“Yes, of course. We were arguing. You know how she can get, always trying to tell me what to do. Spencer came upstairs and tried to separate us, and Mom slipped on the floor and fell backward. The bottom of her sandals was very slick, according to the police officer,” she explains. “I’m sure they were new.”
“The officer mentioned that to me as well,” Whit says, his intense gaze on his sister. “And you’re sure that’s all that happened?”
“I was there, Whit. That’s what happened,” she says firmly.
A sigh leaves him, and he collapses back into the chair. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I can’t either,” Sylvie admits.
I say nothing. Just stand there with my fiancée by my side, praying to God Whit won’t figure out our lies.
“I’ve already started making the funeral arrangements. It will be held Wednesday afternoon,” he says.
“They aren’t going to do an autopsy?” Sylvie asks.
Whit frowns. “Why would they? It was an accident, right?”
We both answer, “right,” at the same time.
The suspicious look he gives us both would make a weaker person spill everything, but not us. We’ve dealt with him for a long time and know what to do. We stand there with matching blank faces, appearing as if we’re in shock.
Which I suppose we are. What we experienced yesterday was nothing short of traumatic.
“Her body has already been sent to the funeral home and preparations have begun. She’ll be cremated as per her wishes,” Whit says, sounding like he’s talking about everyday business, not his mother’s death wishes. “After the funeral, there will be a get-together at Father’s house. He wants to host it.”
“Of course, he does,” Sylvie murmurs.
Again, I remain quiet. Nothing I say would add to the conversation.
“How’s Summer?” Sylvie asks.
Whit’s entire demeanor softens. “She’s fine. Uncomfortable. Very, very pregnant. I don’t want her attending the funeral, but she insists she wants to be there for me. For us.”
“Let her go. She’ll be fine,” Sylvie says, and I quietly agree.
Summer is one of the strongest women I know.
There’s more talk of the funeral. What music should be played, who should speak. Their pastor will lead the service, and Whit has put a call out to a few of Sylvia’s friends, who might want to say something in her honor.
Sylvie doesn’t volunteer to speak, thank God. I was worried she might feel obligated, but she didn’t put herself into that position. I doubt Whit would let her anyway. He knows what their relationship was like.
How terrible it was.
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Whit asks me before he’s about to leave. Sylvie has already excused herself to call Carolina, leaving us alone.
Unease curls through me, but I nod my agreement, leading him into my home office and closing the door, so we can have total privacy.
“You don’t have to tell me what really happened,” Whit starts, shaking his head when I try to say something. “I don’t need the excuses, or the lies. I have a feeling there’s more to this story than what you’re telling me.”
I clamp my lips shut, saying nothing.
“Maybe it’s best. Maybe I don’t want to know the truth, but just know this.” He takes a step closer, his gaze intense when it locks on mine. “You’re like a brother to me, Spencer. And if you’re keeping this from me to protect me, and protect Sylvie, then that’s—fine. You have my permission. I love my sister, and while I loved my mother too, I hate what she’s done to Sylvie. To all of us. She wasn’t—right.”
“I’m sorry this happened,” I tell him sincerely, because I am sorry it turned out this way. But I’m also not offering up any more details about yesterday. “I don’t know how this is going to affect Sylvie.”
“She seems to be doing all right.”
“I believe she’s still in shock. I think I am too.”