out of control, screaming and sobbing.

That’s when he knew what to do. “You’re not having a heart attack. You’re having a panic attack.”

He guided me to the bathroom, holding my wrists. So, he knew exactly what my impulses were demanding I do. That made me feel ashamed, and I cried harder. I tried to twist away from him, actively fought against him, and he pulled me in closer to hold me with one arm as he turned on the tap and filled the sink with cold water.

“No, no,” he admonished softly. “Calm down.”

“How can I calm down? Don’t tell me to calm down!” I pushed at his chest, but he was stronger than I was.

“Sophie.” His voice cut through the wild, frantic pounding in my brain. There was a sternness to it that wasn’t exactly my Sir’s voice, but the edge that was there snapped me into obedience, or as much as I could muster. He flipped the tap off and eased me to bend over the sink. “There, get your face in. That’s a good girl.”

He held my hair and lowered me in. For a split second, I was terrified that my erratic breathing would suck in water and I would drown, but the moment it hit my skin, I couldn’t breathe, anyway. I came up gasping, and Neil gently urged me down once more with a hand on my back. I dunked myself and came up dripping.

And he was right; it helped. It didn’t make everything better, not by a long shot. But I could breathe, and I didn’t feel like smashing anything or harming myself, anymore.

He handed me a towel and rubbed my back as I bent over the sink to blot my face dry. “I got snot on the towel,” I said, and that made me cry, again.

“There’s a washing machine,” he reassured me. “I’m sure I can figure out how it works.”

I laughed. How the hell could this man make me laugh when all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and die?

“I didn’t even rate a mention in his obituary,” I said, but this time, my heart didn’t pound like it would burst. Instead, I just felt a debilitating, crushing sadness. “They knew I existed. But they didn’t bother to contact me to tell me. They didn’t even acknowledge me.”

“I’m not saying that it was excusable or that it wasn’t in poor taste,” he began cautiously. “But perhaps things are more complicated than a simple rejection of your existence? We have no idea if they even knew about you at the time. Secrets often emerge en masse after someone’s death.”